Florida Man: The Complete and Unabridged Dark Humor Series
Date: 2023-01-03 00:00:00+00:00
Description: MIKE BARON DELIVERS RIOTOUS, CRUDE, AND ALWAYS UNPREDICTABLE STORIES IN THE FLORIDA MAN SERIES—A SALUTE TO BLUE COLLAR REDNECKS WHO KEEP THIS COUNTRY RUNNING. In Florida Man , Gary Duba’s having a bad day. There’s a snake in his toilet, a rabid raccoon in the yard, and his girl Krystal’s in jail for getting naked at a Waffle House and licking the manager. Gary’s a redneck living in a trailer by the swamp, but he’s got dreams—big dreams. With his best friend, Floyd, Gary sets out to sell his prized Barry Bonds rookie card to raise the five hundred needed for bail. Too bad things always find a w

FLORIDA MAN

THE COMPLETE AND UNABRIDGED SERIES

MIKE BARON

Florida Man: The Complete and Unabridged Series

Kindle Edition

Copyright © 2023 (As Revised) Mike Baron

Wolfpack Publishing

9850 S. Maryland Parkway, Suite A-5 #323

Las Vegas, Nevada 89183
wolfpackpublishing.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

Ebook ISBN 978-1-63977-744-0

CONTENTS

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Florida Man

1. Nothing in the Fridge

2. Rabid

3. Road Rage

4. Billy Bob’s

5. Habib

6. The Starlite Motel

7. Patrice

8. Palmetto Bugs

9. Belmont Pest Control

10. Here Come De Judge

11. Belle Glade Pawn

12. Frazzled

13. The View From Inside

14. Floyd Comes Through

15. Matching Tats

16. Money In Pocket

17. Tit for Tat

18. A Beautiful Ceremony

19. Up the Falls

20. Paradise Lost

21. Game Day

22. Gator in the Pool

23. FWOOSH

24. It’s Workin’!

25. Stars and Bars

26. Quincy

27. The Cleaners

28. The Old Heave-Ho

29. Thighscraper

30. Whomp That Sucker

31. A Surprising Turn of Events

32. Who Could Possibly Have Foreseen This?

33. Treasure Is Where You Find It

34. Once Again, El Cheapo

35. Howard

36. An Unusual Proposition

37. Whole Foods Is Broken

38. El Nariz

39. The Black Dildo

40. In Old Mexico

41. Boom!

42. The Peanut Manifesto

43. Snake Free Zone

44. Downtown Brown

45. Assorted Pests

46. One Thing After Another

47. Once More Into the Swamp

48. Swamp People

49. Perkins’ Trailer

50. A Visit From Burt

51. At the IHOP

52. Moxie at the Roxy

53. Unreturned Boomerang

54. That Went Well

55. Madame Delilah

56. Samson

57. Son of Sam

58. An Exciting Contest

59. Lo, the Mighty Hunter

60. Lo, the Mighty Hunter Part Two

61. Cassowary

62. Nutrition

63. Justice Is Served

64. A Serious Offer

65. Man Vs. Nature

66. Fonebone

67. The Comedian

68. Freebird

69. Black Dildo Versus Chupacabra

70. WD40

71. The Lizard Lounge

72. Courthouse Capers

73. Who Monitors the Monitor Lizards?

74. Shouts and Arms

Hogzilla

1. Hermione

2. Fans All Over

3. Rustix

4. Vikings

5. What’s For Dinner?

6. The Burt Reynolds Playhouse

7. Krystal Shops

8. Return to Paradise

9. Mission For Santa

10. Let's Roll

11. Voodoo Economics

12. Men!

13. Back to the Swamp

14. Tubular Tetrahedron

15. Liability Issues

16. Who Could Possibly?

17. Crunch Time

18. A Surprise Guest

19. Kang of the Everglades

20. Sound Advice

21. Superfly III

22. Dance, Tallywhacker, Dance!

23. An Honest Mistake

24. The Gauntlet Is Thrown

25. The Check, Monsieur

26. Corruption on the Course

27. Recidivism

28. Numbnutz

29. Golf

30. An Unexpected Hazard

31. Here Come De Judge

32. A Generous Offer

33. Deep In The Jungle

34. Marshmallow

35. One More Chance

36. Meat and Hair

37. Excitement Mounts

38. The Iguana Bowl

39. An Alien Cult

40. The Narrative

41. Reese's

42. Invasive

43. Close Encounters

44. Far Farxiga

45. Let's Roll

46. Kaddish

47. The Application

48. Pearls Before Swine

49. Multiple Personality

50. Convergence

51. Emergency Meeting

52. The Power of Christ

53. Bottom Line

54. Out of the Woods

55. The Trail Grows Warm

56. Dead Eye Pincus

57. Porkchops

58. Who Is Stronger?

59. Whatever Happened to Downtown Brown?

60. Choppers

61. Halcyon Acres

62. The Golden Hog

63. Wombat Supreme Is Dead! Long Live Wombat Supreme!

64. What Else Ya Got?

Catfish Calling

1. Catfish Callin'

2. What's Your Problem?

3. FUBAR

4. Heaven Rains Good Fortune

5. Talk to the Network

6. The Nightly Ritual

7. Recrudescent Bilious Enzymes

8. Licensed and Bonded

9. Fireworks

10. Rappin' Rabbit

11. Backpack

12. Mirabile Dictu

13. Invasive

14. Whoops

15. Blood Oath

16. Garrison Takes a Powder

17. Enormity

18. Such Sweet Sorrow

19. That Ain't Country

20. Fortune Favors the Brave

21. Pennies From Heaven

22. Peace Signs

23. Who Could Possibly

24. Bizarre Bazaar

25. A Chance Encounter

26. Homeless Couple Found Living In Walmart Attic

Chapter 27

28. Letter to Quetzacoatl

29. A Valuable Discovery

30. Cash Cow

31. Memories of Happy Times

32. Best Mullet

33. Lightning Strikes Twice

34. KRAKOW!

35. Sister Agatha

36. Leotis Strikes Out

37. Sans Culottes

38. Nothing Important

39. A True Tale of Alien Abduction

40. Show BiZ

41. Apocalypto

42. The Royal Ducats Request

43. Sold

44. Elegance

45. Shazam!

46. The Third Harbinger

47. The Royal Shlong

48. Heretofore Undiscovered

49. The Eschaton

50. The Murderous Bison

51. Unfriend Me Now

52. Prestidigitation

53. Prelims

54. The Helicopter

55. The Cucaracha

56. Performance Art

57. A Few Good Ducats

58. The Jungle Bears Fruit

59. The Queen Mother

60. Low Rent

61. The Nuclear Option

62. Thudpucker's

63. Veeblefetzer

64. The Plan

65. Drag Race

66. The Bob's Ass Awards

67. If At First You Don't Succeed

68. Trolling

69. Ribs

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FLORIDA MAN

FLORIDA MAN

CONTENTS

1. Nothing in the Fridge

2. Rabid

3. Road Rage

4. Billy Bob’s

5. Habib

6. The Starlite Motel

7. Patrice

8. Palmetto Bugs

9. Belmont Pest Control

10. Here Come De Judge

11. Belle Glade Pawn

12. Frazzled

13. The View From Inside

14. Floyd Comes Through

15. Matching Tats

16. Money In Pocket

17. Tit for Tat

18. A Beautiful Ceremony

19. Up the Falls

20. Paradise Lost

21. Game Day

22. Gator in the Pool

23. FWOOSH

24. It’s Workin’!

25. Stars and Bars

26. Quincy

27. The Cleaners

28. The Old Heave-Ho

29. Thighscraper

30. Whomp That Sucker

31. A Surprising Turn of Events

32. Who Could Possibly Have Foreseen This?

33. Treasure Is Where You Find It

34. Once Again, El Cheapo

35. Howard

36. An Unusual Proposition

37. Whole Foods Is Broken

38. El Nariz

39. The Black Dildo

40. In Old Mexico

41. Boom!

42. The Peanut Manifesto

43. Snake Free Zone

44. Downtown Brown

45. Assorted Pests

46. One Thing After Another

47. Once More Into the Swamp

48. Swamp People

49. Perkins’ Trailer

50. A Visit From Burt

51. At the IHOP

52. Moxie at the Roxy

53. Unreturned Boomerang

54. That Went Well

55. Madame Delilah

56. Samson

57. Son of Sam

58. An Exciting Contest

59. Lo, the Mighty Hunter

60. Lo, the Mighty Hunter Part Two

61. Cassowary

62. Nutrition

63. Justice Is Served

64. A Serious Offer

65. Man Vs. Nature

66. Fonebone

67. The Comedian

68. Freebird

69. Black Dildo Versus Chupacabra

70. WD40

71. The Lizard Lounge

72. Courthouse Capers

73. Who Monitors the Monitor Lizards?

74. Shouts and Arms

ONE

NOTHING IN THE FRIDGE

Gary Duba and his best friend Floyd Belmont sat on the deck of Gary’s deluxe double-wide, raised four feet above Florida on cinder blocks in case of flooding. Two-hundred-foot tractor chains stretched over the house like massive belts, anchored in concrete plugs in front and back, in case of hurricane. The night was hot and humid, with squadrons of mosquitos dive bombing the deck, oblivious to the citronella candles, tiki torches, yellow wrist bands, and ample applications of Deet on both men’s fully tatted arms. Home-made mosquito traps hung like obscene fruit from Gary’s hand-made awning, stitched together from Harbor Freight tarps.

It was just past eleven, Little Big Town playing on WBCW, Florida Country Radio through the tinny speakers of an old Sony boom box. The boys had been drinking shine, smoking reefer, and snorting a little crushed oxy since nine, when Floyd had arrived in his eight-year-old Chevy van with Belmont Pest Control emblazoned on the side, along with its logo, a dead palmetto bug in a mint green oval.

A sign in front said, THIS PROPERTY PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON.

Another sign said, TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED.

Floyd hawked and spat a loogie over the rail. “That fuckin’ bitch still owes me three thou for her boob job. Only reason she dated me, so I’d pay for her fuckin’ boob job.”

Floyd was five feet six, built like a fire hydrant, sideburns like a Civil War general, chest, shoulders and back covered with black fur like a bear. He wore bib overalls and no shirt.

“You gotta admit,” Gary said. “She’s got a nice rack.”

Gary sipped shine, causing his Adam’s apple to bob up and down like a bouncing ball. Tall, bony, with thick, knobby wrists, a brush mustache, and a full mullet concealed beneath a Confederate cap, Gary was the picture of Southern manhood. He wore a sleeveless Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt showing off his tatted arms which included a skull with a dagger through it, a skull with a snake through it, a heart with the legend “Mom”, Johnny Cash, and barbed wire bracelets.

“My advice to you,” Gary said, “is not to worry about that skank. She gone. Be grateful she’s out of your life and didn’t give you the clap or something.”

Floyd lit a Camel. “I just wish I had that three thou. I could really use it.”

“Look at it this way. It’s worth three thou just to have her out of your life.”

“Now she’s dating some Cuban slickee boy from Coral Gables who says he can get her modeling work. My ass. Only modeling she does is on a pole with a G-string.”

“That’s what you get for dating a stripper.”

Floyd sucked a Dixie dry. “She told me she loved me!”

Gary barked. “You told her you’d take her to Jamaica!”

Floyd belched luxuriously and reached inside his coveralls and scratched his balls. “Got anything to eat?”

“Dubious.”

“If I order a pizza, will they deliver out here?”

“Depends on the driver. Good ol’ boys will. Them Indians and Iranians and all won’t come out here. Not even with the fuckin’ GPS guiding them. Say it’s not worth the trouble.”

Floyd blew a ring. “What trouble?”

“Fuck if I know. Lemme go look in the freezer. I might have some frozen catfish.”

Floyd bent forward, put a finger down his mouth and made a vomiting sound.

“Well I’ll look. I might have some tater tots or something.”

They sat there.

“Well?” Floyd said. “You goin’? I mean, I could do it, but you got shit in that fridge that looks like sea foam. Looks like something from Alien, y’know what I mean? I mean, you oughtta clear some of that shit outta there before it breaks free and kills you in your sleep.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They sat there.

“Well?” Floyd said. “Are you goin’ or not? ’Cause I go in there, omma just start throwin’ shit out the window. We’ll let the raccoons eat it and see if it kills ’em.”

Gary gripped both armrests of his home-made Adirondack and heaved himself to his feet, holding on to the bannister while his head swam, waiting for things to focus. He shuffled through the tinny aluminum screen door, letting it bang shut behind him, and paused in his living room as if seeing it for the first time. A yellow and brown plaid sofa, listing at one end faced his flat screen television, resting on a worn wood kitchen table. He’d snagged both the sofa and the table from Goodwill for eight-five bucks. One wall was decorated with a Dolphins pennant, the Gators, a framed poster of Dale Earnhardt Jr. A shelf made from cinder blocks and wood planks held his bowling trophies, DVDs and CDs and a stack of American Angler, Sport Fishing, Outdoor Life, Field & Stream, Big Black Ass, Monster Titty, and Monster Truck.

He hovered for a moment wondering why he was there. His gaze fell on the yellow refrigerator.

Right.

He went to the fridge, opened the main compartment and bathed in the cool air and light. Plastic containers of noodles, green chicken salad, and one lone yellow bacon strip. He shut the main and opened the freezer, trying to find meaning in the monolithic chunk filling most of the space like an iceberg. He jammed it with his hand, busting loose a package of Jimmy Dean’s Pork Sausage and Muffin Breakfasts which had lain there since Clinton was president.

He went through his mostly bare cupboards finding only a can of chicken broth and a box of croutons. Well fuck. Gary was hungry too. He wondered if he offered a big tip, if the Caesar’s in Turpentine, twenty miles away, would deliver.

He pulled out his wallet and filed through. He had seventeen dollars, barely enough to pay for a pizza and a tip. And then he was broke.

Gary worked as an off the books roofer for Big John Schermerhorn, but he hadn’t worked in two weeks and soon he’d have to pay mortgage, four hundred and twelve dollars, and utilities. Gary did not plan to remain a roofer forever. No sir. He had a dream. His dream was anchored in reality.

His dream was anchored in four concrete plugs sunk into the earth, in the front and back. Gary had invented a system to prevent houses from being blown away in harsh weather. House suspenders. Massive cables running over the roof, keeping the house pinned down, like a seatbelt.

He was just waiting for a big blow so he could take his results to the authorities and get the ball rolling. Gary figured he needed a hundred thou to get started. All he needed was an opportunity.

Uncertain how to break the news to Floyd, for whom he sometimes worked ridding the earth of vermin, Gary realized he had to piss. Steadying himself against the wall, he went down the short corridor to his bathroom and switched on the light.

A snake stared at him from the toilet, head upright and tracking like a periscope.

Gary blinked. It might be a bull snake. It might be a rat snake. Or it might be a poisonous water moccasin. He couldn’t tell in the dim light. In any case, he had no intention of wrangling the snake just so he could take a piss in his own house, so he turned off the light, shut the door, and went back outside.

“I got nothin’. Why don’t you pay for the fuckin’ pizza?”

Floyd pissed and moaned and dug out his fat Harley wallet, connected to his bib overall by a chain and clamp. “Awright. I got enough. You call ’em. I left my phone in the truck.”

Gary dug in his pocket. “Fuck,” he said. “I musta dropped it. Hang on.”

“Where you goin’?” Floyd said.

“Take a piss off the back deck.”

“Whyn’tcha piss in the toilet?”

“There’s a snake in the toilet.”

“You want me to get my magnum and shoot it?”

Gary turned the corner and stood at the end of his wrap-around deck, which he’d built with Floyd’s help. The rail covered three sides. Here, on the fourth side, an end piece facing the swamp, he was free to piss as the good Lord intended.

Gary hung ten at the edge, unzipped his fly and sent a golden arc into the sand, seeing phosphorescence coalescing along his dock, stars intermittently reflected in the open water of Fortier’s Landing, heard the chorus of frogs, the heron calls, and as he adjusted to zip, slipped. His feet shot out from under him and his head hit the edge of the deck like a melon on concrete.

TWO

RABID

Gary woke. He was lying on damp earth that smelled like urine. A metallic green beetle marched by with a leaf. He watched a cockroach scurry up one of his cinder block risers. He’d sprayed the bricks with the most virulent of Floyd’s toxins, but rain had washed it away and the roaches filed to and fro like Rome’s legions. He saw a bottle cap for Dixie beer, and beyond that, a fat rectangle covered with mud.

His phone.

Slowly, Gary sat up, head throbbing like an unmuffled Harley panhead. He put a hand to his scalp, and it came away smeared with dried blood, where he’d hit the deck. A low moan escaped his lips. He was thirsty enough to drink swamp water. Shoving the phone in his pocket, he crawled out from under the deck. The sun was up, slanting in over the mangrove and striking the face of his home. Shakily, Gary got to his feet and used the handrail to drag him the four steps up to his deck where Floyd slumped on his nylon chair snoring with metronomic precision.

Kkkkkkkkkkk...GRONK

Kkkkkkkkkkk...GRONK

Kkkkkkkkkkk...GRONK

Gary went in through the screen door straight to the kitchen, filled an empty Big Gulp from the 7/11 with tepid brown water from the tap and glugged it down, Adam’s apple oscillating. He refilled it and drained it again. Then he had to piss.

Remembering the snake, he went back out on the deck. It was too early for the snake. This time he was more careful and successfully relieved himself with no further damage. Leaning on the rail he returned to his pale green chair and sat with a scrape and a bump. He pulled out his phone and saw that he had two calls. The latest, at nine-thirty last night, was from Krystal ’s mother Trixie.

“Gary, dear, I’m so sorry to bother you, but Krystal ’s in the Glades County Jail. She’s been there all day. She’s been trying to reach you. She needs five hundred dollars bail. Apparently, they’ve charged her with indecent exposure. Something about a Waffle Hut. Please call me, Gary. I’m so worried.”

The second, older call was from Krystal and must have been her one call from jail.

“Gary, baby...” She burped. “I’m in Glades County on a bullshit charge! I never hurt that fucker! He put his hands on me, and I was naked, baby...anyway, please come down here and get me out. Please! It stinks down here, and I have to pee in front of all these other women, and some gross guard who comes back here just to stare...”

“That’s enough,” said a male voice, and the call ended.

Gary groaned and shut the phone. “Fuck.”

Floyd snorked.

“FUCK!” Gary said.

Floyd twitched. Gary reached out with one long leg and shoved the chaise lounge on its side, spilling Floyd on the deck, his mason jar dumping shine on the pine, attracting thirsty palmetto bugs.

“What the fuck?”

“Wake up. It’s ten the fuck o’clock.”

“So what? What’s going on?”

“Krystal’s in jail. I gotta bail her out.”

Floyd sat up, legs splayed, leaned forward, reached inside his coveralls and scratched his nuts. “I have got a king hell motherfucker of a headache. Any shine left?”

“If there is, it’s in the kitchen. Don’t go in the bathroom.”

“Why not?”

“Snake in the toilet.”

“Fuck. I’ve gotta take a dump. You got a bucket?”

“Man up! Just squat and shit!”

“Easy for you to say, but I’m wearing these coveralls.”

Gary raised his left hand and gave Floyd the finger. “There might be a bucket under the sink.”

Floyd pulled himself to his feet and shuffled inside, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. The report bounced around Gary’s skull like a BB. He squeezed his temples with the heels of his hands. Hoisting himself up off the armrests, Gary stumbled through the living room into the kitchen. He could hear Floyd grunting in the back, toward the swamp. Gary filled the Big Gulp with more tepid brown water, drained it, did it again.

Problem. The ibuprofen was in the bathroom.

Gary went into his bedroom, already too hot with the shades drawn, opened the drawer in his press board nightstand, burrowed through Anal Antics and Guns & Ammo until his hand closed on his

Taurus .357. He checked the cylinder. Fully loaded.

Problem. If he shot the porcelain toilet, it would flood the trailer.

Well fuck. These things were never simple. Jamming the pistol in his belt, he returned to the kitchen, took a broom from the closet, and used it to open the bathroom door. He peered in. If the snake were there, it was lurking below the rim, waiting like a Chinese sub. Gary used the broom handle to bring down the lid, ran in and put the wastebasket on top. He opened the mirrored medicine cabinet, grabbed the ibuprofen and closed it.

Who was that squinty fucker staring at him? His hair looked like Jan Michael Vincent’s. He splashed tepid water in his face and used a comb to smooth back his mullet. Gary put a hand on the crown of his head. He could feel himself going bald like his old man. He was only thirty-six.

Wait a minute. Hadn’t he been wearing his Stars ’n Bars? It must have fallen off when he fell. Returning to the kitchen he slammed down four Ibuprofen and went out on the deck. He heard the distant sound of traffic from the Dixie Highway, the honk of birds out in the swamp. Floyd shuffled around from the back and came up on the deck.

“Did you rinse out that bucket?” Gary said.

“Of course. You think I’m some kind of animal?”

“You got five hundred I can borrow?”

Floyd looked at him as if he were a palmetto bug.

“Fuck. Omina have to sell one of my cards.”

“Aw mannnnn,” Floyd said.

“You gonna come with me?”

Floyd scratched his left armpit. He reminded Gary of a bear. “Fuck else I got to do?”

Gary went back to his bedroom, slid open the accordion closet door, and retrieved one of several three-ring binders holding sports cards. He sat on his bed and flipped through the pages, stopping when he came to his 1987 Topps Barry Bonds Pittsburgh Pirates #320. He pulled out his phone and went online. Fuck yeah. A cool two thou. He didn’t have time to put it up on eBay. He’d just have to get what he could from Billy Bob. He removed the card from its plastic sleeve and inserted it in an individual plastic sleeve.

Floyd was smoking a doobie when Gary came out. Gary held out his hand. Floyd passed him the doobie and Gary inhaled. Purple paisleys filled his skull.

“You ready?”

“Let’s do it.”

A rabid raccoon hissed at them from the front yard. It stood on its hind legs, jaws dripping saliva, in a direct line with Gary’s twelve-year-old F-150.

The boys froze.

“Fuck,” Floyd said. “That’s a rabid raccoon.”

Gary drew the pistol. “Well hang on. Just hang on.”

Resting his arms on the wood rail, Gary gripped the gun in both hands and sighted over the top.

The raccoon hissed.

Gary squeezed the trigger, a puff of dirt appeared next to the raccoon. The left front tire of his truck whistled and flattened.

Floyd leaned on the rail. “Don’t you got a shotgun? What happened to that sweet little Judge you had?”

“I sold it.”

Floyd held out his hand. “Well give me that thing.”

Gary handed him the pistol. Floyd went down two steps and sat on the top level, arms on knees, taking aim. The raccoon charged, spraying spittle.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Gary said.

Floyd squeezed off three shots, the last one drilling the ’coon through its thorax, sending it tumbling.

“Well shit,” Gary said. “We’d better take your van.”

“You got a shovel? We’d better bury that fucker.”

Gary went around to the Suncast resin outdoor storage shed he’d bought at Lowe’s, and took out a garden spade and a pair of leather gloves. Putting on the gloves, he used the shovel to carry the raccoon a hundred feet from the house, onto a slight hummock among the mangrove. By the time he’d dug a hole big enough, his clothes were damp from the wet. He thought about taking a shower, but time was of the essence, and that snake was probably waiting to throw back the toilet seat like a stripper coming out of a cake, leap into the shower, and sinks its fangs into Gary’s calf.

It was half past eleven when they hit the road. Floyd stuck a Camel in his mouth and lit it, as he jockeyed the van up the rutted string of puddles that was Gary’s driveway.

“Let’s get some breakfast on the way.”

THREE

ROAD RAGE

Traffic was heavy with trucks, tourists, and trailers on Eighty as they headed toward Turpentine under an overcast sky. They rode with the windows open to minimize the heavy chemical odor.

“Looks like rain,” Floyd said.

“Yup,” Gary concurred, switching on the radio to Norm Busby’s Morning Talk.

“We’re back. This is Norm Busby for Great Day in the Morning, and we’re talking to Earl Abellard of LaBelle, who claims to have seen a UFO last night hovering over Hoover’s Pond. Earl, you were saying?”

“That’s right, Norm. Your basic flying saucer, and it made a weird humming noise. I took some pictures with my phone, but the light wasn’t very good, but I still got some good video of it slippin’ in and out of the clouds. I’ll send it to ya soon’s I get off this call.”

“Now this isn’t the first time you’ve encountered these strange flying saucers, is it Earl?”

“No, it’s not, Norm. I been seein’ ’em all my life, and I been reportin’ ’em too. But they don’t want the news to get out, so they just ignore what I got to say, and they ignore my proof. It’s a well-known fact that the Air Force has been tracking these UFO’s since the fifties, and we all know about Area Fifty-One, and the fact that they got alien bodies hidden in a secret lab in the mountains of Southern Colorado. My theory is, we’re already being invaded but if the news got out there would be a panic. Your Zionist Occupational Government would lose all control if people start thinkin’ for themselves so there’s no lengths to which they won’t go to keep it buried. I fear for my life, Norm. I truly do. I don’t go nowhere unarmed, and a couple times, I’ve had to do some pretty-fancy driving to escape from government agents who are intent on silencing my voice.

“Oh beep! I’m being followed. I’ll have to call you back, Norm.”

“Earl, stay safe out there. Emma Cruz from Fannondale is on the line. Emma, welcome to the Norm Busby Show.”

“Norm, I was abducted by aliens six years ago. They are not good people.”

“Tell us about it, Emma.”

“I was driving by myself on Fitch Road out by Congers Lake, about nine pm. Couldn’t see the stars it was so overcast, when outta nowhere, I hear this weird humming noise, and then I see lights, flashing lights, bright white lights, coming down from above, and a flying saucer landed smack dab in the middle of the road. Good thing I was going slow or I would have hit it. So, I stopped my car. All of a sudden, my headlights went out. I locked the doors. I feared for my life. I got two kids and my first thought was I wasn’t never gonna see those two kids again. I dialed 911, but all I got was this weird screeching noise, like when they do the county-wide test thing.

“I bout pissed my pants, excuse my French. Then I see them, just like the pictures, little men with big heads and big eyes, coming toward the car. I prayed to Jesus they would leave me alone, but on that deserted road, there was no Jesus. They ripped the door off and dragged me out.”

“Did they sexually molest you?”

Floyd looked in his rear view. “Look at this asshole.”

Gary used the side mirror to look behind at a fast-approaching black Lincoln. They were doing a scrupulous seventy-five in the left-hand lane, passing a convoy of tractor trailers, English Movers, Petco, Walmart. Floyd couldn’t risk any more points, or they’d lift his license. The Lincoln flashed its high-beams and honked. There was no place to pull in without accelerating and passing two more semis so Floyd held it steady. The Lincoln flashed its lights and honked. They continued thus for a minute until at last Floyd pulled ahead of a Mayflower van, turned on his blinkers, and pulled in about ten feet in front of the semi’s bumper.

The Lincoln pulled adjacent, its blackened front passenger window sliding down. Floyd and Gary looked over at an angry woman in a buzz cut and green cat’s eye glasses screaming something and flipping them the beard. Floyd flipped her the bird back. The woman faced front, rummaged around on the seat next to her and held up a revolver, which she pointed at Floyd. Floyd sprang the center console, grabbed his Beretta nine, pulled back the hammer, and stuck it out the window. Down the road a hundred yards, a semi filled the lane coming straight at the Lincoln. The Lincoln sprang forward, its right rear window slid down, and the driver squeezed off two shots, one of which splanged off the van’s roof.

Floyd transferred the pistol to his left hand, stepped on the gas and fired back. The Lincoln sprinted at over one hundred miles an hour and pulled into the right lane in front of them, as the semi laid on the airhorn. The driver held her pistol in her left hand upside down out the window, firing back.

“Gary! Where the fuck’s your gun?”

“Well I’m sorry, Floyd. I left it back at the house.”

“Crazy bitch! Get her license number.”

The Lincoln suddenly stood on the brakes and came to a near halt in front of them, just ahead of the Highway Nineteen turn-off. Floyd worked the wheel and the van veered right, nearly going up on two wheels, as it took the exit off the highway into a light industrial area filled with auto repair shops, plumbers, and waste management companies.

Floyd pulled over to the side of the road and shut the engine off, sweating heavily.

“Jesus fuck!” he exclaimed.

“Crazy bitch!” Gary said. “Gettin’ so it’s not safe to go anywhere these days!”

“Did you get the license number?”

“Fuck no! What, you gonna track her down? You can’t track down every stupid fucker who takes a potshot at you on the highway.”

Floyd lit another heater. “It’s enough to make your liver turn white. Where we goin’?”

“Billy Bob’s Pawn Shop. You jes’ follow this frontage road ’bout five miles, hang a louie on Trax Avenue. You been to Billy Bob’s, ain’t you?”

“Not in a coon’s age.”

It was already in the mid-eighties with heavy humidity. Both boys were soaked through. Gary stuck out a hand.

“Gimme one of them heaters.”

Floyd handed him the pack, started the engine, and pulled out into traffic. They passed two auto parts stores, a Wendy’s, an Arby’s, a Taco Bell, a Popeye’s Chicken, two check-cashing places, five liquor stores, and Florida Pawn.

“You ever go into that Florida Pawn?” Floyd said.

“Nah. I’m a Billy Bob’s guy. I do a lot of business with Billy Bob.”

Floyd pulled partially into the oncoming lane to avoid two cyclists riding side by side wearing blue and yellow spandex, teardrop helmets, butts in the air, calves flexing.

“Fucking cyclists. Think they own the road.”

Gary leaned out the window. “SINGLE FILE, SHITHEADS!”

As they pulled back to the right, both cyclists flashed the middle digit.

They passed the Dangle Lounge on their right, a two-story windowless stucco that looked like a charcoal briquet in harsh morning light.

Floyd hawked a loogie out the window. “That’s where I met that bitch Priscilla.”

“Put her out of your mind, bwah!”

“Man, I ain’t been with a woman since. My right arm looks like a ham, I been jackin’ off so much.”

“Hey, man, that ain’t right. There’s no need to swear off women just because she robbed you.”

“Man, she dropped a roofie in my drink. I woke up in my undershorts in a ditch.”

Gary pointed. “There’s Trax. Hang a louie.”

They turned north on a strip of leprous blacktop, passing a billboard for LAW OFFICES OF HABIB RODRIGUEZ with a huge picture of Rodriguez, a bearded good ol’ boy wearing aviator glasses, a ten-gallon hat and chomping on a cigar.

Have you been in an accident? Do you think you have not been fairly compensated? Contact the Long Arm at Rodriguez Law Offices to find out how much your injuries are really worth. You don’t pay us unless they pay you.

A neon sign with a palm tree that flashed sequential rings up from the bottom, orange and brown for the trunk, green for the fronds, hovered over the road. Across the street was LIVE GATORS, BABY GATORS FOR THE KIDS, STUFFED GATORS, parking lot filled with license plates from up north and rentals.

Billy Bob’s was a long, low, one-story shingle-sided building with two big front windows showcasing everything from stuffed gators to gold coins. The parking lot held a half dozen vehicles, mostly pick-ups. Four skateboards leaned against the wall next to the main entrance, a glass door with two signs: OPEN, and PROPRIETOR IS ARMED. Signs in the window offered best prices for used firearms and layaway plans.

Four teens stood off the far end of the building, knee deep in weeds, in a circle, laughing and pointing. Floyd parked the van in front, and they got out.

“Just a second,” Gary said. “I want to see what those boys are doing.”

He sauntered down the cracked concrete, across the shredded blacktop to the weeds fronting a drainage ditch. Four teenagers surrounded an adolescent alligator, keeping it corralled with branches.

“Hey fuckwads!” Gary said. “Wha’d that gator ever do to you?”

A thin, gangly youth with nose, lip, eyebrow and ear piercings turned with a sneer. Gary, no stranger to street fights got in his face.

“What’s it to you?” the piercer said. “We ain’t hurtin’ it none.”

“We can sell that gator to that gator joint across the street,” said a stocky skinhead with Japanese lettering running up his neck.

“Well pick it up then!” Gary said.

“Hey, Gary!” Floyd called from the front door. “Are we gonna do this or what?”

Gary turned and walked.

“That’s right, pussy,” the piercer said under his breath. Gary whirled. The boys studied their shoes.

They entered Billy Bob’s, air conditioning chilling their skin. The big front room was chock-a-block with used bicycles, band equipment, motorcycle helmets, skateboards, and power tools. An island of glass cases displayed jewelry, watches, binoculars, and cameras. Two employees worked the counter, a man with face like a pepperoni pizza and a thick woman with long brown hair and a butterfly inked on her bare shoulder.

While Floyd examined the instruments, Gary approached the woman.

“Hey Darlene. Billy Bob around?”

It took her a minute to recognize Gary as a repeat customer. “Sure enough, Sugar,” she said, picking up the phone. “I’ll get him.”

FOUR

BILLY BOB’S

A door in the back opened and out came Billy Bob, a lovable bear whose dense black beard concealed no chin, wearing a fisherman’s vest from which pockets protruded pens, knives, and pliers. He wore a pair of 40/32 Levis held up by a silver belt buckle the size of a saucer depicting a gold-plated bronc buster waving a hat. Billy Bob went behind the counter and fronted Gary.

“Mister Duba. What can I do you for?”

Gary fished in his pockets and handed Billy Bob the Barry Bonds rookie card. Billy Bob looked at it, turned it over, held it up to the light, looked at it upside down. “Yeah, that’s a real nice Bonds you got there. You want to sell it?”

“I ain’t here to play euchre.”

“Hang on. Let me consult my books.” Billy Bob exited the island, went in the back door emerging a minute later with a thick, well-worn copy of the Beckett Baseball Card Price Guide, set it on the counter, consulted the index, and turned to page 542. His fat finger traced down the page until it came to the card in question.

“I can give you three hundred,” he said.

“Are you shittin’ me? Gimme that.” Gary wrested the book from Billy Bob’s grasp and turned it around. “Says here it’s worth one thousand nine hundred and ninety dollars! Look at it! That there’s mint condition! I bought that in a sporting goods store back in the nineties. It went straight into a plastic sleeve! That there’s an uncirculated Barry Bonds rookie card!”

“’Cept it is circulated, or how else would you have it?”

“Listen, Billy Bob, my girl Krystal’s in the pokey. I need five hundred to get her out. I’ll give it to you for five.”

Billy Bob made a face, pulled his beard. “Sorry, Gary. No can do. It’s just not worth it to me. It sure ain’t gonna sell here, and puttin’ that shit up on eBay takes too much time and is too much work. Why don’t you go on eBay? You’ll get a better deal there. Now if you had any more of those He-Man figures we could do business. You got any more?”

Gary shook his head in disgust. “Man, I been comin’ here for years.”

“That’s right. We been doin’ business for years. You got nothin’ to complain about.”

Gary put his hands on his hips and swiveled to survey the crowd. The old man in a long-billed fisherman’s cap examining a casting reel. The young mother clutching a snot-nosed toddler by the hand, looking at some Hummels. A Mexican Goth with a purple Mohawk getting the feel of an old Stratocaster.

Gary held up the card. “Hey, all you good people! Any baseball fans in here? Any of y’all collect cards? I got here a mint condition Barry Bonds rookie card! Book says it’s worth two grand, but I’ll let it go for half that, or your best offer!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Billy Bob snapped. “The fuck you think this is? Your own personal auction house? This is where I do business, not you.”

Gary walked among the shoppers holding the card to his forehead like a sacred relic. “I got it right here, anyone want to take a closer look. You buy this, you can turn right around and sell it for twice what you paid! Easy money.”

Billy Bob turned purple. “How’d you like me to come out from behind this counter and throw your punk ass out the door?”

Floyd looked up from the electronic drum kit where he’d been silently playing, mouthed the words, “oh fuck,” and stood.

“That’s it!” Billy Bob thundered, coming out from behind the glass island. The exit was opposite the storefront, so he had to come all the way around, his progress impeded by several golf bags. Gary was still hawking the card when Billy Bob seized him by the scruff of his neck and the back of his belt, propelled him forward, used Gary’s face to push open the heavy glass door, and tossed Gary to the pavement like yesterday’s trash.

“Fuck you, Duba! Don’t come back here. I don’t need your business.” Billy Bob went back inside, the door sighing shut behind him.

Gary tucked the card carefully into his pocket and got to his feet, the injustice burning in him like a coal fire, like acid from too much spicy Mexican. He’d been a good customer! The boys stopped tormenting the gator to look at him. One of them made a snide comment and they laughed.

Gary steamed their way with blood in his eye. They took one look at his gangling form, bulging biceps and thick wrists and skedaddled, some of them leaping the drainage ditch, landing in the water, soaking their high-zoot sneakers. Gary arrived at a circle of trampled grass. The adolescent alligator regarded him with a beady eye. Gary seized the gator by the neck and just behind its back legs. It thrashed madly for an instant, and then stopped resisting, sensing futility.

Floyd sat in his truck as Gary returned gripping the gator.

“Put that down! Come on! Don’t do something stupid!”

As a customer exited, Gary entered. The customer did a double take, double-timed it to his truck without looking back. Billy Bob was nowhere in sight.

Gary stood in the front of the shop holding the gator above his head like a WWF belt. “You don’t want my business, Billy Bob? You don’t want anybody’s business!”

He whirled, thrust the gator at an obese woman holding an Elvis plate. The gator clacked air. The woman screamed. The plate shattered. Gary moved counter-clockwise around the store, thrusting the snapping gator at all who came near. The clientele stampeded, screaming. A bony blonde meth freak paused to capture the precious moments on her iPhone.

Billy Bob erupted from his back office like a badger, pointed at Darlene. “Darlene, call the cops.”

Billy Bob had played tackle for Everglades High, and for the Gators. The shop was filled with Gator paraphernalia. As the one-time tackle circled the glass counter like an angry tractor, Gary gripped the gator’s tail with both hands and whirled it around his head like a lariat. Billy Bob paused.

“Take one step and omma toss this gator in your ugly face!” Gary said.

“You stupid redneck! How’d you like me to go back in my office and get my forty-five?”

“Do it, you gutless piece of shit! You’re the reason the Gators lost to the Wildcats.”

Billy Bob extended a trembling finger. “I was sick that day! I told the coach and he made me play anyway!”

Sirens intruded. Floyd popped back in.

“Drop that fuckin’ gator ’less you want to end up in jail with Krystal!”

FIVE

HABIB

The Law Offices of Habib Rodriguez occupied the pillared centerpiece of a strip mall on Highway Twenty-Seven, sandwiched between All American Karate and Virgil’s liquors. Floyd parked his van in the lot between a Lexus and a modified Chevy truck whose bumper perched three feet above the pavement. Floyd went into Virgil’s while Gary sought counsel.

“Habib, man, I ain’t got no money, but if you loan me the five I need to bail out Krystal, I’ll do whatever you ask.”

Habib leaned back in his executive chair. Pistons plunged, compressing air. Springs adjusted. It sounded like a trampoline in progress.

“What do I look like, a bail bondsman? Go to Herkimer’s.”

“Man, I’m in a jam. Come on, man! She’s been in there for a day and a half! I’ve got to get her out. I done paid you every cent I owed you, didn’t I?”

“Last time you gave me stationary bicycles, if I remember correctly.”

“Well you took it. Howzat workin’ out? You using it?”

“Gary, I don’t have time to take a shit, much less pedal a stationary bike. What I want with that bike when I have a new Fat Boy in my garage.”

Gary was sweating. His eye twitched. “Please, Habib. There must be something I can do for you that’s worth five hundred!”

Habib lowered his head and peered from beneath the Stetson. “Can you take a picture?”

“Can I take a picture?! You know I can!”

“Show me.”

Gary slapped his pocket and scrolled through pictures. Krystal and he shit-faced at the Dew Drop Inn. Gary shit-faced in the yard in a photo taken by Krystal. Gary’s bunion. He knew it was in there somewhere.

“Listen, I told you about my idea, how to protect your property during hurricanes and shit. If you’d come out to my place, you’d see what I mean. It’s a stroke of genius, man. If I can get backing, I’ll clean up! Wait...wait...here it is.”

Gary turned the phone around and held it up. Habib took the phone and squinted. He turned it sideways. “This looks like some shit hole trailer with chains over the top.”

“House suspenders, man! Only instead of holding your pants up, they hold your house down! I need somebody to help me put together a crowd-funding campaign, and to do a documentary on what I’ve already accomplished. I’ll use my house as an example.”

“Your house looks like something that’s due to be demolished. Even if this crazy ass idea was worth something, you’ll never sell it with what you got here, which looks like an old rusted trailer chained to the earth. You’d have to show a nice house in a nice neighborhood, and ideally, show the fuckin’ thing in action with hundred mile an hour winds and other houses whipping by.”

Gary sat back. “I hadn’t thought of that. But I know how to take a picture.”

Habib delicately slid Gary’s phone back across the desk, reached into the middle drawer of his gun metal gray government surplus desk and withdrew a manila envelope. He shook out several color photos printed on his office computer. The first showed a demure couple in their thirties, she with a brunette bob, sultry eyes, and a Jayne Mansfield sweater, he in a sharkskin suit, hairline mustache, and snarky grin. There were photos of the couple separately.

“Missus Kelso has asked me to represent her in her divorce proceedings with Mister Kelso. Missus Kelso has worked like a dog to build her mail-order cosmetics business up into a six figure business, and now Mister Kelso, formerly employed as a chef at The Olive Garden, a racetrack tout and inveterate gambler, has employed a barracuda named Harlan Sandusky, who intends to go after Missus Kelso’s assets, claiming that she has been trying to gaslight him throughout the two years of their marriage.

“Yet every night, Mister Kelso cavorts with whores at the Starlite Motel. I need some crisp pics of Mister Kelso with his dates, ideally, in flagrant delecto.”

“I can do that, Habib, no problem. Can you advance me the five?”

Habib sat back and stoked his stogie, eyes on the yellowing acoustic tile ceiling. “Do I look like a sucker to you, Gary? I’m a criminal attorney. Get your shit together. If you stay sharp, you can get those pics to me tomorrow morning. I’ll pay you then.”

“All right. I guess Krystal can stand one more night. She does pack a mean wallop. You want me to use my phone, or do you have something else you want me to use?”

“These photos have to be visible and recognizable to a jury, if it comes to that.” Habib opened the bottom right drawer on his desk and pulled out a device the size of a cigarette pack. He slid it across the desk. “That’s the latest Fonebone. That isn’t even on the market yet. I’m loaning it to you because it takes crisp photos, even at night, and you can send them to me immediately. Take it. Turn it on. It’s intuitive. Flip up that little viewfinder.”

Gary turned the object over in his hands, held it to his eye and peered through, framing the lawyer against the backdrop of a black velvet painting of a ferocious wolf perched atop a rocky butte, like Batman brooding over the city. To the right, framed testimonials and photographs covered Habib’s Ego Wall. Habib with three governors, Habib with Miami running back Roebuck Simms, Habib with Brian Flores, Habib with Debbie Wasserman-Schulz, Habib with Dale Earnhardt Junior. Various movie stars.

On the wall behind Habib, flanking the noble wolf, were his degrees from the University of Florida and Duke, where he’d earned his Masters in Law.

“That camera is a prototype. I shouldn’t even have it. Don’t let it out of your sight.”

Gary looked at the logo, a telephone receiver wearing a dunce cap. “What is Fonebone?”

“You’ve never heard of Fonebone? It’s a multimillion dollar tech, started by Orin Houtkooper in his garage. It does everything the Smart phone does, only simpler.”

Gary stood, sliding the device into his pocket. “I’m on it. I’ll get you something tonight.”

Gary found Floyd scratching off lottery tickets in the liquor store. “Dude, can we stop at the jail on the way home?”

“Naw, dude. I got a gig in an hour. You got a spare tire at home?”

“Yeah. Awright. Thanks, Floyd. Thanks for being a good friend. You can leave. I’ll hitch home.”

SIX

THE STARLITE MOTEL

Gary walked down the street to Big ‘O’ Tires, helped himself to coffee and stood at the counter behind which an open door led to the garage bays. A plump man in Big ‘O’ coveralls and a soul patch came out.

“Whaddaya need?”

Gary recited his tire specs, which he knew by heart. “Omma need a wheel and a tire. What’s that cost?”

“You bring in the wheel, we can switch it over.”

“That ain’t happenin’.”

The man poked at his computer.

“I can give you a deal. One hundred twenty on a Hankook, comes with a six-month warranty, and that includes mounting. Where’s the vehicle?”

“Back at my place. I ain’t got no spare at the moment.”

“Hang on.” The man disappeared into the garage and returned a moment later, heaving the heavy black tire up on the counter. Gary inhaled the heady scent of fresh rubber. He wouldn’t mind working there.

“How you wanna pay for this?”

“You a baseball fan?” Gary asked.

“Hells yeah. Big Marlins fan. I’m stoked about Wetzer.”

Gary reached into his pocket and pulled out the Barry Bonds card. Fifteen minutes later, he stood out front with the tire at his side and his thumb in the air.

A Seminole Indian named Ed picked Gary up on Twenty-Seven in an old white Ram Truck, dropping him at the intersection of Partridge Way. Kicking the tire before him like a hoop, Gary walked three miles to Weldon Way, a dirt trail that ran five miles past Wokenoki Trailer Park and Ralston Salvage, pausing to admire the elegant roof line of a ’67 fastback Barracuda, eventually reaching his place. The end of the road. Beyond his trailer lay swamp. His Ford F-150 listed in the yard, the once beige finish bleeding rust. Gary had installed lifters to raise the chassis six inches over stock. The truck looked like an old Conestoga wagon abandoned on the trail to California.

Leaning the tire against the truck, Gary went to his tool shed and grabbed his wrenches and a heavy-duty Harbor Freight jack. Didn’t trust those toothpicks they called jacks. No sir. He grabbed a six pack of ice-cold Dixie from the refrigerator and pissed off the deck. No sense messing with that snake.

He climbed into the truck, set the parking brake, got out, and loosened the lug nuts holding the wheel. He slid the jack behind the front wheel well and pumped until the flat tire sagged an inch above the clay. Removing the lug nuts, he slid off the tire and rolled the whole wheel away. He mounted the new wheel and replaced the lug nuts.

He lowered the vehicle, removed the jack, and tightened the lug nuts. Good to go. He thought about heaving the old wheel into the swamp, but it would just sit there, and he’d have to look at it every time he went to the end of his pier to smoke a doobie. Gary retrieved the wanton wheel, rolled it into the mangroves and heaved it on his burn pile, a ten foot clearing in the center of which lay a pyramid of charcoal, the remains of cans, a lamp, odd pieces of lumber, shoes, and a GE coffee maker that had pissed him off.

He went up on his deck, settled back in the Adirondack, sucked the Dixie and called Trixie.

“Hey there, little lady,” Gary said. “Just want you to know I’m workin’ on that bail money and with any lucky I’ll have her outta there in the morning.”

“Oh, thank God!” Trixie said. “I’m so worried! I went down there this morning. The poor thing looked exhausted. I told her to pray to Jesus and with God’s help we’ll get through this.”

“Krystal’s a tough broad. She knows how to throw a punch.”

“Her father was a boxer, you know, before he vanished in the middle of the night, goddamn him to hell.”

“Yup. You told me.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“Well I don’t have it yet, but I’ll get it. I got a job.”

“What job?”

“I’m a bonaroo private eye!” Gary told her about his job for Habib Rodriguez.

“Well you be careful out there, Gary. I’ll pray for you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll letcha know when I’m goin’ down to the jail.”

Gary used the broom handle to open the bathroom door and raise the toilet seat. He duct-taped a broken rear-view to the end of the broom handle and used it like a periscope to look in the bowl. The snake was gone.

Gary showered in tepid water the color of tea, toweled off and went into his bedroom, pulling on black jeans and a black T. Wouldn’t do to be seen. No sir. He’d watched Cheaters. Best get in and out without causing a ruckus. Gary used his cellphone to locate the Starlite Motel, a hot sheets crib on Manatee Boulevard. Habib said the mark didn’t appear until after nine.

Damn, he needed some money. He should have asked Habib for a thou. No, two. Gary hadn’t worked for five days, ever since the job at Cobalt Estates ended. That had been a good gig, repairing Spanish tiles and shingles in a gated community after a hurricane. From his perch atop the estates, Gary had a clear view of the swimming pool, in which a septuagenarian clad in a sinister black wetsuit, skull cap and goggles swam laps for an hour every morning, and the nine hole golf course beyond, where geriatrics cruised in light yellow golf carts in white shorts and knit tops. A hearty few walked the course with their Mexican caddies.

Gary fell asleep in the Adirondack, woke when a yellow jacket perched on his nose. Gary and the yellow jacket were eye to eye. It tickled. Slowly as a melting glacier, Gary reached up with his right hand and grabbed the bill of his Stars ‘n’ Bars cap. In one fell swoop, he brought the hat down in an arc, swatting the yellow jacket into the air.

“FUCK ya! Fuckin’ yellow jackets. Nobody likes you.”

It was dusk. It was time. Gary went through his dresser and all the cabinets, but he was out of meth. Filling a water bottle, Gary put the Fonebone in his right front pocket and booked, negotiating the rutted, potholed, sinkholed road with his lights on. Twenty-five minutes later, he parked on Manatee Boulevard up the street from the Starlite, which he could see through his windshield. It was still in the mid-eighties with high humidity.

A lanky black kid leaned against the street sign down the block. A light blue Volvo pulled over, there was a brief exchange, and the Volvo purred away.

Well damn. If he needed it, there it was. Gary looked at his watch. It was nine forty-five. The mark should show any minute. He wondered if he had time to run down there, score some speed, and get back in position. Well sure. Gary was fast. He’d run track at Manatee High in Pensacola, where he’d grown up.

He was just about to open the door when a Mercedes sedan passed him on the left and pulled into the Starlite parking lot. Fuck. That was Kelso. The buzz would have to wait. When Kelso went into the office, Gary eased out of his truck on the passenger side and lingered in the shadow of Doc Johnson’s Adult Sex Toys. A pair of teenage boys in hoodies shuffled by. Gary rubbed his hands together as they passed, and they kept on moving.

Quiet as a ninja in his Wal-Mart sneakers, Gary advanced until he had a clear view of the parking lot and motel, an L-shaped two-story late fifties mod job with external stairs. The neon sign advertised FREE CABLE AND INTERNET ACCESS. A small sign declared VIBRATING BEDS/WIDE SELECTION OF ADULT ENTERTAINMENT.

Gary watched as Kelso returned from the office, got in the Mercedes and drove in Gary’s direction. Gary pulled into a doorway. The Mercedes parked in front of a room far from the office. Kelso got out, went around, and held the door for a big, raw-boned woman whose platinum wig clashed with her dark skin. She looked like she played center for the Atlanta Dream. The woman lit a heater while Kelso unlocked the door. They went inside. A light went on. There was one big front window, with the shades pulled down, leaving a two-inch gap at the sill.

Well all-rooty. Gary thought maybe he ought to look into private investigator work. Sure as shit beat roofing. He waited until the lights dimmed and crept forward, hugging the stucco wall of the strip mall behind him until he was level with the end of the building. He pulled out the Fonebone, opened the viewfinder and looked. With its infra-red application, everything was clear as day. He nonchalantly strolled up the sidewalk to Kelso’s room, knelt, and peeked through the gap.

The monstrous woman straddled Kelso wearing nothing but pink panties which showed her bony ass and appeared to be playing patty-cake with the client, who lay with his head on two pillows. He had them in profile. He began clicking. A car turned in behind him, its headlights flashing against the front of the hotel, throwing his shadow into the room, onto the back wall.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” the hooker said.

SEVEN

PATRICE

Gary shoved the Fonebone in his pocket as the front door opened. The woman was six feet four, with startling aquamarine eye shadow and palm frond lashes, wearing only the pink panties. She had negligible breasts and a package. She pointed a bony finger at him.

“Hold it right dere, fuckface.”

Gary booked. The creature ran him down in three strides and shoved him to the cracked asphalt. He chipped a tooth, turned over on his back but the woman was already on him raining down punches.

Gary used his elbows, frantically twisting to throw off her weight, got a leg free, heel-kicked the monster in the sternum and struggled to his feet panting. His clothes were soaked through. The hooker sprang up. Maybe she did play basketball. They circled. The hooded teens leaned against a rental Ford, smoking and elbowing each other. A Lincoln Town Car stopped, the passenger window lowered, and a cell phone appeared.

Gary faked a hook and lunged in low, but the hooker brought up her knee, stunning Gary in the chest. He got his arms around her and took her down. Unnoticed, Kelso ran out of the motel room carrying his shoes, got in the Mercedes, and booked.

A dot Indian came out of the office. “I have informed the police,” he called from a distance. “They’re on their way.”

The combatants rolled apart, panting. The hooker got to hands and knees. Gary ran for his truck fumbled with the keys, leaped into the driver’s seat. As he inserted his key in the ignition, he heard the doppler whoop of cops. The passenger door opened, and the hooker scrambled in, clutching a North Face backpack.

“What the fuck?”

The hooker slammed the door. “Drive, mon! Drive!”

Gary started the engine and pulled out as the flashing bars appeared in his rear view four blocks back.

“Fuck you doing, mon?” the hooker demanded. “You taking my picture?”

“Not you. Kelso! I’m a licensed private investigator representing an attorney representing Kelso’s wife.”

“You a licensed private investigator.”

“That’s right.”

The hooker snorted. “And I’m the Queen of Ethiopia.”

Gary scrupulously obeyed the speed limit as three police vehicles stopped at all angles in the parking lot of the Starlite.

“I’m just trying to make a living,” Gary said.

“I’m just trying to make a living too.”

Gary looked at his dash. “Fuck. I’m outta gas.”

“Well you can just drop me wherever, noble mon. I’ll find my way home.”

“Got any money? Listen, if you loan me twenty bucks, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

The hooker regarded Gary like the state insect. “Are you for real, mon? First you break up my evening and now you want me to loan you money?”

“I wouldn’t be doin’ this if I didn’t need the money.”

The hooker barked contralto. “What about them pictures, mon? I don’t need no vice beef.”

“The law will never see these. Listen. Jordan Kelso’s a real shit heel. His wife’s a fuckin’ saint, and she’s beautiful. What’s he doin’ soliciting prostitutes?”

The hooker pointed to herself in defiance. “You don’t think I’m beautiful?”

Gary glanced over. “I don’t think you’re even a woman.”

The hooker grinned, flashing a grill like a Rolls Royce. “I is saving for my trans op. I got fourteen thousand to go.”

“Is that a no on the twenty?”

The hooker dipped into her backpack, removed a wallet and took out a fifty. “This all I got, mon. When you gonna pay me back?”

“Soon’s I turn in these photos. Tomorrow morning. Only reason I’m doing this is because my girl Krystal’s in jail and I need bail money.”

“Tell de troof, now. You ain’t no licensed private investigator.”

Gary grinned and offered his hand. “Gary Duba. I’m a roofer.”

“Patrice Talley. Pleased to meet you.” Patrice had a grip like a longshoreman.

Gary pulled up to the pump at a Kwik Trip. Patrice grabbed her pack and headed for the store. Gary followed her in, gave the cashier the fifty.

The tank topped out at forty-one dollars and sixteen cents.

Retrieving his change, Gary bought a five-dollar lottery ticket. Not enough for cigs. Getting in his truck, he rummaged through the glove compartment and door wells for a butt, a roach, anything. Looking through the greasy frosted windows, he saw a tall black man purchasing items. It wasn’t until Patrice came out that Gary realized who it was. Without the wig and the makeup, Patrice was just a big guy.

Patrice pushed a plastic shopping bag onto the seat and removed a pack of Carltons, handed Gary a Slim Jim and a Red Bull. “Okay. Take me to the Lip Lok Lounge.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s in Belle Glade.”

They headed east on the Interstate. Traffic was light for Wednesday evening, and they reached Belle Glade at eleven-thirty. The Lip Lok Lounge was a louche hole on West Canal across the street from Martini Tacos, sandwiched between EASY CASH and BURT’S TATTOOS. It had a stucco facade, a horizontal window hosting a neon Dixie Beer sign, and an ancient air conditioner perched above the front door like the Sword of Damocles, dripping water. Gary parked in the side lot next to an ancient Citation.

The cool interior smelled of beer, sweat, and makeup. Customers sat at the bar or in the booths wearing studded black leather. The Mexican bartender, who wore a black leather vest and gold chains against his furry chest, waved.

“Patrice! Sweetheart! Where did you find Storm Front Commander?”

Patrice threw an arm around Gary’s shoulders. “This my good friend Gary Duba. Gary is a licensed private investigator. We met on a case.”

“What are we drinking?”

“I’ll have a Cuba Libre,” Gary said.

The bartender’s hands moved. “Duba wants a Cuba. You?”

“I will have a shot of El Tesoro and a Dos Modeles.”

Patrice used a gold AmEx card to pay for the drinks and took them to an empty booth. “I will add these drinks to what you owe me,” he said, sliding in. Gary slid in opposite.

“No prob. Where you from?”

“Kingston, Jamaica. Come here three years ago, save my tips for my trans op. Some day I want to open my own club.”

“What kind of club?”

“A classy nightclub with a select clientele.”

“Fags?”

Patrice’s lip curled in disgust. “No, mon. We don’ refer to ourselves as fags. A fag is what you smoke, mon. We are transsexuals.”

Gary looked around, smelling tequila, beer, cigarette smoke and Ax Body Spray. A gilt-framed photo of Marilyn Monroe gazed at their booth. A row of panties was thumb-tacked to the fake wood paneling above and behind the bar, beneath black and white photos of Elvis in leathers, Tom Jones, Freddie Mercury, Liza, and Divine.

“Is everyone in here a transsexual?”

“No, mon. Lip Lok welcome all kind. Even you.”

Gary pointed a finger across the table. “Hope you’re keepin’ track, ’cuz I need about two more drinks.”

EIGHT

PALMETTO BUGS

Gary tasted vinyl. His eyes opened. His tongue lay on the bench of the Lip Lok Lounge’s booth. His head pounded like a military parade. Light filtered in through the blinds covering the horizontal window facing the street. A palmetto bug confronted him from six inches. He didn’t have the energy to smash it. Lou Christie’s “Lightning’s Striking Again” played on the sound system.

Inch by inch, he returned to a sitting position, his bladder full. His head throbbed like Ginger Baker’s bass drum. The Lounge was closed, yet he remained. The chairs had been set upside down on the tables and a man in a black leather vest swept the hardwood floor.

The bartender.

“Oh, you up, now? Man, you was snockered. I tried to pry you outta here when we closed, but there was no pryin’. No tryin’, no pryin’. No lyin’.”

“Where’s Patrice?”

The bartender made a poof gesture with his fingers. “He disappears at the crack of dawn.”

“Fuck. What time is it?”

Without looking up, the bartender pointed to a clock on the wall. Eleven.

Gary felt his way to the restroom, leaning on tables, tipping a chair to the floor with a clatter that sent shock waves through his fractured skull, and emptied his bladder. He splashed water on his face and looked in the mirror. He had a nice shiner, a chipped tooth and a fat lip. He washed his hands, went out, grabbed a glass from behind the bar, and drank three glasses of water. He eyed the liquor bottles. A hair of the dog was in order.

“Would you pour me a drink?”

“Pour yourself. Leave five bucks on the table.”

“Oh mannnn, I don’t have five bucks. I owe Patrice fifty.”

“Well that’s a first, gotta say. Never known Patrice to loan nobody nothin’. Are you and him...”

“Of course not! Do I look like a fag?”

The bartender looked over with weary eyes. “Son, in here, everybody looks like a fag. What’s a fag look like, anyhow?”

“You know! Some mincing ponce in high heels.”

“Like Patrice?”

“He’s a trans! Not a fag.”

The bartender grinned. “Now you learnin’!”

Gary wiped his mouth. “Yeah. Sorry. What’s your name?”

“Clarence. And you’re Gary Duba. From Libre Cuba. Tell you what. I’ll pour you one on the house. But that’s it. After that, you’re on your own.”

Gary shuffled to the bar, settled on a red vinyl stool and tossed down the glass of rum. He pulled out the Fonebone, checked his pictures. Yes! Kelso was clearly visible with Patrice atop. He pulled out Habib’s card and sent the photos.

“I need twenty bucks.”

Clarence swept. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

“I don’t suppose I could borrow twenty.”

“Hah!”

“How ’bout you give me the broom and let me clean up. And I’ll pick up every scrap of shit in your parking lot.”

Clarence looked up. He forked over the broom. “Lemme know when you’re done.”

“You got any rubber gloves?”

Clarence went behind the bar and handed Gary a pair of heavy-duty yellow gloves.

The interior was neatly swept but the adjacent parking lot looked like the aftermath of an Occupy Wall Street rally. Gary filled a jumbo garbage bag with cigarette butts, used condoms, nitrous canisters, advertising fliers, receipts, plastic bags, syringes, beer bottles, peppermint schnapps bottles, empty cans, two pair underpants, a sock, four used batteries, two AA and two AAA, a torn Man Date, a discarded tire, and a Nike sneaker.

Sweating heavily, Gary walked around to the rear and stuffed the bag in a steel dumpster that reeked and squeaked. Two rats dove for cover as he shut the lid. A commercial alley ran behind the lounge and the backs of the buildings facing opposite on Hunt Street. A dusty date palm grew through a crack in the asphalt.

Reentering the lounge, Gary shivered at the sudden drop in temperature, acutely aware of his slovenly appearance and rancid aroma. Clarence was behind the bar washing glasses while Smokey sang “Soulful Shack”. Gary did a little two-step as he vamped toward the bar, snapping his fingers.

“All done.”

“Yeah? Lemme see.” Gary followed Clarence behind the bar, through the warehouse and out the steel back door. Clarence stood with hands on hips surveying the pristine lot.

“Holy shit. Well I guess that’s worth twenty bucks. Come on in.”

As Clarence handed Gary four fins, Gary said, “I don’t suppose you got a shower here. I smell like a Tijuana whorehouse.”

“Come in back.”

Gary followed Clarence back into the warehouse. Clarence pointed to a corner where a shower head extended from the wall over a concave floor with a steel drain in the center. “Place used to be a feed storage facility. There’s towels in that cardboard box along with clothes, anything you want to borrow.”

Gary stuck out his hand.

“Thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”

Clarence waved over his shoulder.

There was no hot water. Gary took a cold shower, toweled himself off and plowed through the discard box, pulling out a pair of black socks, blue Fruit of the Looms, and a Green Day T-shirt. He put on his jeans. A man didn’t part with his jeans.

Gary went out front to thank Clarence. “Y’know, if you want to get rid of those palmetto bugs, I know a guy.”

“That’s a pipe dream, essay.”

Gary drove west on Twenty-Seven past the Beauty Buffet, Krav Maga, Lorenzo’s Liquors, Dealin’ Doug’s Used Cars, KFC, Arby’s, Taco Bell, Taco John, Taco Avocado, Taco Jocko and a Waffle House. Three blocks ahead he saw police vehicles scattered randomly in front of Habib’s office like children’s toys. Parking down the block, he approached on the sidewalk, passing homeless people curled in abandoned doorways. A phalanx of police surrounded the building. Seconds later, two burly cops came out with Habib between them, handcuffed, and deposited him in the back of a police cruiser.

Gary went up to the nearest cop, a kid in short-sleeved blue and aviator shades.

“That’s my lawyer!” Gary exclaimed.

“Better find another one.”

“What happened? What did he do?”

“You can read about it in the papers.”

Stunned, Gary walked back to his truck and looked across the street at the Waffle House.

FIVE DOLLAR BREAKFAST

He went inside. A signed photograph of Burt Reynolds hung behind the cash register. The place was half-full with the lunch crowd. Gary took a corner table and ordered a five-dollar breakfast which included a three egg omelet, hash browns, and coffee. What was he going to tell Trixie and Krystal? He stretched breakfast out an hour, compulsively consulting the Okeechobee News website. At two fifteen, the first story appeared.

local lawyer arrested on cockfighting charges
also charged with distributing child pornography

Gary ran a mental inventory. He had nothing at home as valuable as the Barry Bonds card, but perhaps the whole collection, which included dozens of uncirculated cards, would fetch five hundred. But where? He burned his bridges at Billy Bob’s, and he didn’t have time to do the eBay thing, even if he understood it, which he didn’t.

There was a weekly swap and flea market in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly, but that wasn’t until Saturday. Krystal couldn’t wait until then. He thought about selling his blood, but that barely scratched the surface and they’d probably turn him down anyway, due to a preponderance of meth, alcohol, and weed.

He looked down. A palmetto bug stood atop his omelet like a commencement speaker, waving its feelers to quiet the audience.

A woman screamed. It was a real wall piercer, loud enough for a hurricane warning. She ran toward the door. Several others got up, spilling coffee and silverware.

“PALMETTO BUGS!” a child wailed.

The stampede was on.

NINE

BELMONT PEST CONTROL

Gary followed, without paying his bill. Out front, he found the manager, a squat Mexican woman in a beige dress with Rosalita embroidered on her breast in red, dialing nine one one.

“Yes, it’s an emergency!” she screamed into the phone. “The Waffle House has been overrun with palmetto bugs!”

Beat.

“The Waffle House on Main!”

Beat.

“What do you mean it’s not an emergency? A woman fell down running out of here!”

Rosalita went wide-eyed. She gestured at the heavens. She turned to Gary in astonishment. “They hung up on me.”

Gary fished out his wallet and handed her a five. “That’s for breakfast.”

He found one of Floyd’s cards. “Here. Call Belmont Pest Control. Insurance will pay for it.”

She took the card. “Fuck if it will.”

“Whatever. Belmont does a good job and they guarantee their results for thirty days. You got to call them again, they give you a discount rate. You can look up their business rating.”

“I don’t have time for that. I only been managing this place two months. This is just my focking luck. I should call national.”

“Screw national! They’ll just dither around while you lose customers. Go ahead. Call Belmont. He’ll get the job done by the end of the day, guaranteed.”

She peered at him. “What are you, his brother?”

“I work for him. Gary Duba.”

She stared at the hand a minute then took it. “Rosalita Bermudez.”

She dialed the number.

Floyd arrived at two-fifteen, his van emitting a vast gray cloud. Only the manager’s Kia, Gary’s F-150, and an abandoned Chevelle remained in the Waffle House parking lot, which like most lots in Gary’s acquaintance, was filled with trash. Floyd parked near the back entrance where Gary and Rosalita stood. Floyd emerged in a pong of Canoe, wearing crisp gray pants and a puce Belmont Pest Control shirt with the logo and his name emblazoned on the chest in green. He’d trimmed his beard and washed.

“Floyd,” Gary said. “This here’s Rosalita, she’s the manager.”

Floyd shook hands. “You have a pest problem?”

Rosalita crossed her arms. “Palmetto bugs! They have always been here, but they knew their place! Now, all of a sudden, today they decide to mount a revolution. They are crawling on the tables and up customer’s legs. No one can eat like that.”

Floyd waved them off. “Nothin’ to it. We’re gonna need several hours.”

“You might as well. I put up the closed sign and informed regional. They say they can’t get their guy here for forty-eight hours and gave the green light. Now, this isn’t going to poison my customers, is it?”

“Belmont Pest Control is licensed and certified by the Florida Department of Agriculture. We are bonded and fully insured. If pests return during a thirty-day period, Belmont will go through your property again at no charge.”

“How long is this going to take? Tomorrow’s Friday. We do most of our business on the weekend.”

“How big is the property, ma’am?”

“It’s about ten thousand square feet.”

“We go through the property. We use caulk to stop further infestations, stop any leaks, look behind the refrigerator, under the sink, crevices in cabinets and shelves, closet door corners, restroom cabinets and closets. We use permethrin, a biological based component. It’s very safe. And Boric acid. I suspect it will be dark by the time we finish. You can take off if you like, and I’ll phone you when the job is done.”

Rosalita threw her hands in the air. “Great. Focking great.”

“If I didn’t have Gary here, it would take twice as long.”

Gary and Floyd put on rubber gloves, carried all the dirty dishes into the kitchen, rinsed them off, and put them in the jumbo dishwasher. They wiped off the tables and set the chairs on them upside down. Palmetto bugs ran for their lives. The Waffle House was old with peeling stucco and a photo of its grand opening, in 1970. There were several photos of Burt Reynolds, one with the original owner, signed. Ancient framed color photos showed proto surfers, hula girls swaying under palm trees, and Don Rickles. The place smelled pleasantly of bacon and coffee.

There were still orders waiting to be picked up. Gary helped himself to some bacon.

They caulked the seams, fixed a drip in the kitchen, sprayed permethrin at the base of every wall as well as a mixture of boric acid and baking soda. At the back of the kitchen, partially covered by a refrigerator, was a walk-in closet that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in thirty years. Floyd and Gary rocked the refrigerator away from the wall far enough to open the door.

“I’ll do this closet,” Gary said. “You start on the rest rooms.”

Inside, he flipped the switch, but the light was burned out. Using a flashlight, Gary surveyed the crowded space, with two sets of floor-to-ceiling metal shelves facing each other, a three-foot corridor extending five-feet to the back wall, covered in old cardboard boxes. Palmetto bugs streamed from the light. Gary got down on hands and knees and located their passages, using caulk to seal them.

There was a three-inch gap between the cement floor and the bottom shelf. Gary got down and shined his flashlight on the squirming mob. Palmetto City! The Mother Lode. The beetles gleamed root beer in his light as they scrambled for cover. Gary forked out three ancient mouse traps with desiccated remains, and several tape traps encrusted with brittle brown husks, stuffing all into a plastic garbage bag.

Lastly, all that remained was the wall of moldering goods against the back wall. He didn’t even look. He hauled them out two by two, out the back and into the dumpster. One box fell open as it fell, releasing a clatter of tin cans so ancient, the labels were indecipherable. Pulling out the last box, Gary spied a brown paper bag wedged in the corner. He picked it up. There was something inside. He shook it. He feared it. Wharf rat mummies? A dead iguana? Carrying it out into the kitchen, he carefully opened it and looked inside.

It was as he’d imagined. The fur of some dead animal. But wait. It was too uniform and nicely combed to be an animal. Delicately, he pulled it out. It was a wig. A black wig for a man. Gary stared deep into the bag where a curled yellow sheet lay. He pulled it out and spread it open on the kitchen counter.

It was a receipt from Skylines and Hairlines in Miami Beach, dated June 12, 1986. The custom-made wig cost two hundred and forty-nine dollars. The receipt was signed Burt Reynolds.

TEN

HERE COME DE JUDGE

It was nine p.m. as Gary stood in the parking lot by his truck and dialed Billy Bob. The temperature had fallen into the low eighties.

“Fuck you want?” Billy Bob answered.

“First, I want to apologize for chasing your customers away.”

“Fuck you. You know, I got that shit on video. I’m still deciding whether to turn it over to the cops.”

“We been doing business for years, Billy Bob. I want to make amends.”

“How you gonna do dat?”

“I have something you’re gonna like.”

“My ass.” Billy Bob’s voice faded as he turned away and yelled, “I’m on the phone!”

His voice returned. “What is it?”

“Burt Reynolds’ wig.”

“Oh, my ass! Burt Reynolds’ wig. Are you high or something? You doin’ crystal again?”

“No. I swear it ain’t a hoax. I found it in an old closet at a Waffle House Floyd and me was fumigatin’. It comes with a signed receipt. Burt Reynolds. Skylines and Hairlines in Miami Beach, dated June 12, 1986.”

“Are you shittin’ me?”

“It’s real. It’s been hidden away for decades. At least let me come in and show it to you.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

Billy Bob hung up.

It was nine-thirty when Gary finally pulled up at his place. He went up the steps, unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Palmetto bugs scurried for cover. He rummaged around beneath the sink, found a box of baking soda, and laid it down along the baseboards.

In the bathroom, the snake was gone. Gary took a long, tepid shower in brown water, toweled himself off and tossed his dirty clothes into the overflowing wicker basket. He had to get to the laundromat soon or he would be out of clean clothes. He collapsed on his bed, turning the wall air conditioning unit up to the max.

Up at seven, Gary pulled on clean jeans, automatically transferring all the receipts from his old jeans into the new jean’s back pocket, and turned on the morning news on WINK in Fort Meyers. All their newscasters began each broadcast by winking at the audience. A vivacious redhead appeared. “This is Aphrodite Cruz for WINK in Fort Meyers. The Florida Highway Patrol has arrested an Okeechobee man for defecating on traffic from a light pole. Fort Meyers Police have taken a woman into custody for tackling another woman who cut in front of her in line at the Motor Vehicle Department.” Venezuela was in flames. The Coast Guard had intercepted seventeen boats of fugitives. Aphrodite winked. “We’ll be right back after these important messages.”

Habib appeared during the commercials, standing in front of a hip-hop Lady Justice, the word “justice” rendered in vivid blue graffiti. Habib wore blue jeans, a white dress shirt with turquoise bolo and leather vest, wearing his Stetson and sunglasses.

“Have you been injured in an automobile accident? Is your insurance company not giving you what you deserve? Call me, The Long Arm, Habib Rodriguez. All initial consultations are free. You will not be charged anything unless we win a substantial award.”

A young black woman, her hair in cornrows, said “I was sitting at a red light when a driver T-boned my car. The insurance company didn’t want to give me what I deserved, so I contacted Habib Rodriguez, and he got me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Next up was a beautiful blonde in a swimsuit posing against a Caribbean sunset. She splayed her long fingers over her lovely face. The camera moved in for a close-up of the lush lips, the charming dimple. “I wasn’t always this beautiful. In fact, I looked like a gnome. I look now as God intended, thanks to Doctor Vanderly Mukerjee, plastic surgeon to the stars.”

A slight Indian in a brown suit and glasses appeared before a wall of certificates. “Greetings. I am Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. I have been blessed with an unusual facility for enhancing your natural gifts. If you are displeased in any way with your appearance, or your performance in the bedroom, contact me, Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. Keep our beaches beautiful. Thank you.”

When the news returned, golfers fled alligators in electric carts.

Gary turned to his phone, bringing up Lake Okeechobee News.

attorney habib rodriguez busted for cockfighting

Local criminal defense attorney Habib Rodriguez, known for his aggressive advertising, was taken into custody yesterday on charges of animal cruelty and operating an illegal cockfighting operation. He is also being investigated for possible involvement in a child pornography ring.

“Well fuck,” Gary said.

Habib would be out by noon, but Krystal had waited long enough.

At nine, Gary put on his stars ’n’ bars and booked. Gary turned to WCAW music out of Fort Meyers playing some Hank Williams. At nine-thirty, a food truck was parked in LIVE GATORS offering LIZARD ON A STICK. Tourists were lined up waiting to get into the popular reptile attraction, which sold stuffed alligators in several sizes, from sewing kits to suitcases. Adults hung on to sniffling children, some adults wearing infants on their backs and fronts like papooses. The parking lot was jammed with license plates from all over the Eastern United States.

Billy Bob’s parking lot held several vehicles including Billy Bob’s GMC Yukon with the license plate, GIMME. Gary parked a row removed from the building and got out, heat and humidity wrapping itself around him like plastic. He grabbed the bag with the wig and turned toward the building when a black Lincoln pulled up adjacent, one space away. A stout woman in a buzz cut and green cat’s eye glasses got out. She wore a sensible suit. She carried a leather barrister’s bag.

“Hey,” Gary said.

The woman walked toward Billy Bob’s.

“HEY,” Gary said. The woman stopped and looked back at him.

“What’s your problem?” she said in a gravelly voice.

“Aren’t you the bitch who took a pot shot at us the other day ’cause we didn’t get out of your way fast enough? Remember the van with a green logo?”

The woman peered, mouth pursing, shoulders hunching. “Youuuuuu...” she growled, reaching into her leather barrister’s bag and pulling out a six-shooter.

Gary backed away until he bumped into his van. “Put that gun away, you crazy bitch!”

The woman held the pistol in both hands in a shooter’s stance. “You’re a public menace! You’re supposed to get over when somebody flashes their lights. It’s you who are the menace! Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head!”

Injustice a sword through his heart, Gary grabbed the wig and hurled it at the woman, striking her in the face. She gasped. Gary was on her in a second, wrestling for the pistol. She was surprisingly strong. They danced around the parking lot, oblivious to tourists across the street who decided this was better than LIVE REPTILES and approached clutching their cell phones.

He wrenched the gun away and tossed it end over end like a shuriken at the scrub at the end of the lot. The woman kicked him savagely in the leg.

“I’M A JUDGE, YOU MORON!” she yelled as Gary grabbed the wig, got back in his truck and peeled out, spraying the judge with gravel.

ELEVEN

BELLE GLADE PAWN

Gary had stopped in Belle Glade Pawn on Charteris Street five years ago and scored DVDs of Smokey and the Bandit, Convoy, and Git R Done starring Larry the Cable Guy. A buck apiece. It was just past eleven as he pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall housing Minute Maid Cleaning, Haley’s Comics, Joyce’s Fabrics, and the pawn shop. The parking lot was almost full. Two board punks in shorts and tank tops did tricks in front of an empty storefront. Out front, a line of used lawnmowers vied for space with knobby-tired mountain bikes and backyard grills, all chained to steel bolts sunk into concrete.

Belle Glade Pawn had once been a bar and stretched back like a shotgun shack with a long glass counter on the left. Half the right wall was covered in peg board displaying guitars, basses, and hockey sticks. The rest was devoted to shelves of electronic appliances including numerous flat screen televisions. The center aisle was jammed with bicycles and exercise equipment.

Inside, an anxious Mexican holding a gold watch spoke Spanish with a young Mexican clerk in a Gators shirt. Two boys checked out the long boards while an old white woman, her hair in a bun, carefully picked through a bin of Beanie Babies. A middle-aged Asian man stood behind the cash register staring at his phone. He had close-cropped hair and wore a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt featuring the Beach Boys, with photos of the band interspersed with Deuce coupes, 409s, and surfin’ babes.

Gary went up to him. “You the manager?”

The man looked up. “Whaddaya got?”

Gary carefully placed the toupee on the counter. The manager wrinkled his nose. Gary pulled out the receipt and carefully flattened it out on the glass. The manager looked at it, looked again, picked it up. He looked at the wig. He poked it. He bent forward and sniffed it.

“Hmmmm.”

“DNA analysis should prove conclusively that’s Burt’s.”

“Where do we get a sample?”

“Are you shittin’ me? Just go on eBay. Look for Burt Reynolds’ hair. Dozens of women were scrapin’ it up off the sheets during the day, believe you me. They knew he was somethin’ special, and that someday, a lock of Burt’s hair would be worth a pretty penny.”

The manager extended his right hand.

“Alex Chow.”

“Gary Duba.”

“Why don’t you have a look around? This is going to take a few minutes.”

Gary went to the DVD section, moving past multiple copies of American Dreamz, The Matrix, and Batman Begins, pulling for possible purchase a John Wayne collection and two Rob Zombies. He went over to the CD racks. Gary didn’t do downloads and had no use for streaming. He could barely operate his hand-held device. He sneered at electric vehicles and automatic transmissions. What was the world coming to? A bunch of soy boys afraid to ride their bicycles without helmets, for Chrissake. He feared for the modern generation.

And yet, what was he doing about it? He had no kids. At least none of his exes had ever come back to him with a squalling brat, but it occurred to him from time to time that he ought to spawn at least for the sake of the family name. Sure, his older brother Philip had two kids, one an assistant manager at a Jiffy Lube, the other married with two children.

Gary seldom saw his old man, who lived in Pensacola, where Gary grew up. Frank was a lifelong navy man who liked to stick close to the base. He’d been absent through most of Gary’s growing up, and his mother Joan had not been much help. Someone nudged him. He looked down. A Mexican boy of about six looked up.

“Can you recommend any good country music?”

“Kid, you come to the right place.”

Gary riffled through the CDs, pulling The Best of Toby Keith and Merle Haggard.

The boy took them. “Can you loan me two dollars?”

Gary laughed. “Sure. Come on, kid.”

They returned to the long glass counter where Alex was still absorbed in his search, holding up a finger to ask for patience. Gary looked at the pistols neatly laid out on black velvet beneath the glass. They had two Judges, only two hundred dollars apiece. Gary missed his Judge. There was no better tool for yard critters. Well that would have to wait until he won the lottery. He looked lustfully at a Donald Trump Commemorative .45 automatic from Auto-Ordnance. Six hundred bucks. Behind the counter on the wall were a number of Mossbergs, Remingtons, and Winchesters. Gary looked around. Camera globes hung from the ceiling at the front and the back, and the tell-tale tape of an alarm system framed each glass panel. The place was probably wired into the local PD as well. He couldn’t help it. It was the way he thought.

In seventh grade, Mrs. Milman, his home room teacher, told him he had the mind of a career criminal and if he didn’t get his priorities straight, he’d end up in prison. He dropped out of high school in his senior year to go to work as a roofer. No training required. A plump Latina with purple hair approached.

“Migelito! Let’s go.”

The kid turned. “Aw, Maaa...this man is buying me some CDs.”

She turned big brown eyes on Gary. “Pay no mind to him. Come on. Let’s go.”

“It’s no problem, ma’am. Frankly, it thrills an old redneck like myself to find someone young who likes country music.”

“Country music, oh yes, he’s just crazy about it. I don’t know why.”

Gary headed for the other cashier near the front. “Come on. Let’s get this out of the way.”

He paid two dollars and eighteen cents for the CDs. The woman thanked him profusely while Migelito beamed. When Gary turned back, Alex had his hand in the air.

“You are correct,” Alex said. “Tufts of Burt’s hair are available, but they’re not cheap. That, plus the DNA testing, is going to cost me four hundred dollars.”

“Yeah but come on. Burt Reynolds’ wig with a certificate of authenticity and DNA testing? That’s gotta bring in a couple thou at least.”

“The last such toupee went for ten thousand dollars in 2017.”

“Well there you go.”

“I will give you one thousand dollars right now. Cash.”

“Deal.”

Alex took the toupee and receipt into a back office and returned a minute later with a green vinyl money bag, out of which he counted ten crisp hundred-dollar bills. He placed a form receipt on the counter, listing hairpiece as the item and acknowledging receipt of one thousand dollars. Gary signed. They shook hands.

He called Trixie from his truck.

“I got the money. Meet me down at the jail at three o’clock.”

TWELVE

FRAZZLED

The jail was in Moore Haven. It was hotter than a sumbitch. Gary parked in a lot a block away and walked past the Lizard On A Stick truck as he headed for the building. The smell of sizzling lizard made his stomach rumble. He’d never eaten lizard, but it smelled like chicken. As he was about to cross the street to the jail, Trixie called. She was running late because she had to stop at an ATM machine on the way. Gary returned to the lot and stood in line between two construction workers in hard hats having a late lunch.

A Latino kid with a shock of black hair stood in the window, wearing a bandanna on his head like a gang banger, and a white chef’s jacket. Gary scanned the board menu.

“I’ll have the lizard on a stick with a side of sweet potata fries and a Coke.”

The kid handed him the items one by one. “That’ll be nine-fifty.”

Gary peeled off a hundred-dollar bill.

“I can’t break that.”

“Well shit. That’s all I got.”

They stared at one another.

“You go get change.”

Gary hefted his lizard on a stick. “You want this?”

“No, you eat it. I trust you.”

“What kind of lizard is it?”

“Iguana.”

“Where you get it?”

“I trap it. I got friends who trap it. It’s very popular in Dominican Republic.”

“That where you’re from?”

“Yes.”

Gary retreated to the shade of an east-facing mortgage lender while he ate his lunch. The lizard on a stick tasted a little like chicken with a salty, fishy undertone. It wasn’t bad. And the iguana were free, right? No one raised them. You trapped them. That kid was cleaning up. Of course, Gary didn’t know what he’d invested in the truck, or how long he worked. All Gary thought about was money. How to get it, what he’d do if he had it. An iguana restaurant wasn’t so far-fetched. They always made a big fuss over every new restaurant because a.) advertising, b.) they were bored, and c.) the constant turnover of restaurants in the area.

Not your chains. Waffle House, Cracker Barrel, McDonald’s et al were for the aeons. Once they set-down they never left. It was all the other restaurants, the one offs, the dreams of cooks, the pretentious French places that came and went with startling frequency.

He chewed and swallowed his lizard, ate the sweet potato fries, washed it down with the Coke, wiped his hands on the paper towels and deposited the litter in a city trash can.

“Gary!” Trixie called from down the street.

Trixie looked like a bag lady in her voluminous gray dress, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a feedbag-sized purse. She was five foot two and built like a beehive.

“Oh, I’m so relieved! I can’t wait to see my little girl.”

“Aintchoo been down here?”

“No, I couldn’t get away. I was cleaning all day and when I get home at night, I’m just so exhausted it’s all I can do to feed the cats and fall asleep. I’m supposed to be cleaning right now, but I explained the situation to Folana and she gave me the rest of the day off. Where did you get the money?”

“I sold Burt Reynolds’ wig.”

“No, really.”

“I’ll tell ya about it later. Come on. Let’s get your little girl out of the hoosegow.”

The jail smelled of pinesol and piss. Gary had been arrested twice, once for disorderly conduct and another for DUI. He’d had to take a course on anger management and do twenty hours of community service to get his license reinstated.

Glade County Correctional Facility was a white, one-story stucco on Moore Haven off Highway Seventy-Eight. Smokey-hatted sheriff’s deputies were coming out when Gary and Trixie arrived. The last deputy held the door open for them.

The inside was a refrigerator. Ten feet in from the door stood a rectangular portal identical to those at airport security. Either side had been walled off with portable units. A sheriff’s deputy sat on a wood stool, reading a Vince Flynn novel. He set it down and handed Gary a plastic bin.

“Cell phones, knives, sharp metal objects, etc. No drugs, no cigs, no prescription pills. You’ll get it all back.”

Gary dropped his keys, cell phone and his Kershaw in the bin. Trixie placed her purse in another. The deputy waved them through the metal detector. It was less intrusive than a TSA pat-down. They went to the linoleum desk behind which sat a broad-shouldered black woman in a sky-blue shirt, hair pulled back in a bun, entering reports into a data bank. She turned toward them.

“Help you?”

“We’re here to bail out Krystal Clanagan. She’s been in here since Saturday.”

The woman rose, went to another computer on the desk and entered data.

“May I have your name, please.”

“Gary Duba.”

“I’m Krystal’s mother, Trixie. But my last name is Thompson.”

The woman printed off a couple forms, showed Gary where to sign. Under relationship, he wrote “boyfriend”. He gave the clerk five hundred dollars and she gave him a receipt.

“Wait here.”

Two cops entered with a meth freak between them, a live wire, hairless as newborn rat, massive cables flexing under his neck, frothing at the mouth, twisting like a galvanized frog leg.

“I WANT A LAWYER YOU PIG FUCKERS...I KNOW MY GODDAMN RIGHTS...”

The deputy on the stool slid off and opened one of the portable barriers. The cops hustled the meth freak through to the other side where a door buzzed. The freak emitted an acrid, acid smell. They went through, the door shut. They could hear the meth freak cursing. His cursing cut off mid fuck and there was silence.

Minutes later, a tall woman guard with freckles and red hair came out with Krystal, who looked frazzled but beautiful, with almond eyes beneath a burgeoning unibrow, her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She rolled her eyes.

“About fucking time.”

The clerk showed Krystal where to sign for her property, and her agreement to appear in court on a charge of disturbing the peace and indecent behavior. Finally, the clerk raised the counter and Krystal emerged. Gary and Trixie surrounded her in a group hug. She smelled of cigarette smoke, body odor, and cheap perfume.

“God do I need a shower,” she said, as they went through a turnstile to get to the door. Reclaiming their belongings, they passed a Turpentine police officer sipping coffee from a paper cup. He held the door for them as they exited into the heat, humidity, and sun. They all put on sunglasses.

As they walked toward the street, a black Lincoln with tinted windows pulled up in front of two more Turpentine police officers, one of whom hustled around the front and opened the driver’s door. A stout woman in a buzz cut and green cat’s eye glasses got out. She wore a sensible suit. She carried a leather barrister’s bag.

Gary froze. The woman froze. She hunched and pointed, her mouth twisting.

“ARREST THAT SON OF A BITCH! HE ASSAULTED ME!”

THIRTEEN

THE VIEW FROM INSIDE

One cop was a young Latino. The other was older with a gray mustache. They seized Gary painfully by the arms and cuffed him. Trixie and Krystal stared, dumbstruck.

“What the fuck?!” Krystal said.

The little judge steamed up incensed. “This is one of the individuals who fired on my vehicle on Tuesday and assaulted me this morning. Take him inside and book him. Show him what we think of scofflaws in Glade County.”

“Yes, Judge Murphy!” the young cop said, hustling Gary back toward the jail.

“Call Floyd!” he yelled. “Call Habib Rodriguez!”

“What the fuck?” Krystal demanded of the judge’s back as she followed. The older cop got in her face.

“You’d better move along unless you want to join your boyfriend.”

“What did he do?” Trixie wailed.

“You heard the judge.”

Inside, Gary was searched, finger-printed and photographed. The clerk at the computer printed out his record and handed it to the arresting officer, whose name tag said Morales. On the way to the cell, Morales kicked him in the back of the knee, drove him to the floor, and slapped the side of his head with the flat of his palm. Morales heaved Gary to his feet, backed him up against the wall and drove his fist into Gary’s gut. It was the hardest blow Gary had ever felt. Only his spine prevented Morales fist from punching through to the wall. Gary bent over, gasping. He vomited on Morales’ shoe.

Morales kicked him in the face. “You motherfucker. What does it take to piss off a judge? To take a shot at a judge? You miserable cocksucker. We don’t like your kind in Glade County.”

“Fuck you,” Gary mumbled, earning him a knee to the gut. He looked up. He hoped the dark glass hemisphere recorded everything for his suit. Nah. They’d just erase that part.

The cop marched him through a buzzed door into a big holding room with six rows of benches bolted to the floor and a dozen prisoners. A single horizontal window high up on the rear wall. The cop removed the cuffs and propelled Gary into the room with a shove, sending him sprawling. He stumbled into a stocky Latino with a Zapata mustache, who shoved him away. Gary landed on his ass.

“Welcome to Glade County,” someone said.

Gary stood. There was a stainless-steel sink in one corner of the big room, a stainless steel toilet in the other, covered with feces and urine. If you wanted to shit, you had to hover. A flat screen TV on one wall was covered with steel mesh. The room stank of body odor, feces, urine, and Pinesol. Three black kids huddled against the back wall.

Gary took a seat next to a middle-aged Asian man with short hair, wearing a rumpled long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tatted arms. Jeopardy played faintly on the TV.

Without looking at him, the man said, “They bang you up?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“What did you do?”

“I assaulted a judge.”

“For reals?”

“With a wig.”

The man laughed. “Bobby. Bobby Watanabe.”

“Gary Duba. What you in for?”

“Porn.”

“Just porn?”

Bobby half turned. He wore blue suit pants and a black, leather loafers. “I’m a filmmaker. I specialize in erotic manga. It’s an art. It should be recognized as an art. It’s not a bunch of sweaty meth freaks holding an orgy, there’s a story, there are characters, there are character arcs. It’s erotic. Japanese pornography is nothing like the American stuff. It’s wrong to even call it pornography. My stories are made with exquisite taste. I also publish erotic manga.”

“What’s wrong with American porn? At least we feature real people.”

“I use real actors and actresses. Some are very young. Some just look young. No one is coerced, no one is forced to perform against their will. I don’t offer them drugs. I pay good wages.”

“Man, have you ever seen classic American porn? Debby Does Dallas? Blueberry Stud Muffin? That’s tasteful!”

“I’m not talking about the classics. I’m talking about shit like All Ass Access and Cock A Doodle Don’t.”

“You braggin’ on how tasteful porn is, you ever consider maybe that’s the reason you lost World War Two?”

“How so?”

“Well like you say, everything in Japan is so tasteful and understated, whereas we Americans are just crude and disgusting, maybe that’s what it takes to win the fuckin’ war.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying the Japanese soldier is not the equal of Americans?”

“Nope. I’m sayin’ we got the bomb, and we’re not afraid to use it. And another thing, you people are too goddamn polite and it’s costing American lives.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the so-called horns you put on your motorcycles. Say you’re cruisin’ the Interstate, goin’ down to Miami for a Dolphins game. Some motherfucker’s trying to edge you out of your lane. You ridin’ a rice burner, you lay on the horn, what do you get? Nothin’. That’s what you get. Like a kitty meowing. ’Cause you’re too goddamn polite to lay in a real horn, that people can hear. You ever ride a Harley?”

“You’re saying the Japanese motorcycle horns are weak?”

Gary formed a pistol with his hand. “Bingo.”

Bobby put his chin in his hands. “I never thought of that.”

“You ride?”

“No.”

“I had to sell my Harley to stop the bank from foreclosing on my fuckin’ house. I’m the inventor of House Suspenders. I’m looking for investors.”

“What are house suspenders?”

“They’re big chains you lay over your roof that are anchored in concrete. That way, if a hurricane comes along, you won’t lose your house. They’re like regular suspenders, only instead of holding your pants up, they hold your house down.”

“An intriguing idea. But what if the house is so shabbily built that the wind destroys it and it flies away in pieces?”

“I’ve thought of that. I’m thinking of adding a huge tarp with openings for chimneys and shit. Cover the whole thing. A house straight jacket. Know anybody who might be interested in that?”

“Maybe. Let’s exchange contact info.”

“I ain’t got nothin’ to write with.”

“I’m very easy to find. Bobby Watanabe on Facebook.”

“Ain’t on Facebook.”

“How do you expect to raise interest in your project if you’re not on Facebook?”

Gary shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

The outer door buzzed open. A deputy conducted a tall black man in a Hailie Selassie T-shirt, hair done in tight cornrows, to the cell and opened the door.

Gary got to his feet. “Patrice! The fuck you doing in here?”

They exchanged the soul grip. “Same old story, mon. Straight arrow bidnessman hire me to give him blow job. Then he not pay me, so I have to teach him some manners.”

FOURTEEN

FLOYD COMES THROUGH

They sat on the last bench. A Mexican weather girl on the TV drew most of the room’s attention, men hooting, stroking invisible Johnsons and whistling.

“I can pay you back when we get out,” Gary said.

“Where you get de money, mon?”

Gary told him about Burt Reynolds’ wig.

“Oh yes, mon. I only know him from The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. He was a great actor.”

“Well you should see Boogie Nights. It’s right up your alley.” Gary tapped Bobby, who was sitting on the bench in front of him. “You should too.”

Bobby swiveled. “Should what?”

“See Boogie Nights.”

“It’s very good, but it’s not porn.” He turned around.

“It is good you have the money, mon,” Patrice said. “For I am broke.”

“Don’t you worry. I’m good for it. You got any skills? I mean aside from whorin’.”

“I can play de saxophone.”

“Ain’t no money there.”

Patrice thought. “In Jamaica I grow de ganja. That I can do. But I am in enough trouble as is.”

“Well now see, that’s where you’re wrong. This state’s gonna legalize marijuana any day now, and when that happens, you’ll be in demand. Shit. I know some good ol’ boys would be happy to have you tend their crops. But right now, it’s illegal, you understand?”

“Oh, I understand all right. In Jamaica, it is still illegal, but they will not arrest you for small amounts. They understand that the tourist trade depends on drugs.”

“In Jamaica, we play the plants reggae. Make them grow faster.”

“Is that indoors or outdoors?”

“Both. I sing to dem. Dere is bad police near Kingston, Felipe Fulgencio, trying to close us down. I write a song for him.

Attencio Fulgencio,
your plan is reprehensio,
don’t keep us suspensio,
or make us strike our tentsio.

I’ll plant you face first in de ground,
you will not like dat ugly sound,
your face and private parts I’ll pound,
and then I’ll build a fencio.”

“That’s beautiful, Patrice. But even if you have all the talent in the world, trying to make a living at music is just a crap shoot. I know some good ol’ boys pick like Jerry Reed, they can’t make it work. Shit. If I could get all the musicians I’ve worked with roofing, I could put together a pretty good band. Ain’t nobody plays the blues like a good ol’ boy.”

Bobby Watanbe swiveled. “That’s absurd. Blacks invented the blues. Are you saying these so-called good ol’ boys play better blues than BB King? Albert King? Freddie King?”

Gary quickly back-tracked. “Now hold on. I ain’t sayin’ that. Lemme say, no fuckin’ punks or Brits can play the blues as well as some good ol’ boys, but some good ol’ boys can’t play the blues as well as your genuine black blues man.”

“Who dis?”

Gary introduced them. “Bobby’s in tasteful Japanese porn.”

Patrice’s eyes rose. “I have done some acting.”

“I only use children.”

“No problem. Maybe I could provide the music.”

“I had to suspend production until after my court date.”

“When is your court date?”

“They have not yet informed me. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, it’s time for my daily meditation.”

Bobby turned around and slumped forward. The clock on the wall opposite the holding cell said it was six. Gary looked around. Two inmates sprawled against the sideboards, heads cradled in their arms. The three black kids played scissors, papers, stone while rapping loudly.

“My stone got a bone for your paper, my name is Don Draper and I’m a baby raper.”

“My scissor got a quiver for your liver, ’cuz I’m a lover, not a giver.”

“Don’t fock with the rock or I’ll give you a shock.”

Gary was exhausted. He’d hardly got any sleep the previous night and he sure as shit wasn’t going to get any in here. He hoped Krystal had called Floyd or Habib. He prayed she hadn’t gone straight to her meth connection. The bitch had been on and off the shit as long as he’d known her. He thought if she moved in with him, he’d be able to keep an eye on her and keep her off the shit, but it hadn’t worked out that way. More often than not, she’d cajole him into doing a line, and then they got to fucking, which could take hours. It left them both exhausted and wanting more.

The only reason Gary had been off the shit for the past week was because Krystal wasn’t around.

The next thing he knew, Gary was on the floor cradling his head in his arms and Patrice was shaking him.

Gary jerked, disoriented. “What?”

“Get up, mon. It’s morning. You are bailed out.”

Tepid sunlight streamed in through the gun slot. Gary got to his feet. He needed to pee, shower, shit, shave and eat. He went to the front of the cell where a deputy waited.

“Let’s go, Duba.”

“Who bailed me out?”

“Fuck if I know.”

The deputy conducted Gary through two doors to the front room where Krystal waited with Floyd, in his work duds.

“Floyd! God love ya! I’ll make it up to you!”

“Fuckin’ A,” Floyd said.

Gary signed forms and retrieved his belongings. It was eight-thirty.

“You are due to appear in court on this date to answer one charge of aggravated battery, do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Sign here.”

Gary signed. The clerk gave him copies of everything. A deputy raised the counter and Gary walked out, into Krystal’s arms.

“Where’s my truck?” Gary said.

“It’s impounded. It’s in your paperwork.”

They went out through the turnstile.

“How much?” Gary asked.

“Five hundred,” Floyd said.

“Goddamn!”

Gary looked at her eyes and nostrils. She appeared straight.

Krystal had parked on the street a block away. When they reached her Pontiac, Floyd kept going toward his van. They got in the Pontiac. Krystal started the engine, lowered the windows and lit a Carlton, passing the pack to Gary who slid one in his mouth. The air conditioner didn’t work. She promised to get it fixed, but neither of them had the money.

“Did you call Habib?”

“I left a message. Then I called Floyd and he said he’d bail you out.”

“Floyd’s a fuckin’ rock.”

“What about this judge bitch? What happened?”

Gary brought her up to speed beginning with the road rage. “But they won’t mention that. She pulled on us first! I wish I had video.”

“Hey, pull into that Arby’s. I’m hungry enough to eat a baby’s butt through a park bench. And I gotta pee like crazy.”

“You got any money?”

Gary checked his wallet. He still had two hundred dollars. “Let’s go!”

Krystal ordered while Gary visited the men’s room, washing his hands and face and running through ten feet of paper towel. When he came out, Krystal sat in a booth with two jumbo roast beef and cheese sandwiches and big cups of Coke.

Gary tore through the sandwich like a feral hog in a vegetable garden.

“You need a shower,” Krystal said.

“That ain’t all I need. Let’s go.”

FIFTEEN

MATCHING TATS

Krsytal knelt on the bed wearing nothing but a Richard Petty T-shirt, showing off her pert breasts, her long bottle blonde hair hanging straight down to her ass. Tats like wooly caterpillars climbed her thighs. Gary suspected they belonged to former boyfriends and had been repurposed. He could almost read the name Mervin or something.

Gary came straight from the shower and dove on her with a snarl. She squeaked. Gary slid right in and fucked her for a few minutes, then pulled out, flipped her over and fucked her doggie style, Krystal hanging on to the wood headboard, the trailer shaking like a maraca.

“You’re a monster!” she shrieked. “You’re a beast!”

“I am the beast of the apocalypse!” Gary roared.

They lay panting.

“Got any money?” he said.

“Fuck no. But I will next week. I’ll be workin’ with Ma for the Merry Maids.”

“Soon’s we get some money we should get matching tats.”

“Oh, that would be so sweet. I also think maybe we should each wear tiny vials of each other’s blood around our necks.”

“That’s class, Krystal. Pure class.”

“We can engrave them with our blood types so that in case of an accident, they don’t have to mess around.”

“That’s a good idea for everybody. That there might be a money-making proposition. You should write that down. You and me, we’re a fuckin’ brain trust. I got a million money-making ideas.”

“Like what?”

“Like motorcycle helmets that automatically massage your head while you ride. All-natural hearing aids. No drugs, no electronics.”

“How you gonna do that?”

Gary sat up, cupped his ears in both hands and bent them forward. “You ever try this? You ever hear how much more you can hear when you do this?”

Krystal cupped her ears. “Wow. You’re right!”

“I can build these cheap out of plastic. You fit ’em over your head on a band and they stick out from your ears providing all around sound enhancement.”

“Yeah, except they make you look like an idiot.”

“Well you already got all these cyclists wearing blue and yellow spandex.”

“Your point being?”

“Well they ain’t afraid to look like idiots. And neither will people who need a little hearing adjustment but don’t want to shell out the big bucks for electronics. They’ll come in a variety of fashion colors. Tiger striped. Paisley. Camo for the hunters. Black for evening wear.”

Krystal got up, T-shirt swinging, and headed for the kitchen. “You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Gary pulled on his pants it wasn’t even noon and he’d already been laid. Now he had the rest of the day to worry about money. The mortgage was due in three days and he had an unpaid electric bill to the City of Turpentine, and he owed six hundred and fifty-nine dollars and nineteen cents on his Visa card. He only had the one card, unlike Krystal, who had a half dozen. Gary just hoped she didn’t get caught.

Gary heard the TV go on.

“Come out here, Gare. Judge Swinehart’s on.”

Gary went into the living room, closed the front door and cranked up the rooftop AC unit. He sat on the sofa next to Krystal and twisted the cap off a cold bottle of Dixie.

Judge Swinehart was a no-nonsense black former Marine appointed to the court by Bill Clinton before he quit to become one of the most successful television adjudicators in history. Judge Swinehart had twenty-two million viewers. Judge Swinehart earned two hundred million dollars a year. Judge Swinehart didn’t give a shit.

The defendant was an uptight ingenue dressed to meet the Queen, long black hair clasped at the nape of neck, wearing black-framed glasses. She’d changed the locks on a former roommate and posted pictures of the roommate engaging in sex with a person, although in truth, since both were dressed like giant squirrels, it was difficult to identify either.

“I knew we weren’t going to get along when she tried to kick my cat,” the defendant said primly.

“That’s a lie,” said the plaintiff, a sad homely girl in a huge sweater.

Judge Swinehart was a massive man with a chin the size of Rhode Island. “You had no right to lock the plaintiff out of her own apartment. She had paid you the rent. In fact, from what I heard here today from the witnesses leads me to believe you shouldn’t be out on your own. You are a menace to yourself and others. Judgement for plaintiff for five thousand dollars.”

Bam!

The defendant stomped toward the exit, firing her Carpathian shot. “This isn’t finished. It’s just beginning.”

“We will get the litigants’ reactions in a moment, but first, here’s a word from our sponsor.”

A lissome young Latina appeared. “I was minding my own business driving, when a car ran a red light and struck me. The insurance company only wanted to pay me one thousand dollars for my injuries and damage, so I went to Habib Rodriguez, and he got me seven hundred thousand dollars.”

Cut to Habib, standing proudly, arms crossed, in front of the graffiti Justice.

“I can’t guarantee you that your case is worth seven hundred thousand dollars, but if you don’t call, you’ll never know. If you don’t win, you owe us nothing. Call the Long Arm, Habib Rodriguez today.”

Gary called Habib Rodriguez. Brenda answered.

“One moment, Mister Duba. I’ll see if he’s available.”

Habib came on the line. “The pictures are fine. Come on down and I’ll cut you a check.”

“How’d it go with the cops?” Gary said.

“They got nothing. Cockfighting ring my ass. That’s my brother’s deal. Everybody knows it. Total bullshit charge. And the kiddie porn? That’s all evidence I’ve been collecting for a case. They don’t got squat.”

“That’s good to know! See you soon.”

Krystal flipped through channels, pausing to watch a Japanese hot-dog eating contest at which the contestants sat at a groaning board filled with hundreds of hot dogs. When the referee blew his whistle, six people began maniacally stuffing their maws with hot dogs.

Krystal flipped to a soccer game.

Krystal flipped to two women fawning over a gadget that looked like a combination ice cream churn/bullet loader. The woman on the left had long platinum hair, a generous décolletage in which nestled an enormous emerald, and wore a sleeveless gold lamé dress. She was somewhere between thirty and sixty. The other woman, a buxom brunette, wore a form-hugging sweater and a black pleated skirt that rode up her thigh as she crossed her legs. Her elegant fingers rested on the device between them.

“I’m telling you girls you cannot live without the Perkiset. It brews coffee, processes food, and opens cans. It does the job of a half dozen other appliances. You can even toast bread in it.”

“Muriel is so right,” the blonde said. “Once you have one, you’ll wonder how you ever got along without one. And it’s only available here, on Purchamerch.”

Krystal changed the channel. A gorgeous redhead in a yellow sundress stood before the Florida Lottery Logo, including Megamillions, Gold Rush, Cash4Life, Jackpot, and Powerball flashed her chiclets. “As of today, no one has claimed Tuesday’s Scratch Off Prize, which is now up to seven million five hundred thousand dollars. The number is four, one, two, one, zero, four, nine, four, five. That number is up on our website.”

As if in a dream, Gary reached for his Scratch Off ticket.

SIXTEEN

MONEY IN POCKET

Friday morning, Gary appeared at the Florida Lottery District Office in West Palm Beach where he turned the signed ticket over. A lottery official told him it would take twenty-four hours to process the ticket, and then they would electronically deposit the funds in his bank account.

“Make sure you save the paperwork, because Uncle Sam will want his cut. And congratulations. I hope you enjoy your winnings.”

Outside the office, Gary leaped in the air and clicked his heels together three times. “WOOO!”

He took Krystal’s hand and they skipped like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz back toward Gary’s truck.

“Looks like our luck is finally changing,” Gary said, heading west toward Turpentine.

Krystal slid over and squeezed his arm. “Can we move out of the trailer?”

“That’s the plan. I got my eye on some nice properties in Hendry. And I still got to collect from Habib for the photos!”

“Gimme some money!”

“No. You’ll just spend it on meth.”

“I won’t, I promise!”

“Krystal, you know you got a problem. And when you got a problem, I got a problem. Ain’t neither of us need that problem so the answer is no. I’ll give you twenty so you can get something to eat.”

“What the fuck? All of a sudden you’re a millionaire, and you won’t give me a couple hunnert bucks?”

“I ain’t got the money! Not yet! My credit’s shit! I owe six thousand dollars on my Visa bill!”

“Show ’em the fucking papers! They’ll change their tune.”

“You prove to me you can keep your nose clean for a week. Howzat? Then I’ll give you some money.”

“You’re so mean!”

“You prove you can stay clean for a week and I’ll buy you a new car!”

“Really?”

“I ain’t no bullshitter. You know that, Krystal.”

She slid back and threw her arms around him, causing him to swerve into the oncoming lane. He jerked back just in time to avoid a head-on collision with another pick-up. The dude honked at him and stuck the finger out his window.

“Jesus, Krystal! You nearly got us killed!”

“Baby, you take me right home. I’m going to fuck you silly.”

At two p.m. Gary pulled into the Law Offices of Habib Rodriguez. He carried a manila envelope with his prize documents. The waiting room held a half dozen prospective clients including a middle-aged Mexican couple cradling a pit bull, a hairless dude in Hodaddies and a Hawaiian shirt, who grinned with a blank stare, a morbidly obese woman in a red wig, a man in blue work shirt and Renk seed cap and his daughter, a sullen gum-chewing teenager with exposed midriff.

Gary went up to Brenda the receptionist, a stunning Latina brunette.

“Brenda.”

She looked up with a million-dollar smile. “Mister Duba, Mister Rodriguez will be with you in a minute.”

Gary sat in one of the cheap steel folding chairs and shuffled through a meager selection of magazines: Lake Okeechobee News, Glade County Realty, Sunset, and Modern Poultry.

Flipping through Glade County Realtor, he circled likely prospects.

A window looked out on the highway, blinds down but open to permit light. None of the chairs matched. The father and daughter sat on a bright brown and yellow plaid sofa. You could play checkers on the black and white linoleum floor. The wall behind Brenda held a Leroy Neiman print of trotters at Hialeah Park. Gary recognized the frame from Hobby Lobby.

Habib’s office door opened. A frazzled redhead came out, then Habib.

“Come in, Gary.”

The Mexican with the pit bull looked like he was going to say something, but Habib shot him a look. Habib had wrestled in college and tried out for the Falcons. He wore a sleek, navy blue suit that draped his body like a well-dressed walrus.

Gary followed Habib into his office and shut the door. Habib brought up the images on his desktop. He put on horn-rimmed glasses. He took off the glasses. He faced front, hands neatly folded.

“Good enough. I’ll have Brenda draw you up a check for five hundred dollars.”

“Could you make it a thou?”

“Why?”

“I had to fight a fucking six-foot four transvestite! Look at my lip!”

“That pleases me no end. All right. I’ll make it a thou.”

“Whaddaya think, hoss? Think I could be a private eye?”

Habib smiled. “Gary, you never cease to amaze me! Universities now offer that as a four-year program. You have to obtain a state license which involves a written test and scrupulous background check. Licensed private investigators are agents of the court, no less than lawyers.”

“Is that a no?”

Habib smiled.

“Listen. I’ve decided to pop the question. You can marry us, right?”

“What brought this on?”

Gary handed Habib his award certificate.

“Holy fuck,” the lawyer said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, sure, I can perform the ceremony. When’s it gonna be?”

“Let’s make it next Friday. I’ll throw a party. I’ll hire a band.”

“Where?”

“I’ll rent out Thorson’s.”

Thorson’s was a popular C&W joint with a mechanical alligator.

Brenda knocked and opened the door. “Mister Rodriguez, your two-thirty is here.”

“Thank you, Brenda.”

Gary and Habib shook hands.

As he stood in line at the bank Gary checked his messages.

Sherri Lee Clip wrote, “Hi.”

Kitty Flawless wrote, “I see your profile and think we make great friends please answer me back.”

There was an urgent message from the widow of General Akbar Al Bakbar of Tunisia asking for his bank account so that she could send him ten million dollars.

At the window Gary faced off with a dimpled dot Indian clerk named Iva.

“How can I help you?”

Gary showed her the Lottery statement. “I’d like to open a line of credit.”

Iva oohed and ohed. “Wait right here, Mister Duba.”

Minutes later, the Cuban manager appeared, a dapper man in a gray banker’s suit with a narrow burgundy tie, his gray/black hair slicked back like a thirties movie star.

“Mister Duba, I’m Jaime Stevenson. Please come into my office.”

Stevenson’s office contained a framed photo of his pretty wife and two teenage children. The window overlooked a parking lot. Stevenson sat behind his desk and looked at the statement.

“First of all, congratulations! I see you’ve been banking with us for five years.”

“Yassir.”

“Have you thought what you’re going to do with your winnings? You may wish to place some of them in an interest-bearing account or certificate of deposit.”

“Wahl, we’ll see about that. Right now, I’d just like some credit.”

With ten hundred-dollar bills in his wallet, Gary skipped out of the bank with some temporary checks on which he could draw up to five hundred thousand dollars. He’d taken out a new credit card with a million-dollar limit. It would arrive shortly.

When he got to his truck, he phoned Krystal.

“Babe, let’s pick you out a ring.”

SEVENTEEN

TIT FOR TAT

They chose a French-set Halo from Jared for fourteen thousand and thirty-seven dollars. Krystal walked out of the jewelry store in the Turpentine Mall holding her hand aloft for all to see.

“I’m famished,” she declared as they approached the food court, a large circle surrounded by Chick-Fil-A, Arby’s, Hardee’s, Taco John, Panda Express and Sicilio’s Pizza beneath a stained-glass dome depicting Ponce de Leon first stepping onto Florida soil. Krystal grabbed a circular table while Gary scored two chicken sandwiches.

Skate punks rolled through the tiled court drowning out the muzak.

“You need to compile a list of wedding guests,” Gary said. “I’m thinkin’ of hiring a band. Who should I get?”

“Elderberry!”

Gary shot a finger. “Bingo.”

A skateboard shot out from beneath four hundred and fifty-dollar sneakers and went airborne, striking a skater in the thigh. The offending board punk wore a pea coat and had fashioned his hair into a purple ten-inch coxcomb arcing over his pierced and tatted face. The strikee was a black boy built like a praying mantis, all legs and gangly arms, wearing a gray hoodie, and gray sweatpants with a red stripe.

“YO MOFO,” called the strikee.

“What up, dog?” replied the striker.

Without preamble they came together like two battling robots, swinging their boards like Knights Templar. A board sailed loose like the silver surfer, bounding over Sicilio’s Pizza counter and striking a Latino cook in the chest. Young and old gathered to film. It was better than Jerry Springer. It was better than The Bachelor. With a shrill whistle, mall security arrived, a mesomorph with a hairline mustache and a police academy flunkee in a buzzcut.

Gary and Krystal stopped at Thorsons on Twenty-Seven on the way home. Thorson’s was a free-standing faux Alamo with viga poles, that in a previous life been a Mexican restaurant. The marquee by the door advertised Serene Green, Country Fiddlers, and Hank Williams III.

The present owner was an old biker named Pete. Gary reserved the venue for Sunday, August 14, and left a hundred-dollar deposit.

“Let’s get shit-faced and get matching tats!” Krystal gushed.

Fortunately, Thorson’s was two doors down from Wirtz Tattoo, run by a hairy biker named Nate Wirtz. His motto: What’s the wirtz that can happen? Pete served them three boiler makers apiece. They were professionally shit-faced. Pete made Gary give him the truck keys before turning them loose on Nate. It was five pm as they stumbled down the crumbled concrete to Wirtz. Two chops lounged in front of the former Standard Oil Station, its glassy front office converted into a tattoo parlor, its garage now housing a half dozen chops in various states of undress.

A ’57 Panhead with an elongated front fork and teardrop tank on which Wirtz had painted a spectacular Lady Death sat in the front window framed by four signs. BEWARE OF DOG. TATS FOR TITS. SPEAK MURICAN, DAMN YE. MOLON LABE.

Inside, Wirtz bent over a young Latina with gleaming black hair, wearing Daisy Dukes and a man’s shirt tied over her taut midriff. He didn’t look up as Gary and Krystal entered.

“Have a seat! Have a beer. I’ll be right witcha.”

Wirtz was finishing up a spot-on Betty Boop. Marijuana scent entered from the garage, from which the boom box blasted Jason & the Scorchers. Wirtz admired his work, cleaned it with an alcohol swab.

“You’re good to go.”

The girl got up, admired herself in a floor-length mirror, and squealed.

Wirtz rotated on his swivel-topped mechanic’s stool. “Whaddaya need?”

“We want matching tats. He wants Pepe LePew holding a flag that says ‘Krystal.’ That’s me. I want Fifi La Fume waving a flag that says Gary.”

“Who’s Fifi La Fume.”

“Pepe Le Pew’s girlfriend. I thought everybody knew that.”

Wirtz rolled to his computer and brought up Fifi La Fume. She was pink, with white stripes and quite attractive, for a skunk. He printed it off. He brought over a big book of tats and they discussed size, location, colors. Gary’s arms were pretty much taken but he had a place on his chest.

Gary sat in the chair. Wirtz produced a bottle of Buffalo Trace and three Harley shot glasses.

“Libation?”

“Can you ink while you’re drinking?” Gary said. “You gotta nail Sam. You can’t go wobbly and give me something looks like it was drawn by a kid.”

Wirtz stared at him with deep-set blue eyes.

“Okay, okay, go ahead.”

They downed the shots and Wirtz went to work while George Jones sang “Bartender’s Blues”.

When he was done, Wirtz wiped it off with an alcohol swab and held up a mirror.

“Nailed it,” Gary said. It was Krystal’s turn.

Wirtz eyed her thigh. “Who did these cover-ups?”

“Those aren’t cover-ups! That’s the original design.”

Wirtz cloaked his mirth.

On the way home they paused just past the trailer park to allow a gator to cross the road. At the turn-off, someone had dumped two bald tires, a trash bag filled with shit that was now blowing in the breeze, and an old water heater.

“Motherfucking cocksucker!” Gary said. “That’s the third time this year!”

“Maybe you should put up a camera, find out who did this. Then we’ll gather it up and dump it back in their yard.”

Gary turned on to his own rutted driveway. “Don’t worry about it. We’re moving. Just as soon as I find the right place.”

They went inside. Gary cranked up the AC.

“I’m starving,” Krystal said. “What’s there to eat around this place?”

“Go look.”

Krystal went into the kitchen and opened the freezer. There were some desiccated breakfast burritos and two cans of frozen orange juice. The refrigerator contained green slime in a plastic container, a box of baking soda, and a bottle of beer.

“Ain’t shit!” she sang.

“I’ll order a pizza.”

“They ain’t comin’ out here for no five-dollar tip!”

“They will for fifty.”

Gary phoned the Blackjack in Turpentine and ordered an extra-large with pepperoni, ham, and mushrooms. Krystal found a bottle of Jack in the cupboard and they got shit-faced. The pizza arrived forty-five minutes later. The delivery man banged on the door for five minutes then left in disgust.

EIGHTEEN

A BEAUTIFUL CEREMONY

Krystal went crazy at the Party Store, decorating Thorsons with helium balloons, a banner that said CONGRATULATIONS KRYSTAL AND GARY, crepe paper, centerpieces with plastic dinosaurs, party hats and whistles. Bullard Bakery provided the three-tier wedding cake, decorated with green alligators on the sides and Jed and Ellie Mae action figures on top.

First to arrive were Elderberry, four dudes who lived on the same dead-end street in Palm Beach Gardens, all veterans of bands, all skilled musicians, all with regular jobs. They unpacked amps, drums, guitars, keyboard, and banjo and set up on Thorson’s small stage at one end of the long room in front of a wedding banner.

Next came the caterer TexMex Lunch in an ancient van spewing volcanic clouds of gray smoke that quickly dissipated. TexMex was Maria Fuentes and her son Roberto, who set up buffet tables and began hauling in steel tureens. Guests began arriving at noon, including Krystal’s two bridesmaids, Jen and Barb. Jen was a tall redhead, hair done up in a regal wave, a blue dolphin leaping off her right breast, wearing an emerald green dress and high heel boots. Barb was a statuesque bottle blonde with a serious tan, bobbed hair, ruby lips and brown eyes. The girls made frequent trips to the ladies’ room and brought their own flasks.

Trixie arrived with her boyfriend Stanton, a wizened homunculus with a potato nose and red skin, wearing an ancient cowboy suit with yoked breast, mother of pearl buttons, and a beige Stetson. Floyd arrived on his Fat Boy, in jeans, hand-tooled boots, saucer-sized belt buckle depicting a leaping marlin in silver, plaid shirt, and leather vest, hoping to score with either Jen or Barb.

Patrice arrived in a diesel Volkswagen with Bjorn Borklund, a Swedish flight steward for United. Patrice hefted a plastic tub filled with firecrackers, rockets, and Roman candles.

“Is tradition in the islands, mon. We toast the newlyweds with fireworks.”

By one, the parking lot was jammed. Gary and Krystal had to park in the weeds beyond the pavement next to a drainage ditch. Gary wondered whether he should strap on the Taurus in the glove compartment, in case they had to battle alligators to get to their vehicle.

Gary wore a sky-blue leisure suit, his hair slicked back, amber aviator’s glasses, and cowboy boots decorated with red roses and green cacti. Krystal wore a diaphanous, form-hugging dress that was little more than a cotton doily showing vast amounts of skin, tats shining through like signals from a distant galaxy. They waited outside on the deck.

Krystal joined her pals in the ladies’ room.

Presents piled up on a table opposite the bandstand. Big white rectangles with gold ribbons, gay bespoke wine bags, envelopes.

Gary wouldn’t mind a boost himself. He eyed the crowd, settling on El Cheapo, Diego Albuquerque, a transplanted Columbian and one-time low-level cartel stooge, who claimed to be a professional gambler. El Cheapo was notoriously tight with the nickel. You could find him most Saturdays and Sundays at Hialeah or Gulfstream Park, where he sold a little blow on the side.

“Diego!”

El Cheapo turned toward him beaming, arms outstretched. “Mi hermano!” They embraced El Cheapo wore an expensive gray track suit with crimson stripes and carried a pound of gold around his neck, rubbing his hair chest. He was five-feet six and built like a sumo, with a thick, dense pompadour of black hair and a caterpillar mustache, smelling of citrus and peppers.

Gary ran his finger under his nose. “Got a picker upper?”

“Come with me, my friend.”

They repaired to El Cheapo’s Cherokee and did a couple lines. When they got back, the guests had assembled in the main room where Habib stood beneath a wedding bower decorated with lilies, wearing an undertaker’s suit.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Habib boomed. “Here comes the groom. Where’s the blushing bride?”

Krystal emerged giggling from the women’s room with her cohorts and took her place, backed by Jen, Barb, and Trixie. Floyd and Patrice formed up next to Gary.

Habib consulted his notes. “Gary, you have something to say?”

Gary cleared his throat. “I never thought I would ever meet my soul mate! When it comes to girls, I was about as clueless as a pig in a whorehouse. I think I done trashed every relationship I was ever in, or she did, and I’ve been fired from every job I ever had, ’cept for Floyd here, but I sure lucked out when this here gal shoved her shopping cart into the side of my F-150 at Walmart. I think I still got the dent! That there dent’s a reminder of the luckiest day of my life, the day I met my soul mate, Krystal.”

The ladies reached for tissue. Habib turned to Krystal.

“My love, (SNORK!)...you are the ideal man. Ever since I saw you yelling at me in that parking lot, I knew you were the guy for me and you have not let me down. Every time I needed someone, you were there, like last week when you bailed me out of jail, and I want to explain, the only reason I took my clothes off was because that fucking Waffle House was infested with palmetto bugs, and one of them got in my shirt! They knew I was gonna put that shit on Facebook, and that’s the only reason I was arrested. And I never licked the manager. I stuck my tongue out at him and he lunged at me.”

“WHOO!” Jen said.

“You go, girl!” Barb said.

Habib recited the required words to which each participant responded, “I do.”

Habib put their hands together. “By the power invested in me, ’neath a bower infested with fleas, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Gary bent Krystal back in a salacious lip lock, hands gliding over her firm buttocks.

Elderberry broke into “I Knew the Bride When She Used To Rock and Roll.” Guests slid back the chairs and boogied. They did the Texas two-step, the frug, the monkey, the dirty boogie, the mashed potato, the backpack, the bloc boy, the macarena and the floss. Sixty people rotated from buffet, to the tables, to the restrooms, to the dance floor and back again.

A string of firecrackers erupted sending El Cheapo to the floor. Others laughed and pointed as two men aimed bottle rockets at one another with empty beer bottles, lighting them with their cigarettes. Bottle rockets careened off the walls and blew up helium balloons. The proprietor, an old biker named Wally Mathis, grabbed Gary by the throat.

“You get control of your guests or omma throw them out on their ass.”

Gary shimmied through the mob to where the two men now faced each other with Roman candles protruding through their unzipped pants.

“Huey! Brad! What the fuck are you doing? Take it outside!”

Huey, all sticks and knobs in blue jeans and Hawaiian shirt waved a cigar. “This motherfucker says I don’t have the nerve! I’ll show you nerve, you motherfuckin’ cunt!”

Huey stoked his cigar to a warm glow and touched the fuse protruding from his pants.

NINETEEN

UP THE FALLS

The first fireball erupted from Huey’s pants with an incoming whistle, soaring past Brad’s head and landing behind the bar where the bartender stamped it out. The second landed in a trash can against the wall igniting used paper plates and cups. In an instant, the flaming garbage can spread to the crepe banners, which spread to the ceiling.

“AIEEEEEEEEE...UNG! UNG! UNG!” Huey cried, his pants aflame, as he ran for the exit.

Men shouted. Women screamed. They flowed out of Thorson’s into the parking lots, stumbling, shrieking, carrying their drinks. The flames spread quickly, consuming the entire building as the wedding guests retreated and stared in horror.

Wally Mathis was so mad he was spitting. He shoved Gary, who fell on his ass. Gary got up and they traded hands. Gary connected with an overhand right that whipped Mathis’ head, but Mathis came back with a monstrous right hook cracking a rib. Guests separated them.

Mathis was crimson. “I’m suing you for every dime you have!”

Habib got between them. “Did Gary sign a liability document?”

“You can sue Huey Gunderson! He’s the motherfucker started the fire!”

Patrice and Bjorn drove away as the firetrucks arrived, followed by the police.

The wedding gifts had turned to ash. Turned out the only person Mathis could sue was Huey Gunderson, and he couldn’t sue Huey because Huey had run to the drainage ditch in back of the bar to douse the fire, threw himself in the water, and was eaten by an alligator which dragged his body into the swamp. Only his hat remained.

The next morning Gary and Krystal flew from Palm Beach to Negril, boarded a bus where they were plied with drinks, and arrived at Sandals Royal Caribbean on the north shore. They showered, made love, and strolled the broad pristine beach on which beach boys with dazzling smiles offered them sailing lessons, parasailing, snorkeling, and water skiing. The beach was a thousand feet long, bordered on the east and west by a hurricane fence festooned with charms and ribbons beyond which clamored a mass of miscellaneous merchants hawking everything from Bob Marley paraphernalia to cocaine at sixty dollars a gram.

At Sandals, everything was included in one price. Drinks, food, parasailing, the works. Only the drugs cost extra. They ate outside at Eleanor’s, one of eight restaurants. They had the seafood ceviche, snapper, shrimp, calamari, bell peppers, cilantro and lime served on faux British colonial china. Gary ordered the Blue Mountain coffee-rubbed strip loin with creamy mashed potatoes, market vegetables and Cabernet reduction, while Krystal ordered the pan-seared snapper with Scotch bonnet lime broth, black mussels, carrots, leeks, and boiled potatoes.

They stayed up until three in the morning snorting coke and watching Mexican soap opera.

Wednesday afternoon Gary and Krystal lounged by one of the big pools where members of the Brockton, Massachusetts Fire Department, most resembling Chippendale dancers, also held sway. After consuming a quarter gram of cocaine and four Long Island ice teas, Gary elected to cannonball the pool, drenching several firefighters and their wives and girlfriends sitting nearby.

“I’m so sorry,” Krystal explained. “He’s drunk.”

A firefighter said, “No worries. And if you’re going to the falls, steer clear of the transvestite with the burro.”

That evening they dined at the Jerk Shack, comforting dishes served steps away from the Caribbean Sea.

On Thursday, they signed up for the Konoko Falls Rainforest Trek, joining a dozen other vacationers in an old jitney that took them west toward Margaritaville, where they turned south toward Shaw Park Botanical Gardens. The parking lot, shaded by palm trees, was chock-a-block with rentals and buses from other resorts. A hurricane fence surrounded the property, beyond which the locals clustered selling everything from Toots and the Maytals shirts to fine Columbian blow. Eager guides, some wearing multicolored knit caps, descended. Each resort had a deal with a different set of guides. Gary’s and Krystal’s guide was a gangly youth with a gorgeous smile, wearing baggie shorts, sandals, and a Dred Zeppelin shirt.

“Greetings, my friends, and welcome to Konoko Falls. I am Jason, and I will be your guide today. Please watch your footing as the falls can be slippery, and do not stray far from our group. You will have much opportunity to take pictures, and I urge you all to visit the restrooms now, as defecating in the river is frowned upon.”

“Can we smoke ganja?” asked a vacationer from Connecticut.

Jason grinned. “This is Jamaica, mon. You do what you like.”

They marched up a set of broad, natural rock stairs down which the river flowed, passing other groups returning. Jason pointed out the colorful foliage and exotic birds with historical notes.

“On this spot in in 1954, Sir Ian Fleming, creator of James Bond, slipped and suffered a fractured wrist.”

The river leveled out for a hundred feet surrounded by smooth stone steps rising into the forest. A natural level platform on the west housed several souvenir huts selling shirts, sandals, hats, juice, grilled lizards, and beer. Nearby stood a brown Buddha wearing a polka dot pink and white tutu and his burro, on which sat a laughing little girl as her parents took a picture. The burro was dyed black, green and red and wore a knit cap of the same color, with holes for the ears.

When she was done, the Buddha lifted her down and turned to the visitors.

“Who is next? Who would like to be photographed with me, Ernesto Xavier, and my famous magic burro Chiquita? Who among you? Who?”

With a girlish squeal Krystal bound forward waving her arm.

Gary stared. “What the fuck?”

She arrived at the burro whose back was a mere forty inches above the ground. Ernesto Xavier gripped her beneath her arms and placed her on the burro as if he were setting a table.

“And who is taking the picture?”

Gary reluctantly held up his phone.

“Wait, wait,” the Buddha said, moving around behind so that he could be in the picture. His left hand casually draped over Krystal’s shoulder and rested on her breast. Krystal brushed it off. The hand resumed position. Gary froze.

Krystal jumped off the burro. “Forget it, creep!”

As she and Gary started to walk away, Ernesto Xavier pursued them.

“Wait. Wait. That is ten dollars you owe me for the photo.”

“I didn’t take no fuckin’ photo, you fuckin’ perv!”

Ernesto Xavier got in Gary’s face. “You cannot abuse me like this. You white people think you can just come down here and treat us like we were still your slaves, well Ernesto Xavier is not having it.”

A crowd formed around them, tourists eagerly recording the historic event.

One of the vendors cried, “Pay the mon!”

Jason came toward them with a worried expression.

“Fuck off!” Gary said, turning to go.

Ernesto Xavier grabbed him by the arm. Wappo! Gary turned and slugged the Buddha in the kisser, sending him down on his broad ass.

The burro heehawed, put its head down, and galloped, butting Gary in the breadbasket and sending him onto his butt. Jason remonstrated with Ernesto Xavier.

“You cannot harass my tourists. You cannot charge him for a picture he didn’t take. I have warned you about this before, Ernesto.”

Ernesto got to his feet. “How is an honest man to make a living then?”

Two park police arrived wearing Navy blue shorts and light blue short-sleeved shirts with epaulets, and crisp black brimmed hats. They huddled with Ernesto Xavier, then with Jason, and finally with Gary and Krystal. Back and forth they went. Finally, one of the police, who looked like he was about nineteen, held out his hand.

“Okay, here is the deal. Ernesto is willing to forget about this incident for twenty dollars.”

“Are you shittin’ me?” Gary said. “I never even took a fuckin’ picture!”

“Nevertheless, you will go home, and Ernesto will remain here trying to make a living. Otherwise, we will have to bring you both to police headquarters in Negril and question you for several hours. Also, you must pay us a twenty-dollar mediation fee.”

“What?”

Krystal kicked Gary savagely in the shins. Jason whispered in his ear. “This is a good deal. You should take it.”

Cursing softly under his breath, Gary reached for his wallet.

TWENTY

PARADISE LOST

Back at the resort, Gary and Krystal continued to snort coke and drink until Gary decided to catch and grill his own iguana. How hard could it be? Everybody was doing it, and the iguanas were everywhere. They would be easy to catch in the morning, before it got too hot but where would he find them?

Fingering a monster doobie, Krystal inhaled on the bed, crossed her legs Indian style, placed her palms together and said, “I will pray to the goddess Gaia to guide you in your search for the iguana.”

Gary gave her a thumb’s up. “Sounds good.”

She passed Gary the doobie. “This ganja is so much better than what we get in Miami.”

“Yeah, I don’t like to buy that Mexican shit. They lace it with paraquat and fuck knows what all. I sure would like to take an ounce of this shit back with us. Maybe you could hide it in your vagina.”

Krystal held up the package of rolling papers they’d brought. “Look at this package of Zig-Zags. Jesus smoking a joint. If that ain’t proof God intended us to get high, I don’t know what is.”

“This is sure as shit God’s own reefer.”

He didn’t wake from his Valium induced sleep until noon Friday, but quickly brought himself up to speed with rum and blow. Looking out onto their private patio, he spotted the fat yellow lizard sunning itself on the stucco wall. A seasoned gator hunter, Gary left their unit by the front door and crept around the house keeping to the meticulously tended shrubbery until he lurked five feet from the animal, armed with a stout club.

As Toots and the Maytals drifted upward from the beach, Gary exploded from the bushes, ran forward and clubbed the lizard across the head, killing it in one blow. What a beaut! Had to weigh five pounds. Holding the dead lizard by the tail, Gary entered through the open patio door and tossed the beast in Krystal’s lap, where she sat Indian style texting and scrolling.

“YEEK!”

“Skin it. We’re havin’ iguana for dinner.”

Krystal picked it up by the tail, twirled it around her head and released it. With reflexes born of too much coke, Gary caught it in his left hand with the sound of a baseball hitting the catcher’s glove.

“Fuck you, Charlie Brown! You caught it you skin it!”

“You’re about plum worthless, you know that?”

“Oh yeah? You tell me that the next time you want some pussy.”

“Well why don’t you just go off with Mario the cabana boy? I seen you makin’ eyes at him.”

“Is that what you think of me? That I’d go to bed with a Jamaican?”

Gary rethought his position. “Look here. If I prepare it, will you eat it?”

“Is that all you’re gonna serve? Just the iguana? No jerk sauce or salad?”

“Look here. I caught it, I’ll skin it, and I’ll cook it, but you got to bring something to the party. Why don’t you take your sweet ass over to one of those restaurants and get us a big platter of greens to grow. Salad, rice and beans, jerk sauce, you know the drill.”

“How you gonna grill it?”

“Omma go buy me a grill and some charcoal from those dudes on the beach.”

When Gary explained what he wanted, the dudes on the beach were only too happy to oblige. They told him to meet them back at the wall in one hour and they would have everything. One hour later, they passed over a table-top Weber, a bag of charcoal, a flensing knife, and a gram of fine Columbian cocaine, all for the low, low price of two hundred dollars.

When Gary returned to his cabana, Krystal had procured the salads, side dishes, and two bottles of Ron Rico. Gary set to work on the patio, gutting and cutting up the iguana, leaving the head intact as he’d been taught by his father.

“You wanna leave the head on the fish so you know what you’re eatin’.”

Soon, the not so heavenly aroma, fish-like, in fact, of grilling iguana wafted among the cabanas. Krystal set the patio table with silverware borrowed from the resort and they sat down to eat. They had hardly taken their first bite of grilled iguana when there was a knock on the door.

Gary found Assistant Manager Leotis Harrison waiting politely, wearing crisp white trousers and a blue blazer with gold buttons, the Sandals logo emblazoned on his chest.

“Yes, Mister Duba, I am very sorry to bother to you, but we are receiving complaints that you are cooking. Perhaps you did not read all the rules, but it is forbidden for you to cook in the patio. That is why we have provided eight restaurants.”

“I’m sorry about that, Mister Harrison. We won’t do it again. I just wanted to sample some of the local game in my own way. I’m a hunter and fisher from way back. When I was growin’ up, half what we ate came out the swamp.”

“What is it you are cooking, if I may ask? The local markets can be unreliable when it comes to hygiene.”

“Come on back! Try it for yourself!”

Gary held the door as Harrison walked through the airy living room out the open patio door to where Krystal stood to greet him.

“Hi! You want some rum and a line?”

Harrison froze at the edge of the patio and stared at the room service platter which occupied the center of the table.

“Dear God,” he said.

“Yup, that’s one prime iguana! Tastes just like chicken.”

Harrison took a step toward the table. “My God. That is a Jamaican iguana. They are on the endangered species list. Only three hundred are believed to exist.”

“No shit. Well I guess they’re down to two hundred and ninety-nine now.”

“Mister Duba, this is very serious. We at Sandals are committed to the Jamaican ecosystem and preserving our biosphere. I must ask you to stop cooking right now. Do not take another bite. I am afraid there will be very serious repercussions. Wait here. The manager will be in touch with you shortly.”

An hour later they were ordered to pack their bags and leave, the first couple ever evicted from Sandals.

TWENTY-ONE

GAME DAY

Tired of the cookie-cutter contemporary homes ubiquitous to today's housing market? Magnificent Chateau Ami will steal your heart with its exquisite artisan details, European flair & craftsmanship. Inspired by the splendid chateaus of France, this lavish estate is a rare luxury retreat melding timeless architecture with finest 21st century comforts, conveniences & technologies. Sprawling entertaining spaces flow to the outdoor living room past the tennis courts & guest house, to the stunning pool & tranquil forest beyond. Extensive upgrades include breathtaking new landscape design, new interior/exterior paint, new electronics & 150kw whole house backup generator!

Set on 2.5 acres of premier lakefront, this sprawling oasis is the crème de la crème in prestigious Turpentine Ranch! Your search is over! If you've grown tired of the cookie-cutter, all white and stainless contemporary homes ubiquitous to today's housing market, come see this magnificent estate with exquisite artisan details and European flair and craftsmanship. Inspired by the splendid and romantic chateaus of France, this lavish estate is an extraordinary luxury retreat melding European sophistication with timeless architecture, while offering everything the 21st century has available in convenience, comfort and technology. The ornate automatic gates open to welcome you to the home of your dreams. Sprawling entertaining spaces flow to the outdoor living room, past the tennis courts and guest house to the stunning pool with a programmable color fiber optic lighting system, and the tranquil forest beyond. Upgrades include, but are not limited to, breathtaking new landscape design, new interior/exterior paint, new electronics, and a 150kw generator capable of powering the entire home!

Renowned architect Randolf Stofft & Cudmore builders have created a masterpiece of meticulous design and craftsmanship, featuring rare custom amenities including inlayed onyx, hand-planed hickory wood floors, intricate hand-painted ceilings (with a 30 ft dome in the grand entrance hall), custom crown moldings, arched windows & doors, a hand-carved fireplace by Barbara Tattersfield, onyx, granite and marble flooring & countertops, gorgeous crystal chandeliers, and an opulent iron stair railing leading to the upstairs. The entire home is customized with intricate 24k gold leaf design elements on the walls and ceilings. You will also appreciate the floor-to-ceiling custom wood built-ins, custom bar in the study/library, huge walk-in wine cellar (BYOB), and private elevator to transport you to the 2nd floor where you can sip that wine and enjoy a good book in the reading nook that peers out to the stars above.

With fresh paint inside and out, and the tennis courts resurfaced, no detail has gone untended. Additional upgrades include all new electronics, a new pool and pool equipment, and a 2nd backup generator ensuring backup power in the event of an outage. Entertain elaborately in the dramatic living room with coffered ceilings, regal formal dining room and large family room with vaulted wood ceilings. Hand-painted rare hickory wood floors in the family room and kitchen afford an inviting French country feel. The chef's dream kitchen is equipped with 3 Wolf ovens, 2 dishwashers, a built-in Miele espresso maker and butler's pantry. The luxe master suite is indulgent with a sitting room, huge custom walk-in closets, his/her bath with steam showers and hers pink onyx bath & Jacuzzi, as well as an enormous chandeliered walk-in closet, newly painted with new floor covering. A fully equipped home theatre, gym, state of the art lighting system and security and music systems optimize comfort. The oversized pool & outdoor Jacuzzi, covered summer kitchen with wood ceiling, tennis court and putting green are perfect for outdoor recreation. A customized climate-controlled 4-car garage will satisfy even the most discerning car enthusiast. The whole estate has been meticulously maintained by a full-time housekeeper and property manager, making it move in ready. Guests and staff enjoy privacy in the separate guest house with a full kitchen and separate servant wing. Hurricane impact glass windows ensure protection from even the harshest weather.

Chateau Ami was the only house in Turpentine Acres, which was to have been an upscale gated neighborhood southwest of Turpentine. The brick pillars for the gate had been installed but not the gate itself. Chateau Ami was a spec house built by a fly-by-night developer named Soo Kim, who’d disappeared six months previously leaving the Central Bank of Florida holding the bag. Hence the cut-rate price of only five million dollars. Lakefront was a euphemism for swamp, the same swamp near which Gary’s trailer sat, some five miles away.

The first thing Gary did was to tether his new house to the earth with six massive steel cables, two over the main house, and two over each wing, anchored in concrete plugs sunk deep into the swampy ground.

The Dubas held a housewarming party on the Sunday following their eviction from paradise, inviting all their friends. Parked in the turn-around before the chateau’s grand front entrance was Gary’s new Bullitt Mustang, a trailer containing two new jet skis, and a new electric Harley Davidson which Gary bought on a whim while drunk. Parked on the lawn nearby was Gary’s new Lamborghini Urus, a bright yellow SUV capable of traversing the Baja peninsula. Visitors parked all over the capacious driveway and the broad concrete apron fronting the garage.

It was really a football party, as the Dolphins were playing the hated Jaguars at the Hard Rock Stadium. By ten-thirty, a dozen men and four women gathered in the spacious living room to watch the pregame show on the giant flat screen TV. El Cheapo sat front and center wearing a cobalt blue jump suit with gold stripes and five pounds of gold around his neck, hair pomaded to great heights, nine hundred-dollar Gucci Men’s Distressed sneakers on his feet, waving money.

“I got a thou says Roebuck’ll run over a hundred.”

“I’ll take that action,” Gary said, one arm on the mantle of the marble fireplace, over which rested a black velvet Steve Rude Elvis in a gilt frame. “Burnett’ll shut him down like an unlicensed taco stand.”

“No way Jose.”

“Who is this Roebuck?” Patrice said, reclining on a lounge wearing a crisp white Guayabera and flowing beige cotton slacks.

“Roebuck Simms is only the greatest running back in Miami history,” El Cheapo said. “He is Heisman trophy winner and set an all-time record for rushing yards at the University of Alabama.”

Jen and Barb giggled in the back row. Krystal had said there would be eligible bachelors. Jen and Barb surveyed the field. El Cheapo was okay if your taste ran to gangster shlock and you liked nose candy. Floyd was trailer trash and smelled like he’d been fermenting in Ax Body Spray. Habib was the catch of the day.

Jen leaned over. “Let’s hit the pool, girl.”

“Okay,” Barb replied.

All eyes were on them as they walked through the room toward the patio entrance in the rec room. As soon as they were out, Jen said, “I found a two-foot black dildo in Krystal’s closet.”

Barb’s laugh sounded like silver coins landing in your hand. “I gave her that, to make up for what she lost in the fire.”

“I don’t think she’ll need it. I find Gary kinda sexy.”

“He is, in a Dukes of Hazzard kind of way.”

Outside, they put on their sunglasses and tossed towels down on the chaise lounges and sat at the edge of the pool, dangling their slim legs in the clear blue water. An alligator eyed them from the mangrove swamp fifty feet across the perfect lawn.

TWENTY-TWO

GATOR IN THE POOL

Jen pulled out a pack of Carltons and offered one to Barb. Jen lit their cigarettes with a Bic and exhaled a luxuriant cloud of smoke. “Rhonda called me yesterday to see if I’d give her a ride to a wine tasting.”

Barb barked. “She’ll have consumed a bottle by the time you pick her up.”

“I said I couldn’t do it. I’m sick of Rhonda always calling me to give her rides, and she’s always late, and she always drinks too much, and then she has to call Hugh to come get her.”

“Poor Hugh.”

“That man is a saint.”

Jen gestured at the house, the lawn, everything. “Can you believe this shit? Well it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Krystal really lucked out with Gary. I hope she doesn’t blow it.” She took out her phone and did a slow video pan.

Barb laughed again. “That’s Krystal’s modus operandi.”

Jen gazed across the bright green glass and noticed a disturbance. “What’s that?” she said, pointing.

Barb peered. “What the fuck...RUN! IT’S A GATOR!”

Shrieking, the girls jumped up and ran toward the house. The gator slithered at lightning speed toward the pool, a saurian torpedo in the grass. As the girls ran inside screaming, the gator plopped into the pool.

Barb and Jen ran into the media room.

“THERE’S A FUCKING GATOR IN THE POOL!” Jen said.

Gary leaped to his feet. “You’re shittin’ me!”

“IT’S ENORMOUS!” Barb said.

Gary strode toward the rec room, in which he’d installed a vertical glass gun cabinet that held a Mossberg twelve gauge, a Remington .22 rifle, and a Sears .30 - 06, which he grabbed along with a box of ammo, loading it on the dining room table. El Cheapo reached beneath his shirt and removed a Colt .44 revolver. Floyd ran to his Harley and retrieved his .45 1911. Jack Hansen, whom Gary knew from roofing, ran outside to his truck to get his bolt-action to get his Savage Axis II. They all ran out to the patio where the gator swam, tail undulating in the crystal-clear water. The boys took up position around the pool and blasted away. Gouts of blood erupted from the hapless gator’s hide as it was struck numerous times.

“GOT THE SUMBITCH!”

“LOOK AT THAT FUCKER!”

“YA-HOOO!

“Yeeeeeeee-HA!”

The fusillade lasted several long seconds after which the boys held their guns staring into the darkening water as the gator bled out. Everyone was a little hard of hearing.

As Gary’s hearing returned, he heard this.

“Fuck me! I’ve been shot!”

It came from the house.

Tucking his rifle under his arm Gary went through the open patio door, through the rec room, across the hall to the media room where Patrice leaned forward on the sofa clutching his calf which oozed blood on the hardwood floor and a white carpet.

“Oh fuck, man!” Gary said. “I’m sorry! Wasn’t me! I had my back to the house.”

Krystal grabbed her new Coach purse. “Come on. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“No hospital, mon! I have no green card! Take me to Kildeer Veterinary.”

Krystal grinned. “What?”

“I am very serious! Doctor Kildeer is a good man. He knows how to treat puncture wounds.”

“All right. Can you walk? Let’s go.”

Krystal waited for Patrice to catch up. They got in Krystal’s new Ford Edge and drove down the perfect blacktop that was to have been the highway to a neighborhood of gazillionaires, but now served only one house. Blood seeped onto the floorboard.

Krystal stretched over the back of the front seat and snagged a towel which she handed to Patrice. “Don’t bleed on the seat.”

Patrice dutifully tucked the towel under his leg.

“How’d your operation go?”

“It is the first of three, and it went very smoothly. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you and Gary for paying my medical expenses. Otherwise it would have remained a dream.”

“Thank Gary. It was his idea.”

Patrice directed her to the far side of Turpentine, a busy commercial strip containing a full complement of fast food joints and a strip mall in which Kildeer Veterinary was sandwiched between a coin op laundry and Verizon outpost.

Krystal pulled into the parking lot. Patrice winced as she went over the curb.

“How do you know this Doctor Kildeer?”

“He takes care of my chiweenie, Fernando, I love him so much.”

They exited into the stifling heat and humidity and entered the veterinary with a hiss of its door piston, like stepping into a freezer. In the waiting room, an elderly man sat in a folding chair cradling a Jack Russell terrier. Two doors, one on either side of the counter opened into the back. Behind the counter sat a middle-aged woman in a baggy shirt, working at a computer, a pair of cat’s eye glasses with blue frames hanging on her ample bosom.

She looked up. “Patrice. What can I do for you?”

“Eleanor, I must see Doctor Kildeer as soon as possible on a personal matter.”

Eleanor couldn’t see his flesh wound from where she was sitting. “Please have a seat. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

They sat. The old man stared at the hole in Patrice’s leg. Patrice nodded at him.

“It’s just a flesh wound.”

The Jack Russell growled.

The décor consisted of the doctor’s framed certificate from Colorado State University School of Veterinary Sciences, and a framed print of six dogs sitting around a poker table holding their hands, with a spaniel wearing glasses looking over a weimaraner’s shoulder at the viewer, winking. The weimeraner held a straight flush in Diamonds.

A rear door opened and a young woman with pierced chin, tongue, and nose, wisteria vines crawling up her arm, exited with a spotted pig on a leash. She went to the counter.

“And how is Porque?” Eleanor asked.

“He’s in the pink, Eleanor. What do I owe?”

Eleanor told her and the woman handed over her credit card.

A young man in a brush cut, wearing a white lab coat appeared in the door.

“Is that Herman?”

The old man stood and went through the door, which shut behind him.

The door on the other side of the room opened and a man in his late forties, fit, lean, with gray short cut hair wearing a doctor’s coat came out. “Patrice. Come on back.”

Krystal followed. Kildeer shut the door and gestured to the sofa. Patrice sat.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Kildeer said.

“It was an accident. They were shooting at the gator. This is my friend Krystal.”

“How do you do, Krystal?” They shook hands.

Kildeer got down and examined the wound. “Well you’re lucky. It only grazed you and passed right through. Missed any important stuff. Now you’ve got a nice groove in your leg. Maybe when it heals, you can use it to hold a pencil. I’ll clean it and dress it, but the only antibiotics I have are for animals. Among those, the safest for humans is probably the amoxicillin. I’ll give you a supply of those, but really, I urge you to see a real doctor and get some human medication.”

“I can’t do that, Doctor. They will deport me.”

“I see.” Kildeer went to work cleaning and dressing the wound.

“That’s the best I can do. Wait here and I’ll get you five days’ worth. How’s Fernando?”

“Fernando is doing well, thank you Doctor Kildeer.”

Kildeer returned with the antibiotics. “Here you go. Eleanor has your bill. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Could I buy some horse tranquilizers?” Krystal said.

TWENTY-THREE

FWOOSH

The once limpid waters of the swimming pool roiled with gator blood, red at the source, changing to a queasy brown as it drifted toward the pumps. Gary, Floyd, and Habib regarded the dead reptile floating in the pool.

“That’s a ten-footer,” Floyd said.

“Got to weigh five hundred pounds,” Habib said. “You might be able to get some boots out of it. Too many holes for luggage.”

“I may get it stuffed,” Gary said. “But first, I’ve got to get it out of the pool.”

“Well fuck,” Floyd said. “Let’s tie a chain around it and drag it out.”

Gary pointed at him. “That there’s a good idea. I’ll get the Lambo.”

The Urus cost two-hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars, had all wheel drive and a six hundred and fifty horsepower four-liter V-8, weighed four thousand eight hundred and fifty pounds, boasted three TFT screens, and leather seats. It had been designed to cross the Sahara and pull gators from pools. Gary went into his four-car garage and rummaged through his cabinets and closets, securing fifty feet of steel cable, a can of WD40, a roll of duct tape, and a vise grips. It was the same cable he used to anchor his house to the earth, so it ought to be strong enough for a gator. He drove the yellow Urus around the house and backed it up to the shallow end of the pool, fastening the cable to the trailer hitch with a steel clamp.

Gary got out of the car. “Now, Floyd, you get down in there and fasten the other end around its neck. Here’s a cable clamp, duct tape and a vise grips.”

Floyd stared at him. “Fuck that. That ain’t my pool.”

“I didn’t hear you bitchin when I bought you a new van.”

Floyd stared and puffed, then peeled off his wife beater. He wore baggy cargo trou and sandals. “Gimme the fuckin’ shit.”

Floyd waded into the murky waters, grabbed the gator by the tail, and swung it slowly around to face him, like a recalcitrant compass. He fastened the cable around its neck, using the clamp to snag it tight, held up the OK sign with thumb and forefinger.

Gary said, “Okay, Habib, can you help him ease the gator up over the steps?”

“Where you gonna drag it?” Floyd asked from the water.

Gary pointed toward the jungle from whence the reptile came. “I’ll drag it back there and we’ll bury it in the weeds.”

“I thought you were gonna have it stuffed.”

“Nah. Look at it. It’s all scarred up and shit. Probably suffering from some parasites. I don’t need no stinkin’ gator stinkin’ up the house.”

With Habib and Floyd attending, Gary drove in first gear until the cable was taught. The Urus effortlessly dragged the monster lizard from the water as Gary made a wide turn toward the forest. He drove across the lawn, the reptile leaving a wide groove, until he was bumper to plant. The jungle sprang up ten feet, mostly palm trees, saw grass, mangrove, cypress and banana. Gary got out and looked.

“I don’t think I can drive through this shit. Omma burn a path.”

Habib and Floyd caught up. “Burn a path with what?”

Gary opened the Urus’ tailgate and pulled out a fat white and black cylinder with a pistol grip. It looked like a toy ray gun, or one of the Army’s new experimental particle beam weapons. THE BORING COMPANY was written on the side.

Gary stepped away, aimed the device at the plants, flicked a switch and pulled the trigger.

FWOOSH! A ten-foot gout of flame leaped out and began to devour the plants, which browned, shriveled and blackened within seconds.

“Holy shit!” Floyd exulted.

“Careful you don’t set the forest on fire,” Habib cautioned.

Gary blazed away, working the device side to side, clearing a path for the Urus. “Yeah, fat chance. It rained last night. All this shit is too wet to burn.”

“Where the fuck did you get that?” Floyd asked.

“Off the internet. Six hundred bucks. Same dude who makes that electric car, the Edison.”

Like a brave marine clearing the Okinawan caves of Japanese soldiers, Gary methodically worked his way into the jungle, flaming from side to side, wearing sunglasses. It was slow going. He had to stop and refuel the flamethrower from a can of compressed propane. Eventually he reached a bald spot where he was just able to drag the gator, with no more room for the Urus to proceed. He unchained the gator and turned the Urus around with a Y turn, running over the gator’s head in the process.

Parking the Urus facing back toward the house, he said, “Let’s dig that hole.”

Habib and Floyd looked at each other.

“With what?” Floyd asked. “Our hands?”

“Wait here.”

Gary drove to the garage, lifted the tailgate and loaded three spades and a pick-ax. He drove back across the rear lawn and carefully backed the 4X4 up his alley, stopped, opened the rear gate and handed out shovels.

After fifteen minutes of shoveling, they had only managed to penetrate six inches because water kept flooding back into the holes, and the ground was filled with tough, fibrous roots.

Floyd leaned on his shovel and dragged an arm across his forehead. “It’s too swampy. We’re gonna have to figure out something else.”

Habib had stripped to his pants revealing a pale white barrel. “Gary, you know it’s illegal for you to hunt or kill a gator without a license.”

Gary pulled out the flamethrower. “Fine. I’ll cook that sumbitch. When I’m done, it will fit in a shoebox.”

“Is that a good idea?” Habib said.

“Why the fuck not? It’s my land. It’s my gator. This baby reaches temperatures of over six hundred degrees.”

The boys stood around expectantly. This was better than nude female mud wrestling.

“Maybe you should douse it in charcoal fluid or something,” Floyd said.

Gary got back in the Urus. “Good idea.”

He returned with a gallon container of gasoline and doused the gator.

“Stand back, boys. This’ll singe your eyebrows.”

Habib and Floyd backed up on opposite sides of the gator, fifteen feet apart. Gary pulled the trigger.

FWOOSH went the gator.

FWOOSH went the clearing.

FWOOSH went the Urus.

FWOOSH went the forest.

“Run!” Gary yelled.

TWENTY-FOUR

IT’S WORKIN’!

The boys gathered on the patio to watch the conflagration. The Urus exploded, hurling beautiful shards of fine Corinthian leather, maple dashboard inserts, and fender parts hither and yon. The blast knocked Floyd into the pool where he shrieked, hauled himself out, and ran for the main house to shower, lest dead gator cooties infect his bloodstream.

Gary could only shake his head in wonder at nature’s mysterious ways. Well fuck. A black plume rose over the swamp.

“What the fuck!” Krystal called from the deck.

Fifteen minutes later, the sound of sirens filtered through the warm and humid air. A Turpentine ladder truck arrived with two police cars. The ladder truck drove across Gary’s once-pristine lawn and backed up to the swimming pool where two firemen deployed a fat intake tube.

A fireman wearing a yellow helmet, canvas trousers and thick suspenders over a T-shirt, and a porn star mustache turned to Gary. “Why’s the water all red and brown like that?”

“Ah, we’re still trying to figure out the ph.”

A police officer in a short-sleeved light brown shirt and TPD cap came up to Gary.

“What happened, Gary?”

Gary knew Officer Drake Garland from a previous arrest for disturbing the peace. He had only wanted to bring a little joy and happiness into the lives of those who dwelt in Turpentine. He had only wanted to share with them his deep love of Drowning Pool’s “When the Bodies Hit The Floor”. At midnight, on Main Street, with a bullhorn.

And for that he was unjustly fined two hundred and fifty dollars. But that was many moons ago and Gary was not the same person. Now he was a man of means.

“Officer Garland, I was clearing some scrub on my property with a flamethrower...”

“A flamethrower?” Garland was a solid five eight with a buzz cut. His utility belt creaked as he adjusted his position. The air was redolent of burning trash and the smell of burnt meat.

“Yes sir. It’s perfectly legal. Elon Musk makes them.”

“I see. I’m not certain your property extends beyond your lawn, which makes that patch of burning swamp the property of the county. I’m afraid I’m going to have to issue a summons.”

“You do what you gotta.”

“Maybe you oughtta stay away from matches for a while, know what I’m sayin’?”

Gary hung his head in shame. “That deal at Thorson’s, that wasn’t my fault.”

The firetruck had driven to the edge of the blaze, intake hose unraveling, where firefighters pumped pool water on the flaming weeds. It looked like a meteor had struck.

Garland wrote out a ticket. “Try to stay out of trouble, Gary. I’m happy for your luck.”

The cops departed. The fireman with the porn stache came over with a clipboard, “Sir, we’re going to have to bill you for our efforts. Please fill out these forms.”

Gary took the clipboard, filled in his personal information and handed it back. “Can I pay you now? I got cash.”

“No sir. First, we have to do a damage assessment study. We’ll send you a notice. Did you know you got a cooked gator back there?”

Gary’s eyebrows rose. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“No. You got a big one back there. Looks to be ten feet long.”

“You ever eat gator?”

The fireman smiled. “You have a good day, sir.”

Gary went into the house where Floyd and Habib sat in the rec room, drinks in hand, having showered and changed clothes. Floyd kept a fresh set in his saddlebags. Habib kept a fresh set in his trunk.

Gary poured himself four fingers of Buffalo Trace, added some ice, collapsed in a leather armchair and glugged. “How’s the game goin’?”

Floyd shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”

All the other guests had left when the sirens sounded, including El Cheapo.

Habib brought up his personal device. “Fourth quarter just started. Dolphins lead by three. Roebuck runs for one hundred and nine yards.”

“Shit!” Gary said.

Krystal came in wearing pedal pushers and a Not Lame T-shirt, red hair blazing, and sat on the arm of Gary’s chair.

“How’s Patrice?” Gary said.

“He’s fine. The veterinarian patched him up and when I got back here, he left with his friend.”

Gary bent over and rooted around under the chair, pulling out a smeared mirror.

“Fuck. We got any blow?”

“I was gonna ask El Cheapo,” Krystal said. “Shit.”

“Well fuck.”

Floyd and Habib rose.

“Later,” Floyd said.

Gary looked up. “Hey Habib. What’s happening with the cockfighting charge?”

Habib snorted in disgust. “Somebody snitched me out. Some informant. It’s not a problem. I was just a spectator. They got nothin’.”

“Yeah okay. Hasta, you guys.”

Seconds later, they heard Floyd rev up the Harley. Krystal dug in her purse and pulled out an amber vial. “Want a trank?”

“What kind of trank?”

“It’s a horse trank. I got ’em from Doctor Kildeer. I just did a quarter and I’m feeling fine.”

Gary held out his hand.

The next thing he knew it was the following morning and his face was glued to the floor as his cell phone played “Margaritaville”.

As he stretched for it on the coffee table, elephants stampeded through his skull. With a groan he rolled over on his back. “Yeah?”

“Is this Gary Duba?” said a crisp male voice.

“Who wants to know?”

“Mister Duba, this is Victory Collection Agency. You owe twelve thousand dollars on your VISA bill. If we have to garnish your wages, we will.”

“What wages?”

“Mister Duba, I’m curious. How did you blow through five million so fast?”

“Fuck you, that’s how.”

Gary ended the call. He phoned Habib and left a message with his secretary. In retrospect, perhaps he had been a bit profligate. He’d planned to invest in his house suspenders, but somehow, things got out of hand. A new van for Floyd. The Bullitt. Patrice’s operation. Jet skis. A new car for Krystal. The flamethrower. He looked in his wallet. He had five hundred-dollar bills and some change. He knew he was overdrawn at the bank.

The phone rang again, number unknown. He canceled the call.

Krystal handed him a beer. “Howzat horse trank workin’?”

“It’s workin’! I just hope I can get it up.”

Krystal drew her hand upward from his crotch. Little Gary leaped at her touch. “I never have to worry about that, baby. Let’s go upstairs.”

Gary felt woozy. He looked at the sofa. “Why?”

TWENTY-FIVE

STARS AND BARS

Gary woke to steady pounding on the door. He lay on the sofa, naked from the waist down, with a splitting headache that throbbed in unison with the pounding. It was dark out.

“KRYSTAL YOU BITCH! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!” a male voice shouted from outside.

Gary fished around, found his jeans and pulled them on. He tried to summon some energy. Krystal stormed into the room wearing a terrycloth robe.

“It’s my ex, Herman.”

Gary blinked. “Herman? What Herman?”

“I dumped that loser years ago!”

Krystal strode through the elegant foyer and yanked open the arched oak door.

“What do you want, Herman?”

Herman was a wide body with lank blond hair, wearing coveralls and a John Deere cap. “You owe me five hundred dollars.”

“My ass. For what?”

“For bailing you out two years ago.”

Gary staggered to his feet.

Krystal turned toward him. “Do you have five hundred? It’s worth it to get rid of this asshole.”

Herman looked around the foyer. “You done well for yourself.”

“How’d you find me?”

“You had quite the wedding. Read about it in the paper. Did she tell you we’re still married? She never signed the divorce papers. You won’t miss five hundred bucks. Hell. Make it an even thou.”

“Fuck you, Herman!”

Gary entered the foyer. He was taller and in better shape than Herman, but Herman outweighed him by sixty pounds. “Get the fuck outta here. I don’t owe you shit.”

“Oh yeah? How’d you like me to contest this wedding? Whaddaya gonna do then, smart guy?”

“How’d you like a fat lip?”

Krystal stormed out of the foyer. Gary heard her tromp upstairs.

“You’re trespassing. Get the fuck outta here.”

“Or what, tough guy? You gonna call the cops?”

Gary punched Herman in the face with a compact straight right. Herman staggered back, put a hand to his mouth, looked at the blood, put his head down and charged, ramming Gary in the chest and carrying them both through the foyer into the living room where they fell on a glass coffee table, which Gary hated, shattering it and going down in a tumble. They rolled. Shards of glass stuck to Gary’s back. Herman got on top and tried to punch, his blows landing as ineffective swats.

Krystal reappeared wearing blue jeans and a Toby Keith T-shirt, gripping a two-foot black hard rubber dildo in both hands.

WHACK! She struck Herman across the back of the head, causing him to stagger sideways allowing Gary to escape.

WHACK! WHACK! She struck him forward and backward, wielding the dildo like a samurai sword.

WHACK! She struck him on the elbow causing Herman to howl in pain.

WHACK, WHACK, WHACK! She drove him back through the foyer and out the door.

Herman ran for his truck.

“ADIOS, DOUCHEBAG!” Krystal crowed as her ex peeled out in his ten-year old Camaro. Gary could tell by its exhaust it was a six.

“Loser!” he yelled, thrusting a finger to the sky.

They went inside.

“Why didn’t you sign the divorce papers?”

Krystal shrugged. “I’ll sign them now if I can find them.”

They sat in the living room where Krystal produced a mirror and a vile of blow.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I found it when I got the dildo.”

“Where’d you get the dildo?”

“Jen gave it to me. She thought it was funny.”

“Lemme see.”

She passed the two-foot hard rubber shaft to Gary, who hefted it, took a few practice swings. “You could do some serious damage with this!”

“Yeah. I’ll put it in the front hall closet. It may come in handy.”

Gary looked up. A feral pig stood in the open patio door looking around. He leaped up!

“Fuck! Where’s my rifle?”

“Forget the rifle, Gary! Just scare it away!”

Gary ran toward the pig waving his arms. “Go on! Get!”

For a second, he feared it would charge. It stood two feet at the shoulder and displayed some impressive tusks. It turned tail and ran toward the high weeds, disappearing near the black spot made by the unsuccessful gator burial.

Gary went into the kitchen and drank two quarts of water. When he returned to the living room, Krystal was cutting up lines.

“Wha’d he bail you out for?”

Krystal bent over the mirror and snorked. “They said I attacked a manager at Popeyes, but that’s a lie. She swung at me first.”

“What were you fightin’ about?”

Krystal leaned back, shutting her eyes in ecstasy. “Fries.” She handed the cut soda straw to Gary, who sat next to her, slid the mirror over and did a line.

The coke rampaged through his head, chasing away the headache and the doldrums. He knew he’d pay for it later, but he could always take another horse trank to get to sleep.

“You got any more horse trank?”

“Yeah, but you gotta wait. We’re outta cigs. Go up to WaWa and get a carton of Carlton’s.”

“Why don’t you go?”

“I’ll wreck the car. I don’t drive drunk as well as you. You can take my car.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“Come on, baby. You can do it.”

Gary looked in his wallet. He had five hundred dollars. What the hell. He wanted cigs too. He put on a shirt.

“See you in a few.”

The WaWa was ten miles up the road, at the intersection of Weldon Way and the highway. Gary could drive it in his sleep. Taking Krystal’s keys off the marble table in the foyer, he went out into the cooling night, got in the Edge, and booked, the headlights cutting across two more feral pigs on the way out. He leaned on the horn and out the window.

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE, YOU PIGS!”

Gary tuned into WWKA on the run. They were playing the New Country, which all sounded alike to him. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of the brightly lit WaWa and went inside. The store belonged to a dot Indian named Singh, who was behind the counter.

“Good evening, Gary.”

“Hey Singh. Gimme a carton of Carltons and a couple Megaball tickets, willya?”

“I, for one, would be very much surprised if you won again.”

Gary slid a hundred across the counter and collected his booty, stuffing the Megaball tickets in the breast pocket of his Western-style shirt. “I won before, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Good night, Gary.”

“Hang loose, Singh.”

Gary headed back. Now they were playing some fucking country/rap hybrid. Gary stabbed the CD player. Little Big Town, “I’m With the Band”. At least it was music. He pulled a Louie on Weldon, onto Grange Road, which led to the turn-off to Elysian Fields. As he approached a dense overhang of oak, his headlights picked up an old station wagon parked on the other side of the road facing him, its hood up, something lashed to the roof, emergency lights feebly blinking. Gary pulled off the road onto the broad shoulder on the right side of the road, put on his Stars and Bars cap, and walked across the road, where a man bent over the engine bay, his back to the woods.

Gary went around the back of the station wagon.

“You all right?”

An elderly black man with white hair and a white mustache stood up and looked back at him, seeing his cap. The mans’ eyes went wide. He held up a finger, opened his passenger door, reached inside and straightened up. Now he too was wearing the Stars and Bars.

TWENTY-SIX

QUINCY

“Just quit on me,” the old man said in a gravelly voice. “Started stutterin’, like it wasn’t gettin’ no gas, and then it stopped. I was barely able to pull over to the side.”

“Lemme take a look at it,” Gary said. “I’ll be right back. May need a little WD40.”

Gary crossed the dark road, popped the hatch, and removed a can of WD40, a roll of duct tape, and a vise grips from a cardboard box he’d put in back the day they brought it home. There was a similar box in all his vehicles.

“Turn off your lights,” Gary said. “Save your battery.” The old man complied.

The old man held a flashlight as Gary looked. It was a 1989 Buick Estate Wagon with the three-oh-seven-inch V8, a round air cover covering a four-barrel carb. Gary removed the air cleaner uncovering the carb. He leaned way over, getting eyeball to eyeball with the carb.

“Lemme have that light.”

He peered.

“You got palmetto bugs in your carb.”

“What the fuck?” the old man said.

“Omma have to take it off and blow it out.”

“How did palmetto bugs get in my carburetor?”

“Where do you store it?”

“In an old detached garage. Fuck me runnin’. I ain’t never heard of such a thing.”

“Maybe somebody put ’em there.”

“Who’d so such a thing?”

“Some psycho. All sortsa crazy people running around these days.”

“Well look here,” the old man said. “I’m Quincy.”

Gary straightened up and shook hands. “Gary.”

“I appreciate it. Most people wouldn’t stop.”

Gary returned to the carb. “I been in this spot before. That’s why I always carry some WD40, some duct tape, and some vise grips. That shit’ll fix ’bout near anything.”

He got the carb loose, took it into the weeds, Quincy following with the light.

“You got a pipe cleaner?”

Quincy squinted. “How you know?”

“Just a shot in the dark.”

Quincy fished around in his glove compartment and returned with a pack of pipe cleaners.

Gary ran them through the carbs, blew on them, sighted through them at the moon.

“Let’s hope this works.”

He reattached the carb and sprayed WD40 on the throttle cable. “Pump the gas a couple times. See if it’ll start.”

A sports car blew past, right down the center line.

Quincy pumped the gas and turned the key. The car whined for a few seconds then caught, exhaust releasing a dense gray cloud.

“Boy howdy!” Quincy said, turning on the lights and getting out. “Gary, how’d you like season tickets to the Dolphins?”

Gary scratched his chin. “Tell you the truth, I’d rather watch on television. You see more.”

“You ain’t wrong. Well at least let me pay you for your time.”

Gary looked at the twenty-five-year-old vehicle. “Nah, keep your money. Pay it forward.”

They shook hands again, Quincy got behind the wheel and headed north. Gary got back in the Edge and drove toward home. Five minutes later, his headlights picked up a slow-moving log crossing the road. Gary stopped.

“Fuckin’ gators. They’re harassing me.” He leaned out the window. “GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! WE DON’T WANT YOUR KIND!”

The gator took its sweet time, disappearing in the saw grass on the opposite side of the road.

When he got home, Krystal was passed out in the living room, her legs sprawled, the smeared mirror on the table. Gary felt jittery from all the coke. He wanted to do another line, but the relief was temporary, and he’d end up even more jittery. He’d wasted countless nights lying awake, heart pumping. He found Krystal’s amber vial of horse tranks. Half a trank. Couldn’t hurt.

Gary sprawled in the living room waiting for the trank to hit, flipping through channels. Habib appeared in a three-piece blue sharkskin suit.

“Have you been injured in an auto accident, and the insurance company refused to pay what your injury was worth? At the Law Offices of Habib Rodriguez, we specialize in automobile accidents. I’ve been an attorney for fourteen years and the insurance companies don’t scare me. To find out what your accident is worth, call me. The consultation is free, and unless we get you a substantial settlement, there is no cost to you.”

What’s Your Snoblem came on. It was a game show in which contestants had to act out their grievances before a celebrity panel. If the panel guessed the grievance, the contestant won awards. They weren’t A list celebrities. They were D list celebrities. Dr. Grim, a late-night horror host. Miss Citronella, an aging beauty queen and essential oils spokesperson. Frank Funk, a life coach and inspirational speaker. The host was Major Sutton, a stocky, black comedian with a gleaming, bald head.

The contestant was a big, bony, middle-aged woman who sat in a folding chair driving an invisible car. She mimed talking on her phone. She got up, walked behind the car, and goose-stepped forward while throwing out her arm in the sieg heil. She sat in the seat again, rolled down an invisible window and tried to explain. She stood, goose-stepped, and wrote out an invisible ticket.

“Talking on your cell phone!” Dr. Grim exulted.

The contestant shook her head.

“I got it,” Miss Citronella said. “I got it. Putting on makeup.”

The contestant clapped her hands, smiled hugely, and pointed.

“We have a winner!” Major Sutton boomed. Takes one to know one, eh, Miss Citronella?”

Miss Citronella, a willowy bottle blonde in an evening gown, dimpled. “You know it, Major. Joan was putting on makeup in her car.”

The contestant blushed. “I was late for a date.”

“That’s three in a row, Joan Marks. Your total winnings come to nine thousand eight hundred and thirty-five dollars!”

The audience applauded. The TV swam. Gary was zonked.

He woke on the floor, his head at a slight downward angle, due to the slanting nature of the media room. His tongue was glued to the carpet. A panzer division carried out a training exercise in his skull. Ringo bashed away. Gary always liked Ringo, but he didn’t think he was a very good drummer.

Gary tried to open his eyes. Finally, he had to use his hands. From a foot away, an evil, fleshy alien stared back at him, its eyes black holes leading to hell. Gary froze, not out of fear, but the purest confusion. What was it? What was it doing here?

It was a feral-pig. It snorted, misting Gary with hog boogers. Behind it, two other feral pigs egged it on.

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE CLEANERS

Gary rose up like Moby Dick. “GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!”

The feral pig squatted and discharged liquid feces all over the floor, its smell a radioactive cloud. Gary sprinted for the gun cabinet, grabbed the Mossberg, and ran back into the living room where a pig was eating the remains of last night’s pizza. Gary snugged the butt into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.

BOOM! Went the gun.

SQUEAL! Went the surviving pigs, running around in confusion. Gary chased them into the kitchen and fired, striking the bronze-colored refrigerator door. Pigs squealed in terror! They ran for the exits! Gary chased them out the open patio door where they skirted the now empty swimming pool and raced for the safety of the jungle.

Muttering, Gary returned to the house, shutting the sliding patio door behind him. Krystal stood in the living room, hands on the hips of her three hundred-dollar jeans, staring at the dead pig lying half on, half off a once white throw rug.

“What the fuck?”

“Did you leave the patio door open?”

“I don’t know! What are we gonna do about this?”

“I can butcher it. Them’s good eatin’.”

“No, you fool! The blood! We can’t have this shit in here! I’ll have to throw out the whole rug! And look at that sofa! That’s a nine hundred-dollar sofa!”

“I know a guy can get rid of blood stains.”

“Who? Harvey Keitel?”

“El Cheapo.”

“Well get him over here.”

Gary reached for his phone. “Lemme as’ you something. Have you opened up any new credit card accounts?”

Krystal stared daggers. “So what? We can afford it.”

“No, we can’t. I got collection agencies on my ass. We’re a month behind on the mortgage.”

Krystal held out her hand. “Then give me five hundred dollars.”

“Not until you fork over all your credit cards.”

“I got a hair appointment this afternoon!”

“You know, some of those salons would pay a lot of money for your hair. You want to help? Sell your hair.”

“Fuck you!” Krystal stomped up the stairs.

Gary phoned El Cheapo and explained the situation.

“I’ll be there in a couple hours,” El Cheapo said.

Gary got a wheelbarrow from the garage, took it into the living room and hoisted the dead pig. It weighed about one hundred and twenty pounds. He wheeled the pig back into the garage, with a workbench running the length of the back wall except for a door in the middle. Stripping to his skivvies and putting on leather gloves, Gary slit the hog stem to stern on the floor next to a grated drain, pulled out the entrails, put them in the wheelbarrow, and walked it out the back door, past the patio and the empty pool, fifty feet to the blackened cinder of the forest. It looked like a MOAB strike. The twisted remains of his two hundred and thirty-three thousand-dollar Urus hunkered in the burn pit like the bones of some dinosaur. Gary dumped the pig guts at the far side of the pit. Let the gators and birds have ’em.

He looked wistfully at the empty pool. Fuckin’ gator.

In the garage, Gary used a flensing knife to remove the pig’s skin, wondered what he could do with it. Pigskin gloves? His own football? Like he had money for taxidermy.

“Don’t be an ass!” he snapped at himself.

Gary methodically cut up the pig into ribs, hams, bacon, put the meat in big plastic zip-loc bags and stored them in the restaurant-style freezer he’d had installed in the garage. He gathered up the hard parts, bones and hooves, put them in a plastic bag and put that in his garbage can. He used a hose to wash the blood down the drain.

Holding his jeans at arm’s length, he returned to the main house, entering through the kitchen. Krystal was at the counter brewing a Keurig. She looked at him, screamed, and dropped her mug.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

Gary looked down at his near naked blood-smeared body. “It’s not my blood. I was just chopping up that pig. Chill. El Cheapo will be here shortly.”

“Don’t track blood in the living room!”

Gary used a dish towel to wipe himself off as best he could, then tossed it in the laundry room, beyond which lay another bathroom. He went upstairs and stood for long minutes under the multi-nozzled Kohler jet stream shower, the water lukewarm. Stepping out, he dried off with one of the massive luxurious Turkish bath linens Krystal had bought at finelinens.com, spritzed his underarms with deodorant, slapped on some Giorgio, put on a fresh set of Carhartt jeans, a Victory Motorcycle T-shirt, and slipped his sockless feet into gator-skin loafers.

Walking down the second-floor hall, he looked in at his exercise room and thought of pumping some iron, but he’d just taken a shower. He entered and admired himself in the full-length wall mirror, with barre. The room contained a weight bench, weights, a Pellotron, a treadmill, and a Bowflex Max Trainer on which you could pump weight, exercise your quads, your lats, and your nads, facing a fifty inch flat screen TV. One wall was all glass with a sliding patio door overlooking the backyard.

Gary went out and inhaled the humid air, redolent with the smell of burning weeds and animal flesh. Out front, a car honked. Gary skipped down the marble steps, crossed through the tiled foyer and out the front door. El Cheapo had pulled up in an anonymous panel van. El Cheapo and another man, who was built like an Abrams tank, got out.

They went around to the back, opened the van, and began hauling out equipment, including a steam cleaner and many plastic containers.

“This is my associate, Manny,” El Cheapo said.

Manny stuck out a ham, completely enclosing Gary’s fist.

“Come on in. Lemme show ya the damage.”

Gary led them through the foyer into the living room where they stared in disbelief at the destruction. There was blood all over the place, a smashed glass table, and dirty dishes.

“What the fuck happened, essay?” El Cheapo said.

“Hey, some of this shit is left over from Sunday. The blood’s new. Fuckin’ feral pigs, man. Somebody left the patio door open.”

“Whadja do, shoot ’em in the house?”

Manny examined the back of a Finish chair blasted with shotgun pellets.

“Yeah, I probably should have chased ’em all out first, and then shot ’em. But you never know. Some of those feral pigs are fuckin’ ugly. They’ll turn on ya. My old man had a coon hound and they ate it. I hear there’s ferals back in the swamp that weigh over a thousand pounds.”

“Yeah, well before me and Manny get to work, this is gonna cost you a thou.”

“Fuck, man. I ain’t got a thou.”

“How you win the lottery and ain’t got a thou?”

“Man, I spent it all. But shit. I got shit in this house that’s worth way more than a thou. What do you need? A Pelloton? You want one of those flat screens?”

El Cheapo looked around. His gaze fell on the Steve Rude velvet Elvis.

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE OLD HEAVE-HO

Dressed in Kelly-green jumpsuits, El Cheapo and Manny went to work, hauling out the stained carpet, the ruined sectional, and loose pieces of furniture, returning with a twenty gallon Craftsman shop vac which they used to hoover up the shredded glass and copious hog hairs. They sprayed and scrubbed. Two hours later, the living room was down to its hardwood floor, half the furniture was gone, and it smelled of Pinesol.

Krystal appeared on the second-floor balcony, smoking a cigarette. “I’ll order a new sofa from American TV.”

“You ain’t ordering shit. Didn’t I just tell you we’re in debt up to our eyeballs?”

Krystal spat smoke. “How is that even possible? We’re millionaires!”

“I took a cash settlement. That came to five and a half million dollars. I put five down on the house.”

“Five million dollars?” Krystal was bug-eyed.

“Yeah. My old man always told me to put down as much as you can for a low mortgage. That brought our mortgage to a little over three thou a month which normally wouldn’t have been a problem except we got a little carried away with the partying and the catered dinners and all that shit you buy.”

“I buy? What about those two jet skis out in the yard? And that fucking Mustang you never drive?”

“They repossessed the Mustang!”

It had disappeared in the middle of the night.

The front door opened and closed. Jen and Barb entered in bikinis with huge straw purses looped over their shoulders, wide-brimmed straw hats on their heads and wrap-around sunglasses.

“Hi! Do you mind if we use the pool?”

“Pool’s empty. Ain’t got around to filling it again.”

Jen and Barb advanced into the living room. Barb whistled.

“What happened?”

“Fuckin’ feral hogs. Somebody left the patio door open.”

“What’re those funny pale stains?” Barb said.

“I shot ’em.”

“Why didn’t you chase them out of the house before you shot them?”

Gary threw his hands in the air. “You had to be here.”

“The hot tub’s still full,” Krystal said.

Jen fanned herself with her hat. “It’s too hot for a hot tub! Can’t you fill it up now?”

“No. It’s a twenty-five thousand-gallon pool. It takes twenty-four hours to fill, and I still gotta clean out all the gator parts and shit.”

Jen went into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Chardonnay from her purse, which she put in the freezer. Barb sat on the remaining sofa in the living room, pulled out a baggie and papers and rolled a joint on a copy of Hunting & Fishing.

Putting her hat back on, Jen went out the sliding kitchen door onto the back patio, put her hands on her hips and gazed at the ecological disaster across the rutted lawn. “You should have this place declared an environmental disaster and apply for federal funds.”

Gary followed her out, beer in hand. “Do you think I should? Do you know how to do that?”

Jen laughed. “Hell no.”

Gary eyed her butt. “Omma have to sell this place.”

Jen turned on him. “What? You’ve only been in here six months!”

“I know, I know, but I’m broke. I don’t know where the fuck it went. I never had much money, so I was never any good in spending it. Maybe I should have bought something more modest and invested in gold or something.”

“Well if you’re serious about selling, I know a realtor. She’s a good friend of mine.”

“Why don’tcha write that down for me.”

“I will, but I’ll tell you right now, the first thing she’s gonna do is have you take down those chains.”

“My house suspenders? Why should I take them down? That’s like an added attraction. That should add like twenty thousand dollars to the price!”

“Oh Gary, grow up. They’re hideous. No one wants those draped over their house.”

“You don’t know shit, Jen.”

Up went the hands. “What evs! I’m just trying to help.”

“So was Missus O’Leary’s cow.”

Jen stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind.”

They went back inside where Krystal and Barb were bent over the surviving coffee table. Krystal inhaled, spread her arms and leaned back in ecstasy of chemical acceleration. She got up. “I’m gettin’ a drink. What do you want, hon?”

“Is that Chardonnay chilled yet?”

Krystal strode toward the bar. “Fuck Chardonnay. Vodka and tonic.”

“Yeah,” Barb said.

“Me too,” Gary said.

Krystal grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose. Soon they’d be back to Popov. She made four drinks and handed them out. Gary sat on the sofa and did a line, snorking and running a finger beneath his nose.

“Got any more valium?” he asked Krystal.

“I think so.”

“Good. I really need a good night’s sleep.”

Jen’s phone sang “Kiss Him Goodbye” by the Supremes. She got up and walked toward the patio.

“Say hello to Yodel for me!” Barb called out with gusto.

Gary looked up. “Who’s Yodel?”

“Her latest boyfriend. A Cuban rapper.”

“You’re kidding?”

Barb effected a Cuban accent and used jazz hands. “‘Hey mamacitasan, meet me with your red dress on...meet me in your rayon thong, hey mamacitasan’.”

“You’re kidding?”

“You wish. He wants me to sing back-up, but he really just wants to fuck me.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Barb ran her hand down Gary’s thigh. “Would you like to fuck me, big boy?”

Krystal reached over, grabbed Barb by her long blonde hair, and yanked her sideways.

“I was just kidding!” Barb protested, pulling her hair free.”

Krystal stood. “Move your ass out of there. Sit over there.”

Barb stood, started. “Someone’s here.”

Gary looked up. “Ain’t nobody at the end of this road but us.”

“I heard tires.”

Door pounding commenced. Gary felt his testicles shrivel and his heart race. He knew that knock. He got up, went to the front door and looked out through a glass side panel to observe two county cars parked in the driveway, two county mounties standing by the rear car, two more on his doorstep.

Gary opened the door.

Sheriff Ralph Hunnicutt looked like George Washington, Rushmore version, save for the amber aviator’s glasses.

“Gary, I’m real sorry to have to do this, but we got a court order to evict you. The First National Bank of Okeechobee has seized the property. Normally, I’d give you twenty-four hours, but somebody at the bank has a real hard-on for you, so me and the boys will observe while you and Missus Duba pack, then we will escort you off the property.”

Gary gaped. “Are you shitting me?”

Sheriff Hunnicutt spread his hands. “I’m sorry.”

Krystal came out clutching her vodka and tonic. “You can’t just throw us out!”

“I’m sorry, Missus Duba, but we can.”

Krystal threw her drink in Sheriff Hunnicutt’s face. Sheriff Hunnicutt slugged Krystal on the jaw. Gary charged, bowling the Sheriff over backward and taking him down to the ground.

TWENTY-NINE

THIGHSCRAPER

Two deputies landed on Gary, peeled him off the sheriff, threw him face first to the ground, and cuffed him painfully behind his back, a knee pinning him between his shoulders. Gary twisted his head around to see if Krystal was okay, but he couldn’t spot her.

The Sheriff got up. “Gary, that was a real dumb ass move. Now I gotta charge you with assault, and the judge, she don’t cotton to people who assault the law.”

“How do you know what the judge is gonna do?”

“Experience, dumb ass. Get him up. Where’d the woman go?”

A young deputy and potential linebacker stepped up. “She went in the house, Sheriff.”

The sheriff spread his hands and bulged his eyes. “Well?”

“Sir, don’t we need a warrant to go inside?”

“She threw a drink in your face, dumb ass! Go get her. Try not to hurt her.”

The young deputy squared up. “Yes, sir.”

“Buva, you go with him.”

A squat uniformed Mexican followed the deputy inside. The Sheriff and the remaining deputy, a tall Latina, pulled Gary to his feet.

Krystal exploded from the open door holding the two-foot dildo overhead, samurai style.

“YAHHH!” she bellowed, leaping at the Sheriff and

WHAP right across the side of the head and then

WHAP back again.

The female deputy uncorked a can of Mace and let Krystal have it right between the eyes. She immediately dropped the dildo and fell to her knees, rubbing her face.

“Don’t rub it,” Gary said. “It will only make it worse.”

The sheriff and one deputy shoved Gary into the back of one cruiser. The other two deputies cuffed Krystal and shoved her in the other. They got in their cars and drove away.

No one noticed Jen filming the whole thing on her camera on the second-floor balcony. She wore a black bathing suit and hid behind potted palms. She kept filming until the cruisers disappeared around a bend. Barb stood next to her the whole time.

“Ho Lee shit,” Barb said.

Jen laughed. “I need a drink.”

“No fucking kidding.”

They went inside, down to the rec room with the wet bar as Barb mixed more vodka tonics.

Barb handed Jen a drink. “Whaddaya gonna do with that video?”

“What do you think I’m gonna do with it?”

“Do you really want to piss off the police?”

Jen sank her drink and smiled lasciviously. “Fuck that shit! I don’t live in this county! Of course, first, I gotta do a little editing. I don’t just slap whatever footage up on Youtube, you know? I studied film in college, and I’ve acted in feature films.”

“You mean Splay Misty For Me? Or Thighscraper?”

“Laugh all you like, but I got paid for both those jobs and I didn’t fuck the leading man, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Who did you fuck?”

“The director. Do I look stupid?”

The girls squealed.

Jen sent the video to her laptop, on which she edited it down to a hard-hitting sixty seconds. She uploaded it to her Youtube channel, Just Jen, on which she talked cosmetics and thrifting.

THIRTY

WHOMP THAT SUCKER

Gary spent the night in the Glades County Jail and was taken to the magistrate, along with a dozen other hapless shmucks, at nine in the morning, where they were left cooling their heels until the judge was good and ready to hear them at eleven.

Judge Ellen Haversham was a tiny ginseng woman who looked like she belonged on the Supreme Court. Gary offered silent thanks it was not Judge Murphy. He stood before Judge Haversham with Habib Rodriguez in his court clothes, a sober three-piece navy blue suit from Men’s Wearhouse. The judge was looking at Gary’s record. She looked up.

“Mister Duba, you’ve been in trouble with the law since you were a teenager. Up until now, most of your offenses have been petty, but assaulting a police officer is not petty. Bail is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Your honor!” said Habib. “Mister Duba has strong ties to this community! He is newly married and just moved into a new house. The only reason he struck the officer was because the officer struck his wife! He acted in the heat of passion.”

“Mister Rodgriquez, many criminals do. That does not excuse their behavior. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

BAM.

“Next.”

The bailiffs hustled Gary out of the courtroom into the crowded hall, followed by Habib.

“May I have a word with my client?”

The bailiffs knew every lawyer in town. “Go ahead,” one of them said.

Gary was incensed. “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars?!”

“Relax. You only have to come up with ten per cent.”

“How’m I gonna do that? I’m broke!”

Habib sighed. “I ain’t even gonna ask.”

“Can you bail me out?”

“Sorry. I don’t have two dimes to rub together. I had to hire a lawyer to fight these ridiculous charges.”

“Can you get Krystal out?”

“Sorry. She struck a police officer. Pretty sure her bail will be less than yours, though.”

“Well I guess I’m screwed.”

“That video of her braining the cop with the dildo is everywhere.”

Gary was silent for a minute. “What?”

“Oh yeah! Didn’t you know? Somebody posted a video of Krystal swinging that thing. It’s all over the internet! Do you own that footage? You could monetize that. I’ll bet it’s got over a million views by now.”

“Holy fuck!” Gary said, mind racing. Had to be Jen. She was always filming. “Since that’s video of us, don’t we own it? Can they do that without our permission?”

“Well you can always sue, but you’d have to prove damages.”

The bailiffs reclaimed Gary. “How goes the cockfighting?” one of them asked Habib.

“It’s bullshit, Bob. I was only there to meet a client.”

“You don’t raise cockfighting roosters?”

“No. And I wouldn’t spread that around, if I were you.”

When Gary returned to the holding tank, the prisoners were whooping and hollering. He heard them before he even turned the corner.

“WHOMP THAT SUCKER!

“YEEEEEE-HAH!”

“DO IT AGAIN!”

As the guard unlocked the door to the tank, every prisoner in the room stood facing him and applauded. Gary put his hands up.

“Thank you, thank you.”

A series of benches faced the flat screen TV bolted high up on the wall. There was Krystal braining the cop. She was replaced by a serious-looking woman with dark hair and glasses.

“This video, of Missus Duba attacking Deputy Ross Evans with an adult toy, has been viewed over ten million times.”

The prisoners parted, indicating Gary should sit in the front row. A big black man wearing a blue work shirt sat next to him.

“Hey Duba. How do you blow seven million dollars?”

“I don’t know, but I had a good time.”

“Whooooo-EE!” The man enthused, holding up his hand for a high five. Every prisoner lined up to slap skin with Gary.

“Man, you have one righteous old lady!”

“They oughtta make that into a stamp!”

“Man, if you put that on a shirt, you’ll make a million dollars!”

“Dude, you’re a fuckin’ inspiration!”

Gary blushed. “I’m still the same redneck who likes to get shit-faced, shoot at cans, and watch the Dolphins.”

Hoots and hollers. A squat Mexican with a Zapata mustache sat on Gary’s other side.

“How’s your lawyer, meng?”

“Habib Rodriguez.”

The Mexican grinned hugely, showing off a gold tooth. “Joo know, my sister-in-law got rear-ended last year in Tampa and the focking insurance company wouldn’t do shit, so she went to Habib, and he got her five hundred thousand dollars!”

“Did she do an ad for him?”

“No. Does he pay?”

“I think they do them for free, after he gets them a big settlement.”

“I will ask her. So, I guess you didn’t make bail then.”

“I ain’t got fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Well joo know, meng, you could sell those shirts with your old lady whackin’ that cop with a two-foot dildo!”

Those within earshot cheered.

The Mexican extended his hand. “I’m Manny Huerta.”

They shook. The Mexican slapped Gary hard on the back and pointed at the TV. “Look! Look! Is your meng!”

Habib Rodriguez appeared resplendent in a gray sharkskin three-piece and mauve tie, standing in front of a street fresco of Justice as a blind, break-dancing black woman with a ’fro out to here.

Manny stood and faced the noisy room, waving his hands. “Shut up shut up! That’s Gary’s lawyer!”

“Have you been involved in an auto accident? Did the insurance company fail to live up to its promises? If you feel you’ve been short-changed, call the law offices of Habib Rodriguez. Justice is our only concern.”

Hoots and hollers.

“Bottom feeder!”

“Fuckin’ ambulance chaser.”

“Shut the fuck up. He’s my lawyer too.”

The Habib detractor shoved the Habib protector and suddenly they were on the ground rolling.

A corrections officer ran his billy along the jailhouse xylophone.

“Knock it off or I turn the TV off.”

Other prisoners pulled the two apart and calmed them down. Gary wondered where he was going to get the money. Maybe this was it. Maybe he wouldn’t get out of this bind, and they’d find him guilty of assaulting a police officer and he’d have to do some serious time. Gary hadn’t been in jail since he was eighteen and found guilty of being a public nuisance and exposing himself to a woman in Winn-Dixie. He couldn’t even remember. He was doing a lot of meth back then.

If he ever got out, the first thing he’d do was to see about using Krystal on a T-shirt. But that would turn every cop in the country against him. They’d be on his ass. As leery of the law as he was, Gary didn’t want that. He riffled through his mental rolodex of money-making schemes. House suspenders was his best idea. Maybe he could get on Shark Tank, using his own home as an example. He’d have to look into that.

The day passed with excruciating slowness. Inmates played scissors, paper, rock, talked about their big scores and the scores yet to come, the ideal floozies waiting for them upon their release, and Miami’s chances in the play-offs.

At five p.m., the jail guard reappeared.

“Duba, let’s go! You’re bailed out.”

Gary gaped in astonishment.

“Who paid my bail?”

“Fuck if I know. Let’s go.”

THIRTY-ONE

A SURPRISING TURN OF EVENTS

The same female desk sergeant who’d checked him in returned Gary’s personal belongings and had him sign release papers. Gary heard laughter and excited voices from beyond the door separating him from the booking desk.

“What’s going on?”

“Seems we have a celebrity,” the woman said, sliding Gary’s possessions across the counter in a plastic bin.

“Who is it?”

“Some football player. You’re free to go, Mister Duba.”

She buzzed him out.

Waiting on the other side of the metal detector was an elderly black man in an old black suit with an unbuttoned white shirt. It took Gary a minute.

“Quincy!” he said, stepping forward. “What are you doing here?”

“Bailing your white ass outta jail.”

“What? How did you even know?”

“I musta watched that video of your old lady beaning the popo ’bout a dozen times. I guess by now everybody in the country knows. She’s famous. And since you’re her old man, you’re famous.”

“Quincy, I don’t know how to thank you, or pay you back. I’m flat broke.”

“I don’t care ’bout dat. You don’t have to pay me back. You stopped when I needed help and that’s all I need to know.”

“But where did you get fifteen thousand dollars? That’s not chump-change.”

Quincy gestured to a dozen people including five cops surrounding someone, laughing, clapping their hands. “Not to my boy. He spend that much at dinner for four.”

Gary looked, but couldn’t see who was in the middle of the scrum.

“Who’s your boy?”

“Roebuck Simms, running back for the Dolphins.”

The crowd parted and a buff young man in Armani slacks and jacket, short black hair and a Van Dyke approached smiling, arm outstretched.

“Mister Duba! Thanks for helping out my pops. Let’s get out of here and go get something to eat.”

The cops regarded Gary with respect. Roebuck addressed the room.

“Y’all don’t know this, but my pops Quincy here, his car broke down on a dirt road, and this man Duba stopped, diagnosed his fuckin’ carburetor, took it apart and put it back together again in the middle of the night, and that’s how my pops got home!”

A smattering of applause grew into an intense chorus. A few cops opened a corridor as Gary, Quincy, and Roebuck left the building. Out front, a dozen people had gathered. Word spread fast in a small town. Roebuck paused to sign autographs and pose for a few selfies, then with a grin he waved them back.

“Folks, gotta run. But I appreciate your support!”

The crowd watched, perplexed as the trio walked down the street to a parking garage. Who was the white guy?

They went up the stairs to the second-floor where Roebuck beeped open a BMW X5M. Gary got in the back seat, ran his hand over the leather.

“Sweet! I had one of those Lambo Uruses.”

“No shit! How’d you like it?”

“I liked it fine for the two months I had it. It accidentally caught fire.”

Roebuck drove down and paid the ticket.

“Ain’t familiar with this here burg. Where’s a good place to eat?”

“Turpentine’s ten miles down the road. You want Mel’s Barbecue.”

“I could use me some barbecue,” Quincy said.

They reached Mel’s at six. It was a hole in the wall in a crumbling mall, between a vacant storefront and a cigarette store, which also sold vapes.

Mel was a middle-aged black man with a bald head and a white apron, and a good spokesman for his product. He smiled as Gary entered.

“Mister Duba! I seen the video! That’s some wife you got.”

“Mel, it’s my own modest contribution to Turpentine.”

Mel did a double-take. “You look an awful lot like, nahhhh.”

“Mel, that’s Roebuck Simms and his old man Quincy.”

Mel gaped like a grouper. He came out from behind the counter to shake their hands. He had his sous chef Lupe take pictures of the four of them. Roebuck ordered a plate of ribs, Quincy ordered the pulled pork sandwich, and Gary had the brisket sandwich. Roebuck insisted on paying. They took over a booth in the back.

“We’re playing the Steelers Sunday night. Got box tickets if you want ’em.”

“Thanks, Roebuck, but we don’t hardly get down to Miami no more.”

“They’re yours if you want ’em.”

People kept coming in. Mel kept them at bay until the boys were done, then Roebuck spent a half hour signing autographs and posing with people. When they were done, he said, “Where can we drop you?”

Gary still had to bail out Krystal. “They still got my wife.”

Roebuck smacked his forehead. “Why didn’t you say so? Let’s go get her!”

Krystal’s bail was five hundred dollars. Roebuck paid it in cash and got a receipt. Krystal stank of cigarette smoke, body odor, and stale perfume. She threw herself into Gary’s arms.

“Thank God! Thank God!”

Gary partly disentangled. “Thank Roebuck. He paid your bail.”

She peered at him. “Well thanks a lot! Why did you do that?”

“Because your old man Gary here helped my old man Quincy here, when Quincy broke down on a country road.”

“Remember?” Gary said. “That was the night I drove to WaWa for more cigs.”

“Now can we drive you home?” Roebuck said.

It was dark by the time the Simms dropped Gary and Krystal off at the trailer. Gary’s truck remained in the yard. It was the only vehicle they had left, since the police had impounded Krystal’s Edge, the jet skis, and the Harley. Someone had dumped a load of trash in their front yard through which raccoons and gulls burrowed and pecked like housewives at a thrift store.

“Who the fuck?!” Krystal seethed.

“Yeah. I’ll go through that trash tomorrow, find out who dumped it, and cart it back. They probably dumped some old bills or magazines with their address or something. I’ll teach those motherfuckers to use my yard as a dump.”

“I have to shower, lover, and then I’m going to devour you alive.”

“You go first.”

Krystal applied a wet, steaming kiss to Gary’s lips while stroking his Johnson. They went up the steps, unlocked the door and went inside. Gary turned on the lights. Palmetto bugs scurried for cover. Krystal stripped off her clothes and went into the bathroom.

“SHIT!” she screamed.

Krystal exploded out of the bathroom into his arms.

“What?”

“There’s a fucking snake in the toilet.”

Gary put on a thick leather motorcycle jacket he’d bought for thirty bucks at an ARC Thrift Store and a pair of leather work gloves. He went into the bathroom, seized the snake by its neck, carried it out on the deck and hurled it toward the swamp.

“GET OUT AND STAY OUT!”

When he returned to the trailer, he heard the shower running.

THIRTY-TWO

WHO COULD POSSIBLY HAVE FORESEEN THIS?

They boogied in the living room, they boogied in the kitchen. They boogied in the bedroom ’til the sheets needed stitchin’. Gary rode Krystal like a wheelbarrow. She threw him down on his back and climbed on top, as seen in Game of Thrones. They drank Canadian Club on the rocks, smoked ganja and snorted a little oxy. They went down for the count.

The morning began, as so many others, with someone banging loudly on the door. Pressing his thumbs to his temples, Gary sat upright in bed.

“Who the fuck!”

It was not an official bang, characterized by metronomic pounding. This was an amateur bang marked by intervals, odd rhythms, and shouted but muffled exhortations. Snarling, Gary pulled on his jeans, strode through the house, and ripped open the door to reveal a morbidly obese man wearing an XXXL Deng Gak Hurricanes jersey, with a puffy, florid face and mean little blue eyes sunk deep in the dough like blueberries.

Gary balled his right fist, calculating trajectories, mass, and weight. “What the fuck do you want?”

The man seemed to calm a little. “Is Krystal here?”

“Who wants to know?”

The man re-inflated. “I’m Marvin Claggett, her husband.”

What an astonishment! “How many fuckin’ husbands does she have?”

“Is she here?”

“Marvin, you asshole,” Krystal hissed from within, wearing elegantly shredded blue jeans and a floppy gray sweatshirt, her red hair gathered in a ponytail. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you was in the money.” He held out a large, soft hand. You owe me two thousand, nine-hundred and fifty-five dollars, bitch. Where is it?”

Gary turned. “How many husbands do you have?”

“Bullshit! The guy who married us wasn’t even a real preacher. He got his diploma from the Universal Life Church!”

Gary could feel the trailer and deck subtly adjusting as Marvin shifted from foot to foot. “She worked on me for two weeks to go to an eBay convention in Vegas. When I got home, she’d cleaned me out! Appliances, archery supplies, everything I owned! She took my collection of Batman figurines, and they were worth a lot of money.”

Gary got right up in his face. “How about you get the fuck outta here before I kick your nuts up between your ears?”

Marvin took a step back. The deck shifted. “Oh, a tough guy, huh? Yeah, you’re real tough. We’ll just see how tough you are.”

He lumbered down the steps and headed toward his crapped-out PT Cruiser, opened the rear gate and rummaged around.

“Shit!” Krystal said. “That motherfucker’s always packing. Wait here.”

Krystal dashed back to the bedroom and returned a minute later with Gary’s Taurus, and shoved it in his hands. “Don’t take any shit from him.”

Gary leaped to the ground as Marvin came toward him clutching an automatic that looked like a licorice bar in both hands.

“What now, tough guy?” Marvin said.

“You tell me. You’re on my property threatening me with a gun. Who you think they’re gonna blame?”

“Won’t matter to you.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you ain’t gonna be alive to see it.”

Gary began slowly circling clockwise, twenty feet from Marvin, who mirrored his march.

“Make your move, you fuckin’ manatee.”

Marvin spread his tree trunk legs, gripped the pistol and fired. Gary felt something whizz by his ear as he instinctively raised the Taurus and fired. A hole appeared in the middle of Marvin’s chest. Smoke curled up through the hole. Marvin looked down. Marvin went down.

“Ho shit,” Gary said. “Now I’ve killed the stupid son of a bitch.”

“Nice shot, honey,” Krystal said from the deck.

Gary knew from experience he would not be able to bury Marvin.

“Just take him out in the swamp and dump him,” Krystal said. “The gators’ll take care of it.”

Gary looked up, still gripping the gun. “Fucker’s got to weigh over three hundred pounds! How’m I gonna move him?”

“You moved that gator, didn’t you? Use the truck.”

Gary stuck the pistol in his belt and pointed at her. “Bingo.”

He got two hundred feet of stout Strand Manila rope, tied a tight noose around Marvin’s ankles, and fastened the other end to the hitch on his F-150. He drove the truck in a wide loop, pulling Marvin’s carcass through the grass and weeds, roughly parallel to the shore just off his dock. He then untied the rope from his truck, went to the end of the dock, looped it around a steel pole jutting up through the water, and refastened it to the truck. He wrestled the old sofa sideways to get it out of the way. As he drove slowly away from the dock, the rope tightened until it was taut. Very slowly, Gary engaged first gear until the corpse began to move reluctantly toward the end of the dock, where his flat-bottomed swamp boat was tethered.

Gary returned to the dock, working his way around Marvin the way a cat passes a sleeping dog. There was a one-foot drop from the end of the deck onto the boat, which was powered by a Pratt & Whitney aircraft engine mounted on the rear, driving an airplane propeller.

It was loud.

Gary hoped the combined weight of the engine and Krystal would prevent Marvin from pulling the front end down. But how to get the three hundred-pound sack of shit into the boat? Gary could press three hundred pounds, but that was different from moving a blob of dead weight. If he and Krystal both had ten-foot levers, they could tilt Marvin up and slide him into the boat. It would require precision work.

Gary had three ten-foot poles for his tipi, but he hadn’t put it up in several years. They lay under the house. He got the poles and Marvin’s gun, which he threw into the boat. He explained the plan to Krystal, then snugged the prow tight up against the end of the dock.

“You go sit in the back of the boat. That engine’s gotta weigh more’n three hundred. I think we got it sussed.”

Krystal leaped into the boat and sat on the stool in the rear, just in front of the propeller, which resembled a giant house fan in its steel cage. “Now what?”

“I forgot. I need you to help push him into the boat. Come back here.”

With grunts and twirls, they got the poles under Marvin until the tips peeked out from beneath his jersey, which hung down to his knees. They gripped the poles in both hands and faced each other.

“Ready? Heave!”

Straining and grunting, knees bent, Gary and Krystal raised the poles.

“Higher! We’re almost there!”

Sweating and cursing, they brought the poles up to head height and Marvin slowly slid into the boat, landing with a thump and a splash that shook the dock. The boat quickly resettled. Gary turned toward Krystal with a grin and held up his hand. They high fived.

“All right, little lady, let’s rip!”

THIRTY-THREE

TREASURE IS WHERE YOU FIND IT

The boat had belonged to Gary’s dad Frank, who died in a freak swordfish accident. The six-cylinder engine ripped the sky as they cruised away from the dock. Gary watched his trailer peeking above the saw grass, civilization dwindling until they were out of sight of any sign of modernity, save a tiny slice of highway briefly glimpsed twixt swaying palms. Perhaps with the engine off they would hear traffic from the nearby highway, but as far as they looked, there were no buildings, docks, or houses.

Fortier’s Swamp extended deep into Hendry County, all the way to the Big Cypress Indian Reservation, encompassing hundreds of square miles. The shattering sound sent cranes flying. They watched alligators sunning on cypress hummocks, unfazed by the din. Forty-five minutes in, Gary came to a spot he frequently fished, a bewildering backwater of ponds and hummocks standing six inches out of the water. He cut the engine. The sudden silence was hallucinatory. Even with the earplugs, it would take a few minutes for their hearing to return.

The boat’s momentum carried it beneath overhanging cypress dripping with Spanish moss until it bumped into a hummock, sending a gator scooting into the water. Gary used one of the poles to turn the boat around so that the prow faced outward, toward deeper water, then used the pole to back the boat up again until it bumped. Leaping off, Gary used the rope to tie the boat firmly to some cypress roots. Then he and Krystal used the poles to dump Marvin in the swamp. It was easier this time because the boat’s construction allowed them to slide the poles beneath the body.

Marvin landed with a great splash, sinking quickly out of sight in the green water. They watched the expanding circle of ripples. They waited for gators. Krystal opened a quart bottle of Gatorade, slugged some and handed it to Gary.

“I know a place to dump his car,” Gary said. “Is anyone gonna come looking for him?”

“Ha!” Krystal scoffed. “That loser? He’s got two sisters who hate him. Probably not working. He got a bullshit disability claim done by some sleazebag lawyer because of his back. Well if he didn’t weigh three hundred and fifty pounds, he wouldn’t have that problem.”

“How’d you hook up with him?”

Krystal eloquently molded a statue in the air. “I don’t ask you about your exes, so don’t ask me about mine. We shoulda gone through his wallet though. He may have had some cash.”

Gary snapped his fingers. “Damn it!”

“Hey. What’s that?”

Gary looked at Krystal, who was peering across the swamp at something. “Over there. In those rushes. It looks white. See it?”

Gary squinted. He could just make out something white poking among the weeds, something that didn’t belong. “It’s probably just trash.”

“Let’s take a look?”

“Why?”

Krystal put her hands on her hips. “What else have you got to do?”

Gary picked up the anchor, put it in the skiff, and shoved off, climbing aboard with his feet wet. The white thing was no more than fifty feet away so rather than start the engine and send twenty thousand birds screeching, he just poled over. As the skiff pushed in against the tall grass, Krystal went to the front of the boat and knelt.

She reached down and pulled what looked like a Styrofoam picnic cooler into the boat, two feet by two feet by eighteen inches, wrapped with duct tape and trailing green slime.

Gary came forward. “Fuck is it?”

Sitting on the floor, Krystal hefted it between her legs. “Feels heavy. Let’s open it.”

“Not here. Let’s take it back to the house.”

“Why not here? What if it’s a human head or something?”

“Not likely. Just hold your horses. We’ll know soon enough.”

They screwed their earplugs back in and Gary let ’er rip. They could probably hear the boat from the highway, which flickered in and out of vision two miles to the east, a horizontal white strip on which zipped cars.

Out of the corner of is eye, Gary saw what looked like a fire hose drooping from a low hanging mangrove tree. He cut the engine and stared as the loop slowly uncoiled and drooped to the ground like a giant slinky.

“Would you look at that,” Gary said, pointing.

Krystal followed his finger. “Holy shit. What is it?”

“One of them pythons they keep talkin’ about. That thing could eat a goat.”

The trailer poked up among the cypress, thatch and cabbage palms, not unlike a big silver picnic thermos. With Krystal crouching in the prow, Gary cut the engine and let the boat glide the final fifteen feet until it gently bumped the dock. Krystal climbed up with a rope and secured the boat. Gary hefted the thermos out of the boat onto the dock and got out.

A loud snort caught his attention. Three feral pigs were rooting among the trash in the driveway.

Gary ran down the dock.

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! GO ON! BEAT IT!”

The pigs placidly regarded him until he was ten feet away, then turned and moseyed off into the brush. No hurry. They had all day. Gary thought about getting his rifle, then remembered he’d left it at the new place. The only firepower he had left was the revolver stuck in his belt. He pulled it out and cocked it.

“FILL YOUR HAND!” he shouted, aiming for the nearest pig.

BOOM! The bullet clipped the pig’s ear, sending a spray of blood into the air as the pigs scattered. He ran after them into the brush. A wounded pig could be dangerous. He heard them squealing as they fled. The fever of the chase was upon him!

Nah. He’d caused enough racket for the day, not that there were any neighbors to complain. That trailer park was his nearest neighbor and it was a mile down the road. He turned around and tramped back to the trailer, passing the garbage dump, which smelled like rancid meat.

On the deck, Krystal was wiping down the cooler with a damp cloth. When she finished, she used a dry towel. Gary pulled his knife from his pocket, flipped it open, and squatted, inserting the blade carefully along the seams. Whoever had taped it shut had done a bang-up job. He had to cut the tape all around the top. It came lose with a Styrofoam squeak, revealing an inner black plastic bag, also sealed with duct tape. He upended the case and a block slipped to the deck. Inserting his knife, he cut the tape and reached inside, pulling out a tightly wrapped brick of white powder.

He cut the plastic wrapping and withdrew the blade with a white mound on the tip, in which he dipped his wetted finger, bringing it to his mouth. He rubbed it on his gums, and they went numb.

He rubbed some in his nose. Within seconds, an electric charge whipped through his veins galvanizing him to further action.

“Holy shit!”

“Is that what I think it is?”

Gary held the brick out to her. She borrowed his knife, brought a tiny pile to her nose and inhaled.

“Holy shit!”

There were eight kilos of coke in the cooler.

THIRTY-FOUR

ONCE AGAIN, EL CHEAPO

El Cheapo pulled into the yard shortly after eight p.m. in his Escalade. Gary and Krystal were on the deck, the cooler between them, gyrating to Jerry Reed’s “Amos Moses”.

El Cheapo climbed the steps. “What’s that pile of garbage doing in your yard?”

“Some motherfucker dumped it when we weren’t home. Makes me want to install a camera, track him down, and beat the sumbitch with a baseball bat.”

“That happen often?”

“First time. Hey, thanks for coming. Got a proposition for ya. First, try a snort of this.”

Gary proffered a chipped orange china plate with several lines neatly arranged like Brazilian riot troops. El Cheapo pulled up a plastic chair, set the plate on his knees and hoovered up a line, leaning back with eyes shut.

“Oh yeah, baby!”

He noticed the cooler filled with bricks. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“We found it in the swamp. Must have drifted in. Eight keys. What do you think that’s worth?”

“A key of good blow goes for twenty in Miami. That’s one hundred and sixty thou, retail.”

“How’d you like to take care of this for us? We’ll give you half.”

“Yeah, yeah, I might be able to help you. That’s El Nariz’s territory, but I think I can get around that.”

“Who’s El Nariz?” Gary said.

“He’s the main source of blow in Miami. He supplies the gangs in Coral Gables and West Miami. I think he’s Nicaraguan.”

Krystal went into the house and came back with a bottle of Canadian Club and three paper cups. Gary filled the cups and held his up. “Here’s to luck! Just when you think you’re down and out, fortune hands you a box full of blow!”

They drained their cups. Krystal lined up more blow. “Aren’t you afraid of stepping on Nariz’s toes?”

El Cheapo lifted his shirt to reveal a snub-nosed revolver tucked in his belt. “I’m not afraid of anyone. I spent four years in the military. I know what I’m doing.”

“What military?” Gary said.

“The Presidential Guards. That’s how I was able to save enough money to come to America!”

Gary rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “Baksheesh?”

“La Mordidaaaaaa,” El Cheapo said with a grin and a cheap Mexican accent, drawing out the last syllable like a cartoon villain. “We would also hire out as personal bodyguards because of the threat of kidnapping. I remember one time, a famous American actress came to Mexico City with her lover, a Latin Lothario in the Rob Lowe mode. He was twenty, I think. The actress, forty-seven, but she looked great. She had the trainer, the gym, the pilates. Which reminds me what do we pronounce pilate pill-lot-tee, when we pronounce Pontius Pilate, pilot? Are pilates not descended from Pilate’s teachings?”

Gary bent to the plate. “Ya got me there, El. So, how’d that go? Anyone try to kidnap her?”

El Cheapo laughed uproariously. “We staged for her a fabulous drama! It was like a Mexican soap opera! I wrote it! We made up this whole mysterious background for Jaime. That was pretty boy’s name. That he was descended from noble Spanish stock, his great great grandfather was a hero of the Civil War, that they owned thousands of acres and a bull breeding service in Seville, and they owned tens of thousands of acres in Mexico, where they grow Oaxacan gold, which goes for five hundred dollars an ounce in Brentwood and Beverly Hills, and that a rival syndicate planned to snatch Jaime and hold him for ransom. The actress perceived this as the greatest insult! What? They didn’t want her? They wanted her boy toy?”

Gary and Krystal were laughing. El Cheapo got to his feet and put on a show.

“Madame! You must retreat to the inner courtyard! The kidnappers are in the neighborhood!”

Changing posture and voice, El Cheapo minced and vogued. “Oh no! I had my heart set on visiting the Laredo Market today!”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and switched back to El Cheapo. “You can go to the market. It’s Jaime I’m worried about.”

El Cheapo drew himself up to his full height, five six. His face contorted in horror. “Denial!” He snarled and beetled his brow. “Anger!” El Cheapo on one knee, supplicating. “Bargaining!” El Cheapo slumped in a chair like Blanche DuBois. “Depression!” El Cheapo froze like a felon caught in a spotlight. “Acceptance?”

“There was no acceptance! She wasn’t that good an actress!”

“Who was she?” Krystal begged. “I promise not to tell!”

“Who she is is not important. I signed a confidentiality agreement. Let us just say she has been nominated for four Oscars. Now she goes to rallies. She makes speeches. She gets arrested. Save the androgynous skink.”

“Did you know the Jamaican iguana is an endangered species?” Gary said.

“I did not know that. You know, if I step on the blow a little, we could double our sales.”

Gary’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that!”

“Why not? Is very simple. I cut it with baby laxative. It’s going to make you shit anyway.”

“What about my integrity?”

El Cheapo barked. “Have you ever dealt blow before?”

“A little, when I could afford to.”

“And you have a name on the streets as a blow dealer of integrity? A standard to uphold?”

“Well no, but this shit fell into our laps just the way it is. It’s a sign from God. We should pass it on the same way.”

“When was the last time you sold blow?”

“I don’t know, eight, nine years ago.”

“So, you are known on the streets as a man of integrity who will not step on his blow?”

“Well no. But it was already cut when I got it.”

El Cheapo pulled out a cheap cigar and lit it with a cheap lighter. “So, you’re saying that although no one knows where the blow came from, you don’t want it stepped on because you’re concerned about your reputation?”

“I’d know. I don’t want to have to live with myself knowing I came into possession of high-quality blow and cut it for the sake of profits! This cocaine is a gift from God! Not only would I know, God would know. I think eighty grand each is a decent payday. Then something else will come along. You know I’m going to set up my own company to manufacture my house suspenders. I just need some seed money to get started. I don’t want to get greedy.”

El Cheapo muttered in Spanish. “Hokay. I do as you say.”

“What about El Nariz?”

El Cheapo waved his cigar. “Don’t worry about El Nariz. He won’t be a problem. I have put the velvet Elvis in a place of honor in my home. And now, my friends, I have to go.”

“You sure you’re okay to drive?”

El Cheapo stood and stretched, thrusting out his barrel chest. “The coke counterbalances the liquor.”

THIRTY-FIVE

HOWARD

In the morning, Gary put on a pair of leather gloves and hip waders, backed his truck up to the garbage dump and shoveled. It did not take long to unearth the dumper’s identity, as he had foolishly discarded unopened solicitations featuring his name and address. Citibank. Franklin Mint. Liberty Insurance. The Friendly Flyer. Guns & Ammo.

Howard Perkins lived in the Wokenoki Trailer Park, too stupid and feckless to go through his own garbage and pull his identity, not to mention the sheer laziness of driving two miles down the road to dump in his nearest neighbor’s yard.

Why couldn’t he have dumped his shit in the ditch? In front of the salvage yard? Did Howard Perkins think the property was abandoned? That no one would notice?

The load filled Gary’s truck bed. As he closed the tailgate, Krystal came out on the deck in a white terrycloth robe, cigarette dangling, hair wrapped in a towel, drink in hand.

“Where ya goin’?”

“Omma drive up the road and return this asshole’s garbage. Wanna come?”

“Aw I’d love to, hon, but I just tinted my hair.”

Gary took off his gloves, tossed them in the truck and drove away. Four feral hogs crossed the road in front of him. Seemed like they were getting worse. What caused this recent explosion in the feral pig population? Could it be global warming? They were a good source of protein and if things got worse, Gary would do most of his shopping in the forest with a gun. He wished he still had that commercial freezer he’d left behind. A one hundred and twenty-pound pig yielded at least sixty pounds of meat. The bacon tasted a little gamey, but Gary liked gamey. One pig could feed them for two months. Some people claimed to have seen monster feral hogs back in the forests and swamps. Thousand pounders. You needed more than a twenty-two to stop those monsters.

Or they could just be legends, like Sasquatch, the hodag, and the Loch Ness Monster.

A stucco arch framed the entrance to Wokenoki Village. Some of the letters had fallen off and it now read Woke…illage. Dusty date palms stood sentinel on either side, more growing beside the road that wound through the village, which looked like it dated from the seventies, with about sixty trailers splayed out according to the serpentine streets. Most were of the three-bedroom, two bath design, with extended living rooms, broad awnings, raised above their concrete foundations, fading in the sun. Howard Perkins lived at 1229 Whaler’s Way in a gray house that looked like a shipping container, with an attached carport throwing shade on a dull red Dodge Ram. Gary backed up so that his tailgate was ten feet from the two wood steps leading to Perkins’ door, put on his gloves, stuck his pistol in the small of his back, opened the tailgate and started shoveling.

Five minutes later Perkins’ front door opened, and Perkins appeared, shirtless, flabby chest covered in white fur like an angora sweater, gut flopping over his brass belt buckle, wearing floppies, a high red forehead surmounted by a wisp of white hair.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Perkins croaked.

“Are you Howard Perkins?”

“Fuck you! Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops.”

“This is your shit, you dumb ass. You dumped it in my yard last night, or don’t you remember?

“How do you know that’s my shit?”

Gary reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a solicitation. “Your subscription to Underage Pussy has elapsed.” He tossed it to the ground. “You might want to renew.”

Perkins looked ready to explode. He shook in fury. He went back into his house and came out a minute later holding a samurai sword. “Now you get the fuck outta here before I do some serious damage.”

Gary reached behind him and held his pistol at his side. “Look here, motherfucker. Where do you get off just dumping your shit in my yard? What kind of man are you?”

“I’m a veteran, you piece of shit! I was in the Army! I was in Iraq! You ever serve?”

“You think that gives you the right to just dump your shit on somebody else’s property? Have you no shame, sir? At long last, have you no shame?”

Perkins stared hard. He deflated. He looked down. The samurai sword hung at a sad angle. “Awright. You got me. I was having a bad night.” He doubled over and coughed into his fist. He coughed and coughed. The last cough trailed into a rattle of phlegm. Perkins regained his composure. “The trailer park threatened to evict me if I didn’t get rid of my shit pile. I’ll tell ya what. Let’s you and me load it into the back of my Ram, and then I’ll drive sixty miles to the nearest landfill. But I ain’t got jack for the fee. They charge fifteen bucks.”

“You want me to pay your dumping fee?”

“I’m just telling you the facts. That shit still here at sundown, I’ll be homeless. You want a homeless veteran on your conscience?”

Gary admired Perkins’ brass. He pulled out his wallet. “How do I know you’re gonna do it? Maybe I better come with ya.”

“Hey, if you ain’t got nothin’ better to do, we could use your truck.”

Gary handed Perkins the shovel. They put all the garbage back into Gary’s truck and headed out, turning right on Brody Street. Fifteen minutes later they headed east on Eighty toward Belle Glade. Perkins smelled like tobacco and booze. Even with the windows open at sixty miles per, it was hot in the truck. Perkins had a coughing fit. Gary reached into the door bin and handed Perkins a napkin from Burger King.

“Who the hell are ya, anyway?” Perkins said.

“Gary Duba. I live at the end of Brody on the swamp.”

“Yeah, I’m real sorry about that, my eyesight ain’t so good anymore. I don’t even remember seeing a house. I just thought it was the end of the road. There was a lot of junk there already.”

“That’s my stuff, and I don’t know how you could miss my trailer. It sits four feet off the ground.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I’m sorry. I appreciate your helping me.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ else to do.”

“What you do for a living, Duba?”

“I’m a roofer. Sometimes I help a friend who’s in pest control.”

Perkins hawked and spat out the window. “Florida ain’t lackin’ for any pests, that’s for sure.”

Twenty minutes later they pulled into the West County Transfer Station in Belle Glade, stopping at the gate to fill out forms and pay the fifteen-dollar fee. A man in a yellow hard hat directed Gary into a warehouse-like building, where he backed up to an iron rail above a steel container. Another worker opened the gate and motioned for them to transfer the load.

On the way back, Floyd called. “You up for a little pest control?”

THIRTY-SIX

AN UNUSUAL PROPOSITION

The house was in an older subdivision in Pahokee, stucco with Spanish tiled roof, that peculiar lawn endemic to Florida that resembled astroturf, with old palm trees lining the street and shading the front yard. Floyd’s truck was parked in the driveway when Gary arrived at eleven. The occupants had left for the day. Floyd greeted Gary in the driveway.

“Simple job, I just need an extra hand. I got three jobs today.”

“What are we dealin’ with? Palmetto bugs?”

“Termites. We’re gonna have to fumigate. Full body armor and gas masks.”

Gary suited up. “You want a little pick-me-up?”

“Did you bring coffee?”

“No, man. Blow.”

Floyd pulled on his one-piece orange coverall. “You need money so bad, don’t waste it on blow.”

“No, man. I come into a supply. We was out scootin’ around in the swamp and we found a sealed picnic container filled with the stuff. I got El Cheapo selling it and we’re gonna split the profits.”

Floyd lit a cigarette. “You gotta be shittin’ me. You ain’t got enough problems you want to get busted for dealing?”

“No, man. El Cheapo assumes all the risk. What do I know about moving wholesale blow? I just need a little money to tide me over.”

“Help me tent the house.” Together, they manhandled the tightly folded house tent out of the rear of the van and began unfolding it in the front yard. The process took over an hour. Once unfolded, Floyd remained on the ground using a pole to hand the back end of the tent to Gary on the roof. They had the house fully tented by one-thirty.

They hooked the portable generator up to the blower and began to fill the tent with sulfural sulphide. Neighborhood kids skated by with flat-brimmed hats turned sideways. The chug of the generator vied with lawnmowers in a symphony of suburban clang.

“You need money so bad I know a guy who will pay you big bucks to smuggle tarantulas into the country. He’s done it numerous times. He’s got a system.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“His name is Rolf Panny. Lives in Kissimmee.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“I think it’s Rumanian or something.”

“Well why not? Can you give me his phone number?”

“Let me call him first.”

Panny and Gary agreed to meet in Yeehaw Junction at seven. Gary phoned Krystal. When they were done fumigating the house, Gary took a yard shower with a garden hose and changed into clean clothes he kept in his truck.

They met in the Cracker Barrel on Forreston Road. Panny was easy to spot, seated at a corner table wearing a striped red and black shirt, metal-framed rectangular glasses, with a greasy comb over that looked like music paper. Gary introduced himself and ordered a cup of coffee.

“How do you know Floyd?” Gary said.

“We belong to the same Civil War Reenactment club,” Panny said with a thick Eastern European accent.

“But aren’t you from Rumania?”

“I have always been fascinated with American history. I will pay you ten thousand dollars to bring in three hundred Mexican red kneed tarantulas. There is no risk to yourself. I have perfected a system. You will fly to Mexico City and return the same day. The tarantulas will be confined to a piece of checked-through luggage filled with plastic compartments. I have an arrangement with customs officials in Orlando.”

“What do you do with them, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Some people prize them as pets. Others use them for environmental control. They are not ferocious; they do not creep upon you while you’re sleeping and bite. They have an insatiable appetite for insects, beetles and crickets. They are shy, nocturnal creatures.”

“Yeah, all right. When do you want me to go?”

“The tarantulas are ready for pick-up now. Can you leave tomorrow? I will give you the money to purchase a round-trip ticket in and out of Orlando. I will pay you half in advance, half on delivery. At the Mexico City Airport, you will meet a colleague of mine who will give you the suitcase. She will greet you upon your arrival. She will wear a green blouse. Her name is Maria. When you see her, say ‘My uncle is sick, but the highway is green.’”

“My uncle is sick, but the highway is green.”

“That is correct. I want you to take United Flight #234, which leaves Orlando at ten-fifteen tomorrow morning.”

“That don’t leave me any time to go home. Time I get home, I’ll just have to get up and drive up to Orlando.”

Panny passed Gary an envelope. “Here is five thousand four hundred and fifty dollars. The four hundred and fifty is for travel expenses. Take a room at the Orlando at the Day’s Inn. You can leave your vehicle in their parking lot. I will greet you upon your return and drive you to your vehicle.”

Gary tucked the envelope into a pocket of his cargo pants and extended his hand. “Mister Panny, we got ourselves a deal.”

He sat in his truck with the windows down and phoned Krystal. “Babe, I got a gig, and I won’t be home until tomorrow evening.”

Krystal sounded hyped-up. “Okay. Jen and Barb are over, we’re having a little wine party.”

“Wine? You sound like Mickey Mouse on helium.”

“Don’t be a spoil sport! What’s the gig?”

“Well it’s kinda hard to explain. I’m a courier, sorta.”

“You ain’t trying to courier no drugs, are you?”

“Fuck no. You think I’m stupid?”

Gary checked into the hotel at ten-thirty. The clerk didn’t bat an eye as Gary handed him two hundred-dollar bills. The clerk made change and handed Gary his key card.

“There is a complimentary breakfast every morning between six am and ten-thirty.”

“Do they serve meat?”

“Alas, no. It is mostly cereals, juices, fruits, muffins and doughnuts.”

Gary thanked him and rode the elevator to the sixth floor. It was a standard hotel room with a king-sized bed facing the flat screen TV, a bland landscape hanging above the bed. Gary cranked up the AC, took a shower, lay on the bed in his skivvies and turned on the television. Non music accompanied scrolling pictures of hit movies, resorts, and other Day’s Inn delights. When the Sandals ad came on, Gary switched off the television and the lights.

THIRTY-SEVEN

WHOLE FOODS IS BROKEN

Krystal woke at ten Friday morning and realized they were out of toilet paper. Head pounding from last night’s soiree, she threw back a couple ounces of Canadian Club, smoked some killer ganja, and did a couple lines. She dressed in pedal pushers and a long-sleeved white men’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the tails tied across her taut belly with the FiFi tat, got in her old blue Pontiac G6, unlocked the glove compartment and raided her secret stash for her food stamps. Gary would shit if he knew. He was a proud man.

Krystal flitted from job to job like a butterfly. Dollar Store cashier, Chili’s waitress, Merry Maid cleaning service. The only reason she worked was to fulfill her twenty-hour per week requirement for the food stamps. She made a little money playing poker with the girls. She hoped to test her mettle at the Seminole Hard Rock in Tampa. Krystal had upped her poker game to the point where none of her friends would play with her.

Was she ready for the big time? There was only one way to find out. Last year she’d won twenty-seven thousand dollars playing video poker at Seminole Brighton Casino on the other side of Okeechobee. It had been her main source of income. She dreamed of playing in high-stakes poker games like her hero, Annie Duke.

She drove to the Whole Foods in Belle Glade. The lot was almost full. She parked in the row farthest from the restaurant, easing her Pontiac in between a BMW SUV and a Tesla. She did a line. The parking lot was filled with Lexuses, Infinitis, Mercedes, Leafs, Priuses, and trail-rated Jeeps. The broad entrance was festooned with hanging flowers exuding a pleasant aroma. She caught a glimpse of herself in the store’s gleaming facade, her hair now copper. She liked the new tint.

Inside she grabbed a cart and deliriously cruised the halls of plenty. She plucked a Cabernet and a Merlot in the wine aisle, asparagus and broccoli in the RESPONSIBLY GROWN aisle, fair trade coffee, two packages of Moon Cheese, cruelty-free boneless chicken breasts, and two frozen lobsters.

Three of six check-out lanes were open, all with long lines. Most shoppers brought square-bottomed grocery bags emblazoned with Whole Foods, or Gold’s Gym, or Hialeah Chamber of Commerce. Krystal was dying to light up. She’d been standing in the same place for five minutes staring at a magazine rack displaying Sustainable Living and Living the Keto Way. What was the hold up? She stepped out of line to see a stout woman in black hip huggers and a super baggy shirt that said, “HOP! HUMANS OFF PLANET!” The woman had brought six of her own bags and staked her territory from the end of the conveyor belt to where it disappeared beneath the cash register, the space filled with bags of nuts, organic kale, organic beets, ancient grains and quinoa breads. As the cashier waited patiently, the woman was going through her feedbag purse looking for just the right amount of change.

A Problem Shopper.

Why did they always get in front of Krystal? At the post office, there was always some skinny Asian guy trying to ship a machine gun to North Korea and pay for it with a bank draft or a personal check.

Krystal wanted to grab the Problem Shopper by the back of her neck and throw her to the ground. God, she needed another line and some bourbon. Hang in there, baby! The end was in sight.

She wondered about Gary’s new gig. What if he were lying when he said it didn’t involve drugs? But why would he lie? Gary wasn’t a liar, and they were already sitting on top of eight keys. Well, one key, since they gave the rest to El Cheapo. Krystal wondered if it had been wise to keep so much around the house. There was always potential for abuse.

Someone tapped her and she jumped.

“Eep!”

She turned to see a gaunt old man with white hair grinning. “Sorry! The line is moving. You better close up before somebody sneaks in there.”

“Oh. Oh! Thank you.”

Finally, it was Krystal’s turn. She placed her items on the conveyor belt. The pierced and inked woman cashier said, “Plastic or paper?”

“Paper, please. We use them over and over.”

As the cashier rang up each item, Krystal bagged them herself in two large paper bags, placing the frozen lobsters in last.

“One hundred and eight dollars and seventy-nine cents.”

Krystal smiled and handed over a hundred dollars in food stamps. “I’ll pay the rest in cash.”

The cashier stared at the food stamps. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You can’t use food stamps to purchase alcoholic beverages.”

“What do you mean?” Krystal sputtered. “I’ve used food stamps here before.”

“Yes, but you can’t purchase alcohol with them. That’s the law.”

“ARE YOU SHITTING ME?”

The clerk looked around anxiously for back-up. Shoppers paid attention. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside while I call the manager.”

“WHAT? AFTER ALL THE MONEY I’VE SPENT IN THIS SHIT HOLE?”

The manager, identifiable by his shirt, tie, and determined expression, steamed her way. He stopped in front of her.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to leave.”

Krystal grabbed the frozen lobster out of the bag, ripped it free, and hurled it end over end like a shuriken across the breadth of check-out lanes. Shoppers marveled at its rotation and speed until it struck a potted ficus tree in the plants department and fell to the ground.

“That’s it,” the manager declared. “I’m calling the police.”

Seizing the other frozen lobster, Krystal fled. As she approached her car she wondered if she had time to do another line before she skedaddled. Better not. No doubt Whole Foods had the cops in their pockets.

As Krystal headed out of town on Marigold Boulevard ten miles over the limit, two cop cars passed her, lights blazing, sirens whooping, going the other way. In her rear view, she watched them both stand on the brakes and pull a U-turn in the middle of traffic. Damn. Someone must have followed her out to her car.

Krystal hit eighty on Eighty, took the Fanouk exit, which ran along the Fanouk Canal. She thought she’d given them the slip when the flashing red and blue appeared in her rear view. She didn’t have a plan. She’d always had trouble with authority figures, which was one reason she and Gary got along so well. They saw eye to eye on so many things.

Abruptly, the crumbling gray blacktop, the consistency of goat cheese, dissolved into pure dirt which wouldn’t have been a problem except that a turtle appeared abruptly right in Krystal’s path and she swerved instinctively to avoid it. The car hit a hummock, was momentarily airborne, and belly-flopped into the canal.

Krystal sat there a minute breathless. The airbag didn’t deploy. What a rook! What if she’d been in an accident? She should sue the manufacturer.

The whoop of sirens drew her attention. Water was up to her knees as the vehicle settled to the bottom of the canal. Krystal extricated herself through the driver’s side window and climbed on top of the vehicle. She waved the frozen lobster.

“COME AND GET ME, COPPERS!”

THIRTY-EIGHT

EL NARIZ

Eleven p.m. Thursday night found El Cheapo parked at the curb across the street from Tango’s Night Club in South Beach. He’d put the word out and received word back. An old clubbing friend, Tomas Villaneuve, would meet him in five minutes. A transplanted Columbian, Villaneuve ostensibly worked as a booking agent and talent scout for the many South Beach and Miami night clubs.

El Cheapo waited with the windows down, listening to the Afro/Cuban All Stars playing softly on his CD player, smoking a Cohiba, wearing Emporio Armani men’s jeans, Skecher loafers, and a silk shirt in a purple and yellow pattern. He spotted Villaneuve in his rear view, sauntering up the sidewalk wearing a narrow-brimmed fedora, carrying a man purse, a tall man with a Frank Zappa nose and mustache. El Cheapo waved through the open window. Villaneuve came up on the passenger side and slid inside bringing with him the scent of Versace Dylan Blue. Villaneuve had never really recovered from Versace’s death.

They slipped skin.

“Hombre!” Villaneuve said.

“Tomas. How are you doing?”

Villaneuve shot his cuffs revealing a Tag Heuer on his left wrist. As a young man, Villaneuve had raced Formula One for Honda. Two races. He failed to place, yet he was an expert on all things automotive.

“I am doing great, my friend. I have bookings from one end of Miami Beach to the other. I have sexy babes from one end of the beach to the other. And if you are looking to install a sound system in your car, I am your man.”

He looked around. “A vehicle such as this deserves a superior sound system. What are you running?”

El Cheapo used the steering wheel control to crank the volume until the vehicle, the boulevard, and the very waters themselves were doing the Latin boogaloo. Giggling young women, boys on boards, spandex-clad cyclists all looked his way. Laughing, Villaneuve put his hands to his ears.

“All right! All right!”

El Cheapo turned the volume down and started the engine. “Let’s take a drive.” They took Venusian Way to Miami where El Cheapo pulled into Duarte Park, stopping the vehicle beneath a spreading acacia tree. A handful of other vehicles were scattered around the parking lot, some glowing softly, others burbling with bass. El Cheapo opened the center console, removed the brick of blow and set it in Villaneuve’s lap. He handed Villeaneuve an amber bottle and a tiny silver coke spoon.

Villaneuve did a one and one. His head snapped back. “Whoa, Mama!” He reached into the front pocket of his pants and pulled out an envelope. Turning on the cab light, El Cheapo quickly counted the cash. He started the engine and headed back for Miami. His next appointment was at midnight.

El Cheapo waited for a Panamera to pull out of a space on the boulevard, then expertly parallel parked his massive Cadillac. Villaneuve slipped the brick in his man purse, got out, saluted, and dashed across the boulevard toward the Cameo Lounge. Elbow in the breeze, El Cheapo smiled at the pretty young things walking his way, listening to the surf and the faint bass boom of a nightclub across the street. Traffic was busy but slow, with jaywalkers dashing across the four-lane highway. A thick Samoan dashed right up to El Cheapo’s car, slid in, and stuck the muzzle of an automatic beneath his chin.

“Hey,” El Cheapo protested. “Hey! You got the wrong guy!”

“No, I don’t, motherfucker,” the Samoan said in a soft voice. “Drive or I’ll splatter your brains all over the ceiling.”

Tossing his cigar out the window, El Cheapo pulled out into traffic, following the Samoan’s directions as they once more headed across the causeway to Miami.

“Listen,” El Cheapo said. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, motherfucker, I know who you are. Do you know who El Nariz is?”

A cold metal settled in El Cheapo’s gut. He knew what was coming. The Samoan directed El Cheapo to a warehouse west of the Orange Bowl, the retractable door sliding up into the roof. They drove into a vast, dimly lit space with hundreds of cardboard cartons stacked against the walls. The door closed with a flesh-shredding shriek. There were three other men at the far end of the warehouse, one seated behind a gunmetal desk on which sat an old fashioned banker’s lamp with a green shade, the other two standing behind him, looking at El Cheapo as the Samoan marched him up to the table and shoved him down onto an old wooden chair with arms. Goons two and three swarmed out from behind the desk and fastened El Cheapo’s wrists and ankles to the chair with plastic wire harnesses.

El Nariz was a huge man with a conning tower nose and a receding chin which he tried to hide behind a black brillo beard, his eyes gleaming raisins beneath a beetling brow.

“Do you know who I am?” he growled in a South American accent.

“El Nariz. We both worked for El Mordito back in the day.”

“I don’t remember you.”

“I was just a lowly lieutenant. You were a colonel.”

“Ha!” El Nariz barked. “So, we are brothers in arms!”

“We both came here for the same thing, my colonel. A new life, a new opportunity. I am in no way threatening your operation. I have my own list of clients. I did not mean to poach on your territory.”

“And yet here you are.” El Nariz reached into his desk and pulled out the brick El Cheapo had just sold to Villaneuve. Villaneuve must have handed it off as soon as he got out of the car.

“I did not know you and Villaneuve were doing business! I never would have sold to him.”

“I own two nightclubs in Miami. I know Villaneuve well.”

“He sold me out. How do you know he won’t sell you out?”

El Nariz held up a finger. “Excellent point. I know because there is no one higher up the ladder, and because he knows what will happen to him if he does. Search him.”

The Samoan expertly went through El Cheapo’s pockets removing his wallet, his gold-engraved pocket-knife, his phone, and several packages of gold Trojans, which he placed on the desk.

El Nariz calmly went through the wallet, removing and lining up the cards, counting the money. Setting the phone aside he picked up a package of Trojans between index and middle finger.

“Safe sex.”

“My colonel, if you’re willing to overlook this indiscretion, I can tell you where I got the blow. I swear, I’ll never set foot in Miami Beach again!”

El Nariz reached down and set a machete on his desk. “I have no doubt that you will tell me everything.”

THIRTY-NINE

THE BLACK DILDO

They booked Krystal into the Glades County Jail Friday afternoon. The bored woman cop who fingerprinted her said without looking up, “Look who’s back.”

“Nice to see you too, Edna.”

A matron wearing blue latex gloves walked her back to the big holding cell, steel benches bolted to the floor, holding a dozen women. Two huddled in a corner. Six sat rapt in front of the flat screen TV behind the chain mesh grill tuned to The Shopping Channel. The other four sat by themselves. As the door slammed shut behind Krystal, a big, wiry black woman who looked like she played pro basketball stared at her in amazement. For an instant, Krystal thought she was going to get in a fight, but the woman’s expression morphed into delight.

She came right up. “Ain’tchoo the Black Dildo?”

Krystal put a hand to her face. “I am so embarrassed.”

“What for, girl! You should hold your head up! I watched that video myself about a dozen times, and everybody I know loves it! They should give you some kind of medal!”

The woman turned to the room. “Hey! Y’all know who this is? This is the Black Dildo!”

She grabbed Krystal’s hand and held it up like the winner of a fight.

Every woman except one sad soul in the corner stood and applauded.

“ALL RIGHT!”

“YOU GO, GIRL!”

They crowded around, reaching out to touch her as if she had healing properties.

“How you like that big black cock?” asked a wan white woman with a blue neck tat.

“It was a wedding gift. I got me a real man. I don’t need no lady’s aid.”

“I hear that!” whooped one.

A statuesque black woman with short blonde hair closed in. “You swing my way?”

Krystal smiled. “Nope. Sorry!”

“Well lookee here. With your moves, you ought to wrestle. You ask for Downtown Brown at the Roxy. You tell him Cleo the Magnificent sent you.”

“Are you serious?”

Cleo the Magnificent’s chin hung low. “Duh! I’m tellin’ you, you already got the name recognition. First time you appear, I betcha you’ll get a full house, and if you’re lucky, they’ll televise it. My real name’s Latisha Forbes.”

The basketball player stuck out her mitt. “Airwrecka Jones.”

“Krystal Duba.” They shook. Then everybody else wanted to shake, high-five and fist bump.

Airwrecka pushed people back. “All right, all right, give her room. Whatchoo in for?”

“I tried to buy wine with my food stamps. So they called the manager and I threw a frozen lobster at him. Then the cops chased me, and I went into a canal.”

Airwrecka nodded sagely. “Been there myself. Now look here. You got name recognition, girl. I don’t know who put up that video, but you a private person. You got the right to your own video. People will pay big bucks to advertise. You got a Youtube channel?”

“No.”

“Who put up that video?”

Suddenly, Krystal saw things clearly. “Jen. Jen put up the video.”

“Who Jen?”

“My best friend.”

“She ax your permission?”

Now Krystal was getting mad. “You’re right! That’s me on the video. I didn’t give her no permission!”

“You should sue her.”

“No, she ain’t got shit. What I should do is take over ownership of that video and start selling ads, like you said.”

“Now you’re talkin’. Now omma do your hair.”

A female guard came up to the gate. “Duba, it’s your call.”

Krystal perked right up. “Who? What?”

“It’s your turn. You get one phone call.”

The guard accompanied Krystal to a wall phone where she phoned her mother.

“Trixie, it’s Krystal. I’m in jail again.”

“Whazzat you on the news?”

“What for?”

“Crazy lady waving a lobster.”

“Yeah. Can you bail me out?”

“How much?”

“Won’t know ’til morning. Probably a thou.”

“Jesus, Krystal honey, I ain’t got that kind of money and neither does Stanton. Did you call Gary?”

“Gary’s out of the country right now. You call him. He should be back this evening.”

“What do you mean out of the country?”

“He took a job to fly down to Mexico City and bring something back.”

“What do you mean, bring something back? He ain’t involved in drugs now, is he?”

“Of course not! It’s just a favor for a friend.”

“Well I’ll try him right away, but he ain’t got any money neither.”

When Krystal got back to the holding cell, Airwrecka went to work braiding her hair into corn rows, using a comb. First, she washed Krystal’s hair in the stainless-steel sink, using liquid soap from a dispenser in the wall.

“Then I part the hair in rows from front to back,” she explained as she went to work. “Then I divide the first row into three small sections, and make the first braid stitch…”

“How do you know this?”

“I got a degree from the Fuhrman School of Cosmetology in Miami. I’m licensed to braid, dye, cut, and curl. I been workin’ at Miss Thing’s Hair Salon down in South Miami.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“Girl, that’s a long story.”

“We ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“That’s true. Well my man Graham come up with a plan to sell pedigreed papillons.”

“Oh, I love papillons!”

“Me too. They are so sweet. Anyhow, what I din’ know, Graham was making up those pedigrees himself. He’s a printer, see, so he knows how to make up all sorts of things. Fake certificates and documents, things like that. He just did it as a goof for his friends all these years, you know, when someone retirin’, they ax Graham to make up a certificate World’s Biggest Crybaby, or World Fart Champion. He make up all these impressive seals and things, you look at ’em you swear they’re real. There’s elected officials who have Graham’s certificates on their walls and they don’t even know they’re fake.”

“Where’d he get the pups?”

“Well Graham knew a lady breeds ’em from painting her house. These was unplanned pregnancies. Her Papillon and a schnauzer. That’s what tipped ’em off I think. Those Papillons, they didn’t look quite right. They call ’em ‘Butterfly Dogs’ on accounta the ears, but these here, they was more like moth dogs or somethin’. Anyway, they had moth ears.”

“I told him, Graham. You may as well make up new certificates that say these here are Moth Dogs, and you tell ’em it’s a new breed, and you’re waiting to hear from the American Kennel Club ’bout recognition. But he says to me, don’t you worry about it, sweet thing. These people don’t know a Chiuahaha from a pitbull. ’Cept he was wrong about that, and when this lady tried to verify her pup’s pedigree, the AKC set her straight.

“Graham was ready to give her her money back, but no. She wants to go on Judge Judy. So, we got tickets for the show. You can bring one guest. So, we fly out there, they put us up in a nice hotel, and then we do the show. She was a nasty bitch, that woman who sued Graham. Her name was Nancy Something, from Palm Beach. Just nasty. She makin’ all sortsa racist comments and shit. She brings the dog. Judge Judy looks at that dog and says, ‘I know dogs. And that’s no Papillon. Judgment for the plaintiff for five thousand dollars. Step out, please’.”

“But that was in Los Angeles,” Krystal said, trying to keep up.

“I know it was, but then I saw that bitch down at the Quik-Mart last night and I put her on her ass. And that’s why I’m here.”

FORTY

IN OLD MEXICO

Benito Juarez International Airport smelled like ozone and diesel until Gary reached the main concourse, when it acquired a subtle fish aroma, with overtures and undertures of human sweat. It was eleven in the morning. Gary was to meet Maria in the Caramba Lounge, a tropical-themed bar at the head of the main concourse. Gary wore a pale-yellow Banlon golf shirt with the tails out as he paused by the green rail and gazed into the interior, dimly lit with bamboo blinds covering the windows, fake macaws, a bamboo bar, and plastic palm trees. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, but once they did, Maria was easy to spot, sitting in a corner banquette with one shapely leg draped over the other, wearing a pleated skirt and iridescent green blouse, nursing a drink with a tiny parasol, smoking a cigarette.

Gary walked over. “Maria?”

She regarded him from beneath palm frond lashes, glancing at the bench.

“Sit.”

Gary slid in. “I’m Gary from Florida.”

“I know who you are.”

Gary wondered what to do.

“Do you have something to say to me?” she said with a soft Mexican accent.

“Oh. Oh! My uncle is sick, but the highway is green!”

“Yes. Would you like something to drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

Maria raised her hand and immediately a young man in black slacks and white shirt appeared. Gary ordered a Bohemia. Maria raised her almost empty glass indicating a refill.

“My flight ain’t for an hour. Where the spiders?”

Maria blew smoke at him. “Don’t say spiders. They are here, in this suitcase.” She toed a large black suitcase with concealed wheels. “You will have to check it through at the boarding gate. There are no worries. Everything is prepared.”

The waiter appeared with their drinks. Maria insisted on paying.

“Thanks for the drink!” Gary said, holding up his bottle. They clinked. “So, what do you do, Maria?”

She looked at him for a minute. “I sell luggage.”

“Ahuh. Well I’m a roofer.”

“You are not roofing now.”

“No, I’m between jobs. Waitin’ for the next big blow. That happens, I’ll be busier than a tick on a dog. I hate good weather. It’s bad for business. But I got a plan. I ain’t gonna roof forever. I have invented something to keep your house tethered during a big blow. Here, lemme show ya.”

He brought up a picture of his house and showed it to Maria. She stared at it for a second, then her eyes slid off. “You had better get going. You have a ways to go.”

“Ahuh, sure. You’re right.” He slugged the rest of his beer and took the big black suitcase by the handle. Twenty minutes later, he stood outside the gate waiting for his group to be called. He noticed a skinhead in an oversized gray hoodie several people in front of him, the hood back to display his pale orb with blue frogs inked behind the ears. The skinhead checked a small suitcase.

At last they called Gary’s group, condemned to find the odd middle seats toward the back of the plane. The skinhead found a middle in row twenty-two. Gary’s only choice was a middle seat in the second to last row between an old woman with a parrot perched on her shoulder, wearing a tiny pájaro de terapia vest, and an austere businessman in cheap gray suit in the aisle seat. Smiling, Gary edged past the businessman and took his seat. The parrot was on the woman’s left shoulder. It turned toward Gary.

“CHINGA TU MADRE!”

The woman colored and turned. “Cantinflas! Be nice. I am sorry, senor. My parrot has very bad manners. He was this way when I got him several years ago. His previous owner ran a bar.”

“No problem. Gary Duba, outta Turpentine. Where you headed?”

“I am Lupe. I’m going to Orlando to visit my daughter. I suffer from post-traumatic stress syndrome, so I must have Cantinflas with me to keep me calm.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Lupe. Were you in the army?”

“No. You cannot tell it, but I had very bad plastic surgery done on my breasts. I was once a beautiful woman.”

“Lupe, you’re still a good-lookin’ woman. Anybody tells you different, they’re fulla shit.”

“Thank you, Gary. I have never been to the United States. This is my first trip. I am very nervous. I am praying to the Virgin that they will not quarantine Cantinflas when we arrive. I don’t know what I’ll do if they take him away.”

“Is your daughter meeting you at the airport?”

“Yes.”

“You ask her to take you to Universal Studios. It’ll blow your mind!”

“Oh, I have heard of it. And Disney too!”

“Either one’s a good time.”

They could see the flight attendant working his way toward them in steerage. Eventually he arrived, a middle-aged man with a hairline mustache, handing out cold soft drinks and tiny packets of albino peanuts. Lupe fed a peanut to Cantinflas. The skinhead two rows up fussed his way into the aisle, entered one of the rear water closets and stayed there for fifteen minutes while other passengers worked around him. He bothered Gary. Gary didn’t know why. Something about his demeanor.

Lupe pulled out her camera and showed Gary pictures of Esmerelda and her two-year-old son Joaquin, photos of Cantinflas dressed as a gaucho with a little sombrero and kerchief around his neck, pictures of her cactus garden on the porch of her Mexico City high rise.

After twenty minutes, a flight attendant knocked on the water closet door and the skinhead skulked back to his seat.

Gary nudged Lupe. “You see that dude?”

“What dude?”

“The skinhead?”

“Yes, I thought he looked odd when he got on.”

“He makes me nervous.”

“Oh, do not even joke about such things! I prayed to the Blessed Virgin for a safe flight.”

“Can’t hurt.”

She took his hand in hers. “Let us pray to the Blessed Virgin together.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Lupe mumbled softly in Spanish.

A woman screamed.

A man leaped to his feet from his aisle seat, swatting frantically at his pants.

More screams. People popping out of their seats like prairie dogs. Confusion! Hysteria! Lupe gripped Gary’s hand with white knuckles. Something tickled the back of Gary’s hand. It was a tarantula. Cantinflas hopped from shoulder to arm and snapped it up. Its hairy legs protruded from the parrot’s beak.

The seat belt sign came on. Moments later, the captain spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened. We are aware of the situation. Please remain calm. Tarantulas are not aggressive by nature and if you don’t attack them, they will not bite. Their bites are not usually fatal. We have contacted Miami International and will make an emergency landing in forty-five minutes. In the meantime, flight attendants will go through the cabin and try to collect the tarantulas in plastic garbage bags. We apologize for the inconvenience.

“Chinga tu madre!” Cantinflas squawked.

FORTY-ONE

BOOM!

The remainder of the flight was like a horror movie with people moaning and scrambling despite the captain’s warning. Attendants tried to assure passengers that the tarantulas were not life-threatening, to little avail. A few brave souls used their vomit bags to trap the bugs and hand them to the attendants, who walked up and down the aisle clenching black garbage bags.

When a tarantula crawled up Lupe’s leg, she flicked it into the corridor with her finger. “These are very common where I live. If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.”

The only person who did not look alarmed was the skinhead two rows up, who remained absorbed in his personal device.

People moaned in terror, shrieked, prayed out loud in English, Spanish, and Farsi. Babies screamed.

A man raised his hand in triumph. “GOT ONE!”

“DIE YOU BASTARD DIE!” cried a woman with her shoe in her hand.

The plane gully whumped.

“CAN I GET A DRINK BACK IN HERE?” yelled a man several rows in front of Gary and Lupe.

The pilot came on. “This is your pilot. This is a difficult situation. Please don’t make it worse by acting out or leaving your seat. There are two flight marshals on board, and I won’t hesitate to ask them to restrain and charge any passengers who are disruptive.”

“DISRUPTIVE?” a woman cried in disbelief.

“CHINGA TU MADRE!” a young man bellowed.

“CHINGA TU MADRE!” Cantinflas seconded.

The flight attendants worked their way up and down the aisle, hanging on to the seat backs for support, making eye contact with every passenger. Some were bent over with their head on their arms.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, you have to put the tray up.”

And so it went, destined to be a Tom Hanks movie. Gradually the shrieks and exhortations tapered off as the flight attendants collected every loose tarantula in giant plastic bags. Several bumptious boys chased them down on hands and knees, using napkins and vomit bags.

“This is your captain speaking. We are landing in ten minutes at Miami International Airport. Folks, I want to get off this plane just as badly as you, but please. Keep your seat belts on until the plane has stopped taxiing. We will be landing at an unused runway and we will facilitate your deplaning as expeditiously as possible.”

Ten minutes later they were on the ground. Ten minutes after that, the plane lurched to a halt, the passengers threw off their seat belts and as many as possible crowded into the narrow aisle. Through the window, Gary watched several vehicles approach including Airport Security, Transportation Security Administration, a Miami PD cruiser, a fire truck, and a panel van.

Stair vehicles drove to the front and rear exits. The doors opened. The people surged. Flight attendants called for calm and an orderly departure. People sucked it up. Parents held crying infants. Some passengers clutched their emotional support animals including a peacock, an aardvark, and a pig. Cantinflas perched steadfast to Lupe’s shoulder.

People hastened down the steps as fast as they could as first responders rushed, eager to help. An ambulance pulled up. Airport Security, TSA, and the Miami PD held an ad hoc confab. More police arrived, directing the deplaned toward a ten-foot concrete abutment that served as the side of the runway.

“Over here, folks!” declaimed a police veteran wearing a ball cap, aviator shades, and a Stalinesque mustache. “We’ll have water for you shortly, and nurses for anyone with medical conditions. If any of you have suffered spider bites, please go see that man in the white coat.”

As Gary reached the bottom of the steps, he heard a scuffle behind him, turned around, and saw an angry woman facing the skinhead behind her. “Stop pushing! You’re not helping!”

The police waved them on. It was at least a thousand feet to the concrete abutment where several emergency vehicles had stopped. It looked like the Children of Israel crossing the Red Sea. The column moved fitfully, with the young singles leading the way, some helping the elderly. Gary and Lupe were in the middle. The panel van pulled up, the rear doors opened, and two nurses, one man, one woman, got out with kits. The man cupped his hands.

“Is anyone experiencing a medical emergency?”

Gary’s pulse red lined. Sooner or later they’d search the cargo bay and discover the source of the infestation. He looked around for a back door. No way was he going to leap to the top of that ten-foot barrier, and there was no concealment. The moment he broke from the pack the cops would be on him like Cantinflas on a spider.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. They were gonna bag him for smuggling wildlife and there was no one left to bail him out. Not at those prices. The judge would take one look at his record and throw the file at him. With his luck, it would probably be Judge Murphy. He would never see the light of day again. They’d call it an act of terrorism. He would spend the next twelve years in Raiford clearing brush or breaking up rocks.

He still had his phone. He dialed Habib, but the noise from jets passing overhead made conversation impossible. All he could do was yell into the phone, “Habib! It’s Gary! I’m stranded at Miami International! They may arrest me for smuggling! Please come and find me!”

Lupe smiled at him uncomprehending.

The skinhead lurked at the edge of their group bobbing up and down, looking nervous. A woman fainted, drawing law enforcement attention. As soon as the mustache cop turned his back, the skinhead bolted, running along the edge of the wall which stretched to infinity, like a Kafkaesque video game.

“Hey!” the cop yelled. “Stop!” He took off running.

Someone from the TSA took note, got in a plain sedan and gave chase. Everyone watched the wiry skinhead bound along with the cops at his heels. He had run perhaps an eighth of a mile when the TSA pulled in front of him and got out with their guns. The skinhead put his hands in the air as they forced him to his knees, and then on his belly, where they handcuffed him, raised him up, and put him in the back of the sedan.

The captain and crew were the last to deplane. As they walked by themselves across the blistering tarmac toward the wall, the passengers broke into applause. Even Gary found himself clapping and cheering. Emergency responders had not yet entered the plane, as there was some discussion of fumigation. Gary wondered if he should give them Floyd’s card.

The plane bulged comically like a silver party balloon before it leaped in the air and split in the middle like an overcooked bratwurst. Seconds later, the shock wave hit them, and then the boom.

FORTY-TWO

THE PEANUT MANIFESTO

Runway Fourteen D looked like a war zone, with emergency vehicles surrounding the smoldering wreckage of the airplane pumping water. The airport set up a triage unit in a United hangar where doctors and nurses treated the injured, deciding who should be sent via ambulance to three area hospitals. Not only was the airport closed-down stranding thousands of travelers, airports up and down the East Coast closed-down.

Gary, Lupe, and Cantinflas were not even knocked down. Lupe’s daughter was on the way from Orlando. Krsytal didn’t answer her phone, but Trixie had called.

“Gary, Krystal’s in jail again in Glade County. Causing a public disturbance and resisting arrest. Gary, I’m afraid she’s on drugs again. Oh honey, I don’t know what to do! Call me.”

Gary called her back and left a message. “Don’t worry, Trix. I’ll get her out.”

After calling Trixie, Gary called the jail and learned that Krystal was being held on a thousand dollars bail. He asked Lupe if her daughter would give him a ride to Turpentine. By the time they passed through customs and stepped outside onto Northwest Twenty-First Street, it was nine p.m. A smiling tourist in a Tyrolean hat and patched elbows approached them at the curb.

“Nice parrot!” he said in a German accent.

“CHINGA TU MADRE!” Cantinflas replied.

The man tipped his hat and moved on. Lupe raised her arm and waved as Esmerelda pulled up in a Nissan Rogue, hopped out, and embraced her mother. Cantinflas danced onto the daughter’s shoulder.

“Thank God you’re all right! What a terrible thing to happen! It’s a miracle no one was killed!”

“Yes, it was just terrible. I wasn’t worried. I have dealt with these spiders before.”

A police officer pointed at them and waved for them to move on.

“This is my friend Gary. Would you mind giving him a ride?”

“Of course! You have no luggage?”

Gary spread his hands. “It was destroyed in the explosion. I left my truck in Orlando.”

Gary got in back. Cantinflas perched on Lupe’s seat back and gave him the hairy eyeball.

“Don’t start with me,” Gary warned.

Esmerelda negotiated the tricky exchange onto Nine Fifty-Three heading north, expertly inserting herself between a semi and a Mercedes, working her way over to the second of four lanes. Miami gleamed like a jeweled crown to their right.

“Joaquin is dying to see you!” Esmerelda said. “I can’t wait to squeeze him! And how is Faustino?”

“He’s fine but he works too hard.”

Esmerelda’s husband was an optometrist in Winter Park. Mother and daughter talked family.

“And you, Gary. What do you do?”

“I’m a roofer.”

“What were you doing in Mexico?”

“I was, uh, just visiting a friend for a few days.”

“It is a miracle that we survived! Can you imagine! How did those spiders get on the plane? Not just one spider, but hundreds! Do you think they had anything to do with the explosion?”

“I doubt it,” Gary said. “Spiders don’t know much about bombs.”

“And they have no idea who set the bomb off?”

“Yeah, I got an idea, but I don’t know nothin’ about him.”

Esmerelda turned on the radio and switched around until she found WIOD.

“Police have arrested Ronald Baitch, a twenty-five-year old Uber driver from South Miami. Last night, Baitch posted a bizarre manifesto from a Mexico City cyber-cafe. It reads in part:

I have warned the airlines repeatedly, and United in particular, that their peanuts are deadly to people of allergy. I have tried to raise awareness about this situation for years. I have spoken. I have posted. I have tried to contact them over and over. But they will not listen. I have also warned them about the pretzels. They will not listen until it’s too late. Well now it’s too late. I have also warned them about the Funko Pops...

“Ronald Baitch is in police custody,” the news reader said, “and while he doesn’t deny setting the bomb, he claims he knows nothing about the tarantula infestation which caused the plane to make an emergency landing one hour short of its scheduled landing in Orlando. Baitch has a long history of threatening establishments that sell peanuts. He was arrested last November for creating a disturbance at a Safeway in Coral Gables...”

“Wow,” Esmerelda said. “That guy really doesn’t like peanuts.”

“You have to admire him. He was willing to give his life for his cause. I’m not crazy about airline peanuts myself.”

“No one likes them,” Lupe said.

“PEANUTS!” Cantinflas erupted. “RAWWK! PEANUTS!”

“Almost nobody.”

Traffic was heavy until the Five Ninety-Five, which was a straight shot to Twenty-Seven, where traffic was light. Esmerelda dropped Gary at the hotel at two in the morning. It was five a.m. when Gary finally pulled into his yard. The predawn light showed two feral pigs rooting around beneath the trailer. Gary was too tired to even shout at them. He pissed in the yard, went inside, and collapsed, falling asleep almost immediately.

He dreamed he was being chased by feral hogs through the swamp, but his path was blocked by a massive alligator. Suddenly a green parrot landed on the gator’s head.

“CHINGA TU MADRE!” it shrieked.

Gary woke up. It was two in the afternoon. Krystal was still in jail. He used the broom handle to check the toilet. No snake. Even so, he was nervous as he perched on the throne. There was no telling when some water moccasin would swim up through the depths and bite him in the ass. Although the bites were seldom fatal, no one wanted them. Gary showered, put on his last pair of clean pants and a T-shirt printed with a tux and tie so as to appear respectable, and headed out to the Glade County Jail.

It was three when he pulled into the visitor’s lot and walked around to the front door. LIZARD ON A STICK was parked across the street. Gary did a double-take and crossed the street where four people stood in line. When it was his turn, he stepped up. The fresh-faced Dominican gave him a cheery smile.

“What can I make for you?”

“You don’t remember me?”

The kid squinted. “You look familiar.”

“I owe you from last week.” Gary slid a twenty across the counter.

“Oh yes, now I remember. Thank you very much. You want anything?”

“No, I’m here to get my baby out of jail.”

“Well hokay then. Good luck.”

Gary crossed the street, entered and went to the booking desk. Bail was one thousand dollars. The bored clerk took his identification and ten hundred-dollar bills.

“Wait here.”

Ten minutes later Krystal collected her things and exited, looking like a Barbie doll that had been chewed up and left in the rain, her hair in corn rows. She threw herself into Gary’s arms. They left for home.

“What was that all about?” Gary said.

“I tried to use food stamps to buy some wine. You’d think I shot up a church!”

“Who did your hair?”

“Airwrecka. She says I should check out pro wrestling. Also, we got to get a hold of Jen. She put up that video and it’s getting millions of hits. We could be making money.”

“I’m all for that.”

FORTY-THREE

SNAKE FREE ZONE

Gary owed the IRS four hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars. They sent him a threatening letter. He laughed. He sat at the folding Formica topped table that was their breakfast nook reading portions of the letter to Krystal, who, in a rare moment of uxorial energy, was frying eggs on the little electric stove.

“How you want these eggs?”

“Over well. Jesus. How long we been together? You know how I like my eggs!”

“Down, Fang! What crawled up your butt and died?”

“All I ever think about is money. This trailer’s all we got. What happens if the IRS comes and takes it away?”

“Nobody wants this trailer. This trailer is a piece of shit. It doesn’t even have wheels. If it’s a mobile home, why doesn’t it move? Now Panny’s gonna be pissed I didn’t deliver his spiders.”

Wearing an old terry cloth robe, her feet in fuzzy bunny slippers, Krystal put her hands on her hips, spatula jutting at a forty-five-degree angle. “If you’re so worried about money, I talked to this gal in the joint who used to wrestle professionally. She says with my reputation I would have no problem finding a manager and getting on the pro wrestling circuit.”

“Huh?”

“That’s right.”

“What reputation?”

“Helloooo! I’m the Black Dildo!” she used a double-handed grip on the spatula to reenact her moment of triumph.

“Seriously?”

“If I’m lyin’, I’m fryin’.”

“You are fryin’.”

“I meant if I’m lyin’, I’m flyin.”

“Who’s this pro wrestler?”

“Cleo the Magnificent, but her real name is Latisha Forbes. You can look her up. She was never in the top tier, but there’s a lot of women wrestling out there. Events all over the country, at state fairs, Masonic Temples, local arenas. She was with the Pro Wrestling Alliance. They got a lot of leagues. Chick Fight, Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling, Naked Women’s Wrestling League, Women Superstars Uncensored, Shimmer...”

“Uncensored, what does that mean?”

“Use your imagination.”

Gary used his phone to look up Cleo the Magnificent. He marveled at his ability to operate this futuristic device, straight out of a comic book, and yet his seeming inability to make a living. Maybe if he got one of those talking helpers like Siri or Alexa.

Alexa, how do I make money?

Cleo the Magnificent was a statuesque black woman, six two, one hundred and seventy-five pounds, not an ounce of fat on her. She looked like she could suplex a mule.

“But you can’t wrestle!”

“The fuck I can’t! You wanna try me, tough guy?” She struck a McGregoresque pose. “Come on. Let’s go. If yer yella, we can just arm wrestle on the table!”

Gary laughed. “Have you ever wrestled?”

“I told you I wrestled in high school.”

“Your high school had girls’ wrestling?”

“No! I trained with the boys. It was fun! I did it when the coach wasn’t around. Those boys were all eager to grapple with Krystal, ’til I got ’em on the mat. My brother Lester wrestled, and he taught me all the moves.”

“Did she tell ya who to call?”

“Yeah, she did. Let me think...Brown! Downtown Brown!”

“Who the fuck is Downtown Brown?”

“He’s a fight promoter down in Miami. Runs events every Friday night in Little Havana. Place called the Roxy.”

“You gotta be shittin’ me?”

“I got Seminole blood.”

Downtown Brown had his own website dedicated to Moxie at the Roxy. The next event featured Miranda Rights versus Junkyard Mama in the heavyweight division followed by a long list of colorfully named contenders.

Brown himself struck a Duke Ellington-like pose in tails and top hat, a light-skinned black man with a pencil mustache.

“But he’s a promoter. How’s he gonna rep you and host these contests?”

Krystal slapped two hardened discs down on Gary’s chipped china plate. “We won’t know unless we ask. Don’t worry your pretty, little head about it. I got his number.”

“Well what the fuck. Ain’t like I got something else goin’ on.”

After breakfast, Krystal took a shower while Gary patrolled the property with his handgun looking for feral hogs and rabid raccoons.

“I’m livin’ on the fuckin’ frontier out here,” he muttered. “Critter paradise. Well, you lunkhead, you chose to live on a swamp.”

Gary bought the property nine years ago using money he got in a settlement resulting from a traffic accident. That’s how he’d met Habib.

Gary picked up trash that had floated or blown in and stuffed it in a plastic garbage bag. By the time he got back to the house, it was half full. He’d spotted a couple gators out in the swamp, but they were too far away to plug.

Florida’s alligator population was out of control. If one attacked your dog, it was against the law to shoot it. What kind of sense did that make? Didn’t these fucking morons who passed law own any pets? Last year, gators killed twenty-five dogs. They found a woman’s arm in one gator’s belly. Out in the swamp among the loners and indigenous, no one kept track of death by gator. Official figures put last year’s tally at two, but that was almost certainly low.

If a gator was willing to throw itself into a rich man’s pool, they would stop at nothing. They were all over the golf courses. The National Golf Association was convening on whether to pass a gator “by” to the rule book.

When he got back to the house, Krystal was sprawled on the deck in an Adirondack, wearing capri pants, a halter top, and cat’s eye sunglasses, talking on the phone. She held up a finger as Gary came up the steps. He went inside, cranked the roof-mounted AC to the max and took a shower. He checked the toilet. It was a snake free zone.

He got all his laundry stuffed into two bulging duffel bags and put them in the back of the truck. Krystal came dancing down the steps.

“I just got off the phone with Downtown Brown! He wants to meet with us this afternoon!”

“Aw, I ain’t drivin’ into Miami today. Be like a zoo.”

“He says he’s willing to meet us at Weston.”

“Fuck what else I got to do?”

FORTY-FOUR

DOWNTOWN BROWN

The Cracker Barrel lay in the lee of a mall that also housed an empty Sears, a defunct Waldenbooks, an empty Montgomery Ward, a thriving vape shop, a liquor store, an American Black Belt Academy, and a tropical fish store. It was four-thirty when they entered the restaurant, doing brisk business that Sunday afternoon. Downtown sat at a table by the window wearing a chocolate au lait three-piece suit and gleaming ruby tie, hair slicked back in the manner of Cab Calloway. He looked up as Gary and Krystal entered, an enormous grin appearing on his face.

He stood, extending both hands to clasp first Krystal’s and then Gary’s.

“Love your hair!”

“This is my husband Gary.”

They sat. Gary ordered a coffee. Krystal ordered a vanilla milk shake.

“Here’s the deal,” Downtown said in a rich baritone. “I’m a fight promoter. I can’t take a proprietary interest in the fighters or no one will trust my fights. But I know a headline marquee when I see one! Krystal, I don’t have to tell you that you are now a household word.”

“I’m so excited!”

“What I aim to do is to hook you up with a manager friend of mine who’ll put you on the roster, put you through a little training, and land you a gig.”

“Ain’t that a conflict of interest?” Gary said.

“No sir. I’m a promoter. How’m I gonna make a living unless I know the managers and trainers? Ain’t no thang. We all know each other. That’s how it is in the fight game. I useta box. I was four and six in light heavyweight with the Global Boxing Federation in 1999. But I weren’t no champ. I could see that. Decided to get out before I lost my mental faculties. I’d wrestled in high school, and I always loved pro wrestling. It’s a way for me to make a living and stay in the fight game.”

He turned his brown eyes on Krystal. “Whatchoo weigh?”

“’Bout one hundred and thirty, I reckon.”

“You don’t look like you need to lose much weight. You can wrestle at one twenty-five.”

“When do I start?”

“Not so fast, honeychile. I wouldn’t throw you to the wolves. You got to do a little boot camp first. Ludlow will see to that. Ludlow Kudlow. He manages Charmaine Pain, Ella the Propella and Queen Kong.”

Krystal stared blank-eyed.

“Ahmina have to bring you up to speed.” Downtown reached into the Gladstone sitting on the chair next to him and handed Krystal a pair of DVDs. Best of Ladies Wrestling, volumes one and two.

“This’ll help familiarize you with the game. Also, you’re gonna have to change your name.”

“What’s wrong with Krystal?”

“Not that name. You can’t call yourself the Black Dildo for obvious reasons. Now I’ve been thinkin’. How does Steely Danielle sound to you?”

Wrinkled foreheads. “It’s okay, I guess.”

“You’re not familiar with the provenance of Steely Dan?”

“Well I’ve heard of them, sure.”

“Hey, that’s just my two cents, as a seasoned promoter. I already spoke to Lud, and he’s very excited about you joining his roster. He asked you to call him.”

Downtown slid a card across the table.

“What does Ludlow want me to do?” Krystal said.

“Believe it or not, pro wrestling is a serious business. Wrestlers are real athletes, even if the outcome is predetermined. He will put you through a training regime and teach you the basic moves. He’s got a gym in Lauderdale, has a few rooms for athletes to stay over so you don’t have to drive back and forth.”

Gary took Krystal’s hand. “You up for this?”

She shrugged. “What else I got to do?”

“You gotta have a look,” Downtown said.

“I already got a look.”

“I guess you do.”

“I got a hairdresser. Airwrecka. She’ll help me out. She’s a big fan.”

“By the way. The league tests for drugs. Is that going to be a problem?”

Gary looked up. Krystal looked away.

“What makes you think we’re drug addicts?” Gary said.

Downtown put both hands up. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. I have no interest in your personal lives, but they are gonna test you. But that’s a while off.”

“Are we talking about marijuana, or what?” Gary said.

“Yes. I know it’s ridiculous, but if you have traces of THC in your blood you can’t wrestle.”

“How’d you come to be a promoter?”

Downtown grinned. “Graduated Martin Luther King High School and thought I was hot shit. Played football, wrestled. Tried my hand at boxing. I got ranked in Golden Gloves, but my pro record was four and six. Play a little guitar, so I started playin’ the blues down around here. That don’t pan out, so I worked construction ’til I fell off a scaffolding and says to myself, fuck me, there’s got to be an easier way to make a living.

“One night I was down on Bustillo Boulevard in Little Havana and I see they’re having a ladies’ wrestling match at the Roxy. So, I go in there. And fuck me, if that didn’t turn my life around! ’Cause some of these women I got to know playin’ the blues, they wanted to rassel. They practically begged me to represent them. So, I went to being a trainer. Hoosier Mama was my first star. Second she starts winnin’, along comes Broderick Burke, big fish in these waters, steals her away from me. I could see any time I come up with a winner, Burke, or Fazula or one of those fuckers would steal ’em away from me. Now I always had a knack for gab. And I got the voice. So, when I heard they was lookin’ for an announcer, I jumped. Guess it was meant to be.”

“You make a living?”

“I got me a couple hustles. I still play blues, Sunday’s, at Macy’s Bar in Coral Springs. Y’all come down. There’s no cover charge. I only get tips, but we get a lot of pale white northern customers who think they’re listenin’ to Robert Johnson, so I do all right. I also buy cars at auction, fix ’em up, and sell ’em. Whatchoo do?”

“I’m a roofer.”

“Well I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you won seven mil in the lottery. How come you’re out here hustlin’ your old lady?”

Gary sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“I love long stories.”

“So, the first thing I do is I buy this house.”

“Don’t forget the Lambo,” Krystal said.

FORTY-FIVE

ASSORTED PESTS

The truck was their only vehicle now that the popo had impounded Krystal’s G6. They stopped at the laundromat in Turpentine and stuffed their laundry into two machines. While the machines whirled, they walked down Main Street window shopping. Krystal stopped outside the Turpentine Bakery and gazed longingly at the cakes and cookies in the window.

“Don’t let me go in there.”

“No way.”

“I’d eat everything in that window if I could.”

“You got to think about your training.”

“I been thinking. I have an idea for an invention. It’s like a cookie dispenser that delivers one cookie per hour, only it’s like a safe. It would weigh about a hundred pounds, be made of steel, and you couldn’t tamper with it. Maximum rate, one cookie per hour.”

“That’s a good idea,” Gary said. “We should start a think tank. You ever eat iguana?”

“Just that once. Why?”

“It’s not bad. Tastes like chicken. I’m thinkin’ a chain of iguana restaurants would do well down here. They eat ’em all the time all over the Caribbean. Lots of people from all over Latin America would flock to a good iguana restaurant.”

“Yeah? Who’s gonna run this operation?”

Memorial Park featured a plaque commemorating Civil War volunteers who made up the XIV Turpentine Regiment, which served under Stonewall Jackson. Gary and Krystal took a bench beneath a banyan tree and watched board punks do stunts. “Maybe I can show you some of my old wrestling moves.”

Krystal put her hand on Gary’s thigh. “Maybe you can show me that when we get home.”

They returned to the laundromat, transferred their clothes to the drier, and walked hand in hand the other way on Main Street, past the Cinemax which was showing Fast and Furious 19, Star Wars Episode XXXIV, and a new animated Pet Sematary.

“When’s the last time you took me to a movie?” Krystal said.

“That was about three Fasts and Furious ago. Why? You wanna go?”

“No. There’s nothing I want to see. Last time I was in a theater was with Jen last year when we saw I, Tonya.”

When they returned to the laundromat their laundry was dry. Holding a freshly laundered shirt to her face, Krystal declared, “This makes me want you inside me really bad.”

Gary felt himself quicken. “Fresh laundry makes you horny?”

“I can’t explain it. Let’s go.”

They piled the laundry into their plastic bins, put them in the truck bed and raced home. When they were almost to the trailer, two feral pigs cross the road in front of them. Gary laid on the horn and shook his fist.

“GET OUT OF HERE! GO ON!”

“Why don’t you run them over,” Krystal said.

“I don’t want their blood on my truck! If we’re gonna eat ’em, I’ll kill ’em fair and square.”

Each grabbing a laundry bin, they went in the house, tossed the bins on the floor and turned toward each other like two lampreys mating. Krystal drew her finger up Gary’s crotch. He gripped her left boob like a necker knob.

“Why don’t you go put on your Burger King crown?” she whispered.

“I’ll do that, little lady. Why don’t you put on something filmy?”

“Do you want me to dress up as a squirrel?”

“No, those animal outfits don’t turn me on. You know there’s people who dress up as all sorts of animals and they have orgies and you can’t tell who’s screwin’ who. It’s just a bunch of fuzzy shapes grindin’ and gruntin’. I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to get it, big guy. Want to do a line?”

“No, that shit makes me limp. And I’m tossin’ it all out in the morning. We got to get serious about this wrestling biz, which means no more blow for you.”

“Awww, you’re no fun!”

Gary went into the bedroom, stripped, and found the cardboard Burger King crown in the closet. Krystal went into the bathroom. Gary heard the water run, guessed there weren’t no snake, and wondered what she was doing in there.

She came out wearing crotchless silk panties, a domino mask, and fake vampire teeth. Gary threw her on the bed, and they wrestled, her on top then him on top. Up close, he could see the white rim around her nostrils. She was a machine. Gary was going to come but then he thought about all the money he owed and throttled back. They screwed like animals. Their brain patterns were the same. They weren’t thinking about dinner or advanced trigonometry. Sure, people thought about those things, but not during sex. Gary had never heard of Sigmund Freud, but he knew how important sex was, and how often it figured into decisions which, on the surface, had nothing to do with sex.

They screwed in the bedroom, then they screwed in the living room. Finally, he lined her up on the kitchen counter. Gary yipped like a coyote. Krystal tossed back her head and swooned, “Oh, oh, oh!”

Gary fell to the floor, exhausted. Krystal jumped down.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m more than all right, little lady! I am energized!”

“Seriously?”

Gary held up his hand. “Well I need help getting up.”

They put on shirts and curled up on the sofa to watch Swamp People. Two swamp people wrangled with a six-foot gator. One pulled on the line while the other awkwardly aimed a rifle. The gator kept spinning and spinning. “Shoot it!” the line wrangler exhorted.

“Y’know, if she’d use a pistol, they wouldn’t have this problem,” Gary said. “The gator’s right there, for fuck’s sake! Just use a pistol!”

“All these gators look alike to me,” Krystal said.

“You call that a gator! Wished I hadn’t burnt that gator back at the old place. Now that was a gator.”

“What would you do with it?” Krystal said, laying out a line on a smeared hand mirror.

“I’da stuffed that sucker and put it on the wall.”

Krystal leaned over and snorked. “Ain’t room on the wall.”

“Was at the old place. You better enjoy that blow while you can, ’cause come morning, I’m flushin’ it down the toilet. Maybe the snake’ll want it.”

“What if it’s different snakes? What if they’re comin’ up for a look-see? Then they go down and tell their pals.”

“What’s to tell? Ain’t nothin’ but a bare-bones trailer bathroom. Not exactly the Breakers. These snakes ain’t readin’ Town & Country. Fuck if I know how they get in there. Must come through the septic tank or somethin’.”

Tires crunched on gravel and light swept the room.

Krystal leaped up and grabbed the mirror. “Shit! We got company! Who’s gonna come out here this time of night?”

Gary went into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans as heavy steps came up the wooden stair. Gary turned on the porch light and opened the door. Rolf Panny stood there in a baggy gray suit and a face like a bulldog. Gary opened the door.

“Rolf! Come on in. How the hell are ya?”

Panny entered, looked around with a hint of disapproval. “I’ve come for my money.”

“What money?”

“I advanced you five grand to deliver those spiders. This you failed to do.”

Gary’s Adam’s apple oscillated. “What the fuck! I was nearly killed! You know we had to make an emergency landing in Miami! And why do you suppose those spiders got out? I never messed with the luggage! That’s on you!”

Rolf reached into his baggy trousers and pulled out a small automatic pistol. “Nevertheless, the fact remains that you failed to deliver and now I need my money back.”

FORTY-SIX

ONE THING AFTER ANOTHER

Krystal entered wearing blue jeans and a Shazam! T shirt. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Rolf, Krystal. Rolf hired me to bring in those tarantulas and now he wants his money back.”

“Are you shitting me? It’s a miracle he wasn’t blown to bits! The only reason anybody on that plane is still alive is because of those tarantulas!”

“Yes,” Panny said, “well you see, that’s to my credit, isn’t it? Do you think it would occur to Mister Duba to fly down to Mexico City and bring back those tarantulas? Of course not. He hired on to do a job. He failed to deliver. I’m only asking for what’s mine.”

“What are ya gonna do? Shoot me?”

“Don’t test me, Mister Duba. I served in the Rumanian Army. You may keep two hundred dollars for your trouble.”

“Well, see, there’s a problem. I had to pay some bills and I had to bail Krystal out of jail. Lemme see what I got.”

Gary turned to go into his bedroom.

“Not you,” Panny said. “Sit your ass down on that sofa.” He pointed the gun at Krystal. “You. Go get his wallet.”

Gary sat. “Do as he says.” His gun was in the truck. He only had thirty-five-hundred of the original five thou due to expenses and bail. He hoped Panny wouldn’t shoot him over that.

“Y’know, Rolf, I kept my end of the bargain. Ain’t my fault if some nut decided to blow up the plane. Weren’t for those spiders, we’d all be dead. Don’t that count for nothin’?”

“I congratulate you on cheating death. I’m happy for the passengers that survived. But this is business. You acquitted yourself well. Perhaps I will consider you for future jobs.”

“Don’t suppose you’d consider that five an advance?”

Panny grinned like Mr. Sardonicus. “It’s just business, Mister Duba. I’m sure you understand. Another time, I might let you hang on to it. But I’ve encountered a run of bad luck.”

Krystal stomped back in and forked over Gary’s wallet. Panny took out the cash, tossed the wallet on the sofa, and counted it.

“You’re fifteen hundred dollars short.”

“I had expenses.”

Panny stuffed the money in his pocket and looked like he was about to go when a shape loomed behind him in the open door. A machete snaked around his neck, and with a brutal swipe, cut Panny’s neck. Blood spewed on the gnarly throw rug as Panny fell on his face from a shove in the back. The man with the machete completely filled the doorway. He had a nose like a conning tower, a GI Joe beard that failed to disguise his receding chin and wore a serge blue suit with a white dress shirt, open at the collar. Ruby cufflinks gleamed on his wrists.

Stepping on Panny’s back, El Nariz entered. Panny gurgled and blood spewed. Krystal emitted a bird-like chirp.

El Nariz pointed the blade at Gary.

“Do you know who I am?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“They call me El Nariz.”

It took a minute for the dime to drop.

“Oh! You’re the coke guy from South Miami!”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

“You’re pissed about something.”

“You are not what I imagined. Who’s your supplier?”

“Well you may not believe this, but we found that coke all sealed up in a picnic cooler in the swamp.”

El Nariz regarded Gary with tiny eyes beneath a beetle brow. “Even if that were true, what made you think you could sell in my territory?”

Gary put up his hands in supplication. “Hey. I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’. My friend El Cheapo said he could move it, so I gave it to him. I didn’t know he was gonna step on your turf.”

“I killed El Cheapo with this machete.”

Gary’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Did you have to do that?”

El Nariz pulled a small automatic from his pocket with his left hand and pointed it at Krystal.

“Bring me all the coke you have.”

Krystal went back to the bedroom and returned with a quart plastic container filled with blow.

“Lay out a line,” El Nariz commanded.

Krystal knelt before the smeared mirror on the coffee table, used a plastic restaurant spoon to scoop up the gleaming crystal, shook it on the mirror, and used a Harley Davidson playing card to lay out a line.

“Hand me that straw.”

She handed the gangster a plastic straw cut to two inches. Without taking his eyes off Gary and Krystal, he placed the pistol in his pocket, picked up the mirror, placed it on the kitchen counter and hoovered up. He blinked.

“Isn’t it lucky that you just happened to find all that yayo floating in a picnic cooler. Wow o wow. This is the real deal. Feels good to me. CARAMBA!”

“Why don’t you just take it and go?” Gary said. “We don’t have any money. You see how we live.”

“Lay on the ground and put your hands behind your back. Don’t even think about making a move. I will stomp your ass to jelly.”

Gary did as he was told. El Nariz knelt with his knee in the small of Gary’s back, set down the machete, pulled a plastic wire harness from his pocket and fastened his hands tightly behind him.

“Roll over.”

Gary rolled over. El Nariz used another wire harness to lock his ankles together so that Gary lay on his back, unable to move except like a shrimp. His eyes fell on the discolored yellow headliner. Once it had been white. He really did live close to the bottom.

El Nariz stood and motioned at Krystal with the machete. “Now I’m going to take a shit. You’re going to stand right outside the bathroom door so I can keep an eye on you, and when I’m finished, we will decide what is appropriate for your transgression.”

He leered at Krystal. “I like redheads.”

Prodding Krystal before him, El Nariz pushed her back against a cabinet and went into the bathroom. He set down the machete and took out the automatic.

“Don’t make a move.”

“Oh God, this is gross,” Krystal said.

“What’s the matter? Haven’t you ever seen a man take a shit before?”

Krystal looked away. In the living room, Gary had wormed his way to the sofa and was trying to leverage himself back onto the seat. He kept a Buck folding knife between the cushions. He got to his knees and pushing against the floor succeeded in regaining his perch.

“What are you looking at?” El Nariz snapped.

Krystal turned away. “Nothing.”

El Nariz grunted. There was a splash. A fetid odor drifted out. Krystal stared at him in disgust. El Nariz’ eyes bulged. His mouth opened. He stood and with his pants around his legs, shuffled as fast as he could out of the bathroom and toward the front door, bellowing like an ox, a black tendril attached to his buttocks.

FORTY-SEVEN

ONCE MORE INTO THE SWAMP

Krystal ran out on the deck and watched as El Nariz made fifty stumbling paces toward his black Escalade and collapsed face down in the dirt. The snake attached to his butt let go and slithered toward the swamp.

“Ho. Lee. Fuck,” she said.

“What happened?” Gary asked from the sofa.

“Snake got ’em.”

“The snake?”

“That’s right.”

“Come in here and cut me loose.”

Krystal used a pair of shears from the kitchen to cut through the plastic. Gary sat on the sofa rubbing his wrists.

“Fuck an A,” he said.

Krystal giggled. Krystal barked like a dog. She and Gary laughed like hyenas as they shoved each other back and forth on the sofa.

Gary stood up. “Fun’s fun, but now we have to get rid of these bodies.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Same as Marvin.”

Gary knelt and searched Panny’s pockets, keeping his cell phone and a gold money clip containing two thousand eight hundred and fifty-nine dollars. He picked Panny up by the arms. Krystal took the legs and they carried him carefully down the steps, out on the dock, and tossed him into the boat where he landed with a thunk. The boat dipped minutely.

El Nariz was another story.

Gary got his pistol from the truck and approached the inert thug. A cottonmouth bite wasn’t necessarily fatal, but Gary wasn’t certain it had been a cottonmouth. Gary used his right foot to stomp El Nariz’ outstretched hand. No response. The man was dead. Maybe he was allergic to snakes. Maybe he had a heart condition. Coke’ll do that to ya.

“Search his pockets,” Gary said, holding the pistol on the drug kingpin’s head just in case. Gary had seen too many movies where the villain roars to life after being presumed dead.

Krystal reluctantly hunkered down and probed the big man’s pockets, pulling out a snakeskin wallet. Irony! She pulled out the .32 Beretta and car keys and set them aside. She peeled a gold Riesling watch off his left wrist, and the ruby cufflinks.

She went through the wallet. “Holy shit,” she said. “Holy shit.”

Gary gestured impatiently. “Gimme!”

Peeling off several hundreds and sticking them into the tight front pockets of her jeans, Krystal handed Gary the wallet. He stuck the pistol in his belt. The wallet contained over eight thousand dollars in cash, and four credit cards, two in the name of Emmanuel Ortiz, one with Eduardo Sariba, and one with Emilio Farrengetti.

“Finally,” Gary said. “A little cash-flow. Awright. Ahmina drag this piece of shit down to the end of the pier like I did Marvin. He ain’t no lightweight, but he ain’t no Marvin either.”

It was one in the morning by the time they loaded El Nariz into the pond skiff, the moon hanging low in the southern horizon. A light mist lay over the swamp as they roared away from the dock. Theirs was the last house on the road. There were no neighbors to upset, and sound from the highway a half mile away would drown them out.

Gary turned on the big spotlights mounted to the frame arching over the wheel. The skiff lay low in the water due to the weight up front. Slowly, Gary navigated the swamp, keeping his eye out for gators. He used a hand flash to look at surrounding hummocks. The hand flash picked up two sets of glowing red eyes close to the ground. Gators.

“Din din, boys!’ Gary sang. “Din din!”

As they headed toward the hummock, the gators glided into the water. Gary cut the engine. Eerie silence followed for a few seconds. Then the frogs, loons, crickets and mosquitos got back to work. The night chirped and hooted. Working together, Gary and Krystal strained to tip El Nariz’s two hundred and eighty pounds into the water. It hit with a splash and the front end bobbed up.

Panny was easier. They just picked him up like a sack of garbage and heaved him over the side.

Glowing eyes slithered from their perches on the surrounding islands and converged at the body dump, which churned frothy white, tails whipping, as the gators went to work.

“Hellfire!” Gary hooted. “Look at them gators eat!”

Krystal pulled a doobie from her tight pants pocket and lit it with a Bic, inhaling deeply and blowing a plume of smoke into the swamp. She passed the joint to Gary, who inhaled, exhaled slowly and inhaled again via his nostrils, like water flowing uphill.

The boat rocked gently in the ripples created by the gators. It was like a hot dog eating contest. Gradually, the thrashing subsided with each gator heading off in a different direction clutching its prize.

Gary looked at Krystal. “What a night.”

“Let’s head back.”

Gary was about to start the engine when he noticed something pale floating in the water just off the stern. He used a boat hook to draw it in. It was a picnic cooler sealed in duct tape. He hauled it into the boat, took out his pocket-knife and slit the tape. They opened it up. It contained eight keys of blow, presumably of the same quality.

“Aw hell no,” Gary said, tossing the open carton back in the water where it slowly filled and sank.

“Coked-up gators would make a good SyFy movie,” Krystal said.

“Yeah. Giant coked-up mutant gators.”

Gary started the engine and let ’er rip. They cruised toward home leaving a rippling wake in the glassy waters, the only sign of civilization the headlights of cars on the nearby freeway. When they got back to the dock, Gary put on a pair of blue latex gloves and searched the Escalade, finding a diamond tennis bracelet on the floor, a loaded .357 magnum in the glove compartment, and the complete works of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass in the center console.

Gary handed the gloves to Krystal. “We’ll leave it at the Palm Beach Airport.”

Dawn was creeping up in the east by the time they left the Escalade in long-term parking. They stopped at an IHOP on the way back for breakfast, arriving home at nine-thirty in the morning.

Gary flushed the bin of coke down the toilet. The night’s proceeds came to just over ten thousand dollars. After meeting current expenses including interest on their credit cards, they had a six thousand-dollar surplus, not counting what they owed the IRS, Visa, Mastercard, and AmEx.

FORTY-EIGHT

SWAMP PEOPLE

Tuesday, they drove to Fort Lauderdale to meet Ludlow Kudlow, a dead ringer for Disney’s Gipetto the Dollmaker in Pinocchio, with brushy gray hair and mustache. Ludlow wore Banlon pants, a pale-yellow knit golf shirt, penny loafers, horn-rimmed glasses and a yellow fedora. They met at Mitch’s Crab Shack in West Laurel, a nautical-themed restaurant with thick hawsers separating the outdoor eating area from the street, mounted marlin over the bar, and fishnets festooned with colored glass floats.

Ludlow was there when they arrived, seated outdoors beneath a Cinzano umbrella. He stood and smiled, showing yellow teeth and a hint of yellow in the ’stache, shook hands, and felt Krystal’s biceps.

“Very excited to work with you,” Ludlow said in an Australian accent “Even with no wrestling experience whatsoever, I believe that we can make a nice profit.”

“Not if she gets her teeth knocked out,” Gary said.

Ludlow laid both elbows on the table and grinned. “No worries. Every move is choreographed. The point of training is to teach you to perform the stunts without injury to yourself or your opponent. I have a gym here in town and some dorm rooms. I would like to start as soon as possible. I believe you will be ready for your first bout in a month.”

The waiter, a slim young Haitian in white shirt and black pants, took their orders: mimosas, crab, swordfish, and chicken.

“I’d like to start as soon as possible,” Ludlow said.

Gary looked at Krystal. She shrugged.

“Ain’t like I got anything else to do.”

“Can you start today?”

“What?” Gary squawked.

Krystal put her hand on his. “Gimme some of that cash, big daddy. I’ll buy what I need.”

“It’s unfortunate that you will be deprived of the delightful Krystal’s company, but it’s only until the weekend. I’m not a slave driver.”

Krystal held out her hand. Gary peeled off a thou and passed it over.

“I need a car,” she said.

“Hell, I got enough money to get your Pontiac outta hock.”

“It’s ruined. It was door deep in the canal. Let ’em have it.”

“Well honeychile, we don’t got a lot of spare cash at the moment. I know you think we do, but we still owe hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Their food came. While Gary and Krystal chowed down, Ludlow held up a finger. “This is not a get rich quick scheme. But it could be. First, you’ve got to win a few matches. Then we start crawling up the rankings. You’ve already got name recognition so that should guarantee good box office, but the real money comes when you join World Wide Women Wrestling. That’s the premier promoter. Fortunately, they are headquartered in Atlanta and they come down here all the time to see what’s goin’ on. I’m also working on a deal to televise the bouts on Telemundo.”

While Ludlow paid the bill, Krystal leaned in close and whispered in Gary’s ear. “I’ll call you tonight, big daddy, and tease you until you burst.”

“It’s a date.”

Gary kissed his wife goodbye and headed toward Turpentine. He stopped at the post office for his mail. The post office didn’t deliver out where he lived. The box was fat with bills, solicitations, coupons, and real estate fliers. Someone had tracked down his old address and assuming he was flush, was trying to interest him in another multimillion-dollar home.

The trailer felt empty with Krystal gone. Gary didn’t mind. His life had been crowded since that rabid raccoon appeared. He welcomed a little peace and quiet. He turned on the television. If he didn’t pay his Direct TV bill soon, he would lose all four hundred and twenty-seven channels. Swamp People was his favorite show. He loved to see them gators roll. Fetching a Dixie from the kitchen, he settled down in front of the television and rolled a doobie.

Every week the same thing. Gators. Got to get that gator population down before it threatened the kids. Two good ol’ boys were trollin’ for gators in a Caymas with a ninety horse Johnson. They were about to plug a six-footer when it broke for a commercial.

Habib Rodriguez stared stolidly at the viewer in a charcoal three- piece suit with gold tie, his hair slicked back.

“Have you been in an auto accident and your insurance company has failed to give you what you deserve? Call me, Habib Rodriguez, the Long Arm. I’ll get you what you deserve.”

A young woman with an aw shucks expression said, “I was stopped at a red light when I was rear ended. The insurance company wouldn’t give me what I deserved so I contacted Habib Rodriguez, and he got me ninety thousand dollars!”

Back to Habib. “I can’t guarantee that your injury is worth ninety thousand dollars, but we won’t know until we look. Call me. The consultation is free, and you don’t pay a cent unless we get a settlement.”

Back to the gators. Two women in a swamp boat, Lucille and Esther, with a stout pole reeling in an eight-footer. Thick as a linebacker, Esther wrestled with the line, wearing leather gloves while Lucille hunkered at the gunwale holding a big automatic in both hands.

The gator surfaced.

“Shoot it, girl! Shoot it!” Esther exhorted.

Coolly, Lucille double tapped the gator in the head.

“WhooooooEEE!” Esther crowed. “That’s shootin’!”

As they hauled the gator into the boat, Esther addressed the camera.

“We make the finest quality gator leather wallets, belts with Grade I and Grade II belly and back skins!”

Lucille held up a gator leather purse. “Y’all come see us at Lucille and Esther’s in Pahokee! If we ain’t got it, you don’t need it!”

Car tires crunched and light flickered across the room. Gary pulled his pistol from between the sofa cushions and went out on the deck. A beige Toyota Corolla had pulled up near the base of the steps and a spindle-shaped man in baggy trousers, a soiled white shirt and a beaten tie got out.

“Are you Gary Duba?”

Gary hid the pistol in the small of his back. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Andy Wurster. I’m manager of the Wokenoki Trailer Park. You know a Howard Perkins?”

“I just met him. Why?”

“Howard died last night, and he left a letter that says he wants you to have everything in his trailer. We gotta get that place sorted out ’cuz I got renters waiting to move in. How soon can you come over?”

Gary came down the steps. “How did he die?”

“He blew his brains out in his truck.”

FORTY-NINE

PERKINS’ TRAILER

Perkins’ trailer smelled of dust, cigarette smoke, and desperation. The living room was so crowded with paper boxes Gary had to turn sideways to make his way through to the kitchen. The kitchen counters were heaped with dirty dishes and the detritus of dishes past, including pizza cartons, empty Cheeto bags, empty beer cans, empty bottles of Peppermint Schnapps and Popov, and ashtrays heaped with used butts.

The letter said, “Dear Duba: On acount you had the balls to round up my shit and help me get rid of it without going to jail or some such shit, I’m leaving you all my stuff. Some of it’s good. That’s all. I’m checking out.”

Gary called the nearest chapter of the VFW, which was in Belle Glade and left a message.

“This is Gary Duba of Turpentine. Just want you to know that Howard Perkins killed himself last night. Howard said he was a veteran so y’all need to look that up.”

Gary tracked down Wurster, who was having coffee on his west-facing deck at nine in the morning. “What about Perkins’ body?”

“Coroner took it away afore you got here. You don’t want ’em sitting around in this heat.”

“Did he have any family?”

“Not that I know of. Maybe you can find something.”

Gary cleared a space on the threadbare cloth sofa, moved when he sat on a broken spring, and began going through the boxes. One box held nothing but men’s adventure paperbacks from the sixties including The Avenger, The Executioner, The Destroyer, Matt Helm, Sherlock Holmes and the War of the Worlds, Matlock, McCloud, Combat, Garrison’s Gorillas, Go Down Fighting, Dan Marlowe, and Jim Thompson. Gary knew from thrift stores that some of those books were valuable, but now it became a question of logistics and time. Did he have the logistics to move this shit to a warehouse location, and then did he have the logistics to post it up on eBay and ship it out?

Hell to the no.

There was Billy Bob and there was Alex Chow. There were two thousand other pawn shops up and down the coast. Gary envisioned himself driving from pawn shop to pawn shop looking for the best deal. He needed an expert. Somebody who knew collectibles, like those guys from Pawn Stars. Having watched a lot of Pawn Stars, Gary had a few ideas of his own, but the proliferation of cheap-jack reality shows like Pawn Stars and American Pickers had led to a generation of Americans looking to strike it rich with no effort. Gary knew from experience that making a profit from trash was hard business.

Nevertheless, he heaved the big cardboard box of old paperbacks off the crowded table, out the door, and into the bed of his F-150. Next was a box containing Franklin Mint models in their original boxes. This was more like it. Some of those old Franklin Mint cars were worth hundreds of dollars. Gary did a quick search on his phone. A used 1948 Tucker brought four hundred and fifty dollars on eBay. Likewise, the 1956 Nash Metropolitan, a 1953 Cadillac Eldo, and a ’63 Studebaker Avanti. That was eighteen hundred bucks right there, minus his time and trouble. They went in the truck.

Next was a box of VHS tapes, mostly porn. Perkins had been fascinated by certain body parts. Gary set those aside. Nobody wanted VHS. A heavy box yielded a complete run of National Geographic from July 1969 through January 1984. Nothing there.

There were unopened cases of Junket pudding, Tab Diet Soda, Cott’s Diet Soda, Moxie orange soda, Mr. Pibb, Vault, Tab, and Jolt. A case of Weasel Peters. Two hours later, he made it to the bedroom which barely had room for the queen-sized bed. It still bore Perkins’ indentation. Perkins’ closet contained a green cowboy suit with white piping, a yellowed ten-gallon hat, a dozen belts in cow, gator, and snake leather with some unique buckles, and the samurai sword.

Gary picked up the sword and eased it out of its enamel scabbard. The handle was wrapped in gold thread, with a faux gold pommel and hilt. It had been made in Spain. But it was not a cheap sword. It was made from high-grade steel and had been sharpened to a razor edge. Gary drew it all the way out, took it in both hands and made a few slicing moves, cutting the dusty window blinds.

There was a pair of boots from Lucille and Esther’s. Perkins wore a size twelve. Someone would want them. Perkins kept his jewelry in a faux leather box on his dusty dresser. Several bolo ties in silver and turquoise, some cheap Mexican silver rings, and a golden wedding ring engraved on the inside with “forever—Joan”. Only by clearing the massed boxes of wallets and pen knives was Gary able to reveal the mirror behind, in whose frame rested several yellowed photographs including one of a very young Perkins with a full head of brown hair and an aw shucks grin, holding a smiling, pretty brunette in a knee-length dress.

Gary took the photo and went in search of Wurster, whom he found in the trailer park offices talking to a young couple with a coon hound on a leash. Gary helped himself to the cardboard-tasting coffee and coffee mate and sat in a molded plastic chair flipping through the latest issue of Trailer Life until the couple left.

Wurster raised an eyebrow.

Gary showed him the photo. “Did you know Perkins was married?”

“No. Hardly knew the man. Been here fourteen years. Perkins been here nine. Trailer park’s a small place. You usually get to know your neighbors pretty good. Someone’s brewin’ meth or turning tricks, that’s hard to hide in a trailer park. But Perkins? Didn’t know nothin’ about him. Paid his dues on time, kept to himself, but he was always putting out trash. Way too much trash. I talked to him about it on numerous occasions. He had a junk pile goin’ just beyond the property back there near the swamp and I give him twenty-four hours to get rid of it or I was gonna ask the health department to condemn his property. That was last week.”

“He dumped it in my yard.”

“What?”

“Yeah. That’s how I got to know him,” Gary explained. “All I did was bring his trash back here, and then help him take it to the dump. And he leaves me all his stuff? That’s just sad, man.”

Wurster shrugged. “He may have had kids, all I know.”

“Well fuck. Now I gotta go through all his shit and find out. Christ. Somebody should know. It ain’t right that he leaves all his shit to someone he just met.”

“Yeah. How soon can you clear out that trailer?”

Gary put up his hands. “Hold on there, podnuh. Ain’t my job to clear out his trailer. You just said he left me his shit. That’s it. I’m takin’ what I can use and leaving the rest.”

Wurster put his chin in his hands. “What if I was to pay you?”

Gary thought about the six thou in his pocket. It wouldn’t go far, and he wasn’t above getting his hands dirty. “How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty.”

Gary did a quick calculation. Loading and making the round trip to the “recycling center” would take at least three hours each time. That was at least fifteen hours. That was only sixteen bucks an hour.

“Can’t do it. Ain’t there any kids around here? They’ll do it.”

“I wouldn’t trust these kids to carry a bucket of water.”

“Why don’tcha call them American Pickers?”

“I got to have that plot cleared out by the weekend. That trailer’s just junk now. Gonna cost me a thou just to have it hauled away. Well it ain’t your problem. How soon before you’re done?”

“Gimme another hour. Ahmina see if I can find any clue to his family.”

FIFTY

A VISIT FROM BURT

The old vinyl three-ring binder lay in the press-board dresser’s bottom drawer, beneath a collection of balled up socks. Someone had painstakingly snipped articles from the local papers, glued them to construction paper and saved them in the binder. The first notice was from the Port Charlotte Herald, announcing the Harriet Tubman High School’s valedictorian for 2003, Haley Beth Perkins. The old black and white photo could have been any seventeen-year-old girl.

Six months later, also from the Herald, young Haley had won a free trip to Washington to participate in Student Government Day, as a senator. It was four years until the next clipping, this one from the Tallahassee State Journal announcing that Haley Beth Van Droot had graduated cum laude with a degree in sociology at Florida State University, and planned to pursue her Masters in Law.

An ancient colored photograph showing the young Perkins, Joan and baby Haley at an outdoor picnic somewhere with palm trees in the background. Scrawled handwriting on the back said, “Swayne Family Picnic, 1987. Me, Joan, Haley.”

Somewhere between 2003 and 2020, Perkins and Beth had divorced.

When Gary came out with his last load, Wurster was waiting with two kids, a stout Mexican and a wiry white boy, both wearing leather gloves.

“You done?” Wurster said. “Can we get in there?”

“Go crazy. What you gonna haul it in?”

Wurster pointed to Perkins’ Dodge Ram underneath the desiccated fiberglass roof. “I got the keys.”

It was none of Gary’s business whether Wurster intended to appropriate Perkins’ truck. Gary wondered why Perkins hadn’t left him the truck. He’d let Haley know, if he found her. Gary drove to Belle Glade Pawn. Alex Chow offered him five hundred dollars for the ten Franklin Mint models. Chow wasn’t interested in the paperbacks.

He went into Center State Bank in Turpentine and deposited eight thousand dollars in his checking account, which would disappear as soon as he caught up on bills, leaving him with net debt in six figures. Next stop was the Turpentine Library to research some of the items. His phone just didn’t cut it. Staring at his phone, Gary always felt as if he were looking through a keyhole. He toyed with the idea of buying a regular computer with a flat screen monitor, but there really was no place to put it except the kitchen table, and he was afraid he’d spill beer on it. He’d barely gotten started when the librarian announced that the library was closing.

He pulled into his yard a little after seven, took the box of paperbacks and samurai sword into the house, returned to the yard and covered the truck bed with a tarp, tying it down with bungees. Heavy clouds scudded in from the west and there was a flash of lightning. He checked the swamp boat to make sure the rear drains were open and scampered up the steps just as the first heavy drops began to hit.

The aluminum trailer amplified the rain so that it sounded like a military barrage. Gary rolled a doobie, got a can of beer and turned on the television. No dice. The storm had knocked out service. He called Krystal.

“I’m wiped,” she said. “I’ve been doing calisthenics and shit all day. Ludlow’s a slave driver.”

“He feed ya?”

“He bought me dinner at Chick-Fil-A. How’s it with you?”

“You promised to talk me through my orgasm.”

“Gary, can I get a rain check? I’m just bushed. All I want to do is hit the hay.”

“Are you refusing me phone sex?”

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“I’ve half a mind to call a professional.”

“You do and I’ll cut off your nuts off with a rusty can.”

There was nothing left to do but take a shower. When Gary got out, he edged up the toilet seat with his foot. A snake curled comfortably in the bowl. It may have been the same snake it may have been another. Gary didn’t know if snakes were like bees, who died once they sank their barbs. He’d have to look it up.

“That’s all right, li’l buddy. In light of your service, ahmina just go outside and pee off the deck.”

The moment he stepped outside he was drenched to the skin. It didn’t matter because he wore no clothes. He went back inside, toweled himself off again, put on a pair of skivvies. He flopped on the sofa and picked up a Destroyer novel from the Perkins Collection. There was nothing else to do.

While he was asleep the rain stopped and he was visited by the ghost of Burt Reynolds, who wore an Elvis-like white and gold jumpsuit and held a golden harp.

“How could you lose seven million dollars like that?” Burt asked.

“It was easy! First we bought this house.”

Burt held up his hand. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear it. I talked to you about financial planning. Didn’t you visit that adviser?”

“Burt, all I think about is money! I got plans! My house suspenders will revolutionize the building industry.”

“Okay I might be able to help you on that. You’re gonna need a video set-up to catch the next hurricane, to prove that it works. Once we get that video, we put it up, it goes viral, you’re in business. The money will come rolling in.”

“Burt, I got another idea! A cookie dispenser that only dispenses one cookie per hour. Tamper proof! It would weigh a hundred pounds and made of case-hardened steel.”

“Why don’tcha just not buy cookies? Don’t have ’em in the house.”

“It’s for rich people with poor impulse control.”

Burt covered his face, turned away, and made a gagging noise. “Son, rich people can afford to hire others to eat their cookies for them. And if this thing’s hooked up to the internet? Forget it. Fifteen minutes after you turn it on it’s gonna be spewing cookies all over the house like a machine gun.”

“I can make good money smuggling spiders.”

“No, you can’t.”

Gary was exasperated. “Well what do you suggest?” he said a little too stridently, considering it was Burt Reynolds.

“Grilled iguana. Up ’til now, it’s just been treated as a novelty meat, but I’m telling you, millions of people throughout Latin America consider it a primary source of protein. You can’t call it Lizard On A Stick, ’cause that’s already taken. You start with one anchor location, a fancy, but not too expensive place called The Lizard Lounge. You can serve some fish and chicken if you want, but lizard’s the main attraction.”

“Are you serious?”

But Burt was gone.

It was morning and something was scratching at the front door. Gary opened the door to see a raccoon standing on its hind legs trying to get in.

“What?” Gary demanded.

“My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!”

FIFTY-ONE

AT THE IHOP

Having competed in gymnastics in high school, Krystal was better prepared than most for Ludlow’s syllabus: the powerslam, the powerbomb, the brainbuster, the backbreaker, the paddling blow fish, the foaming pipe snake, the piledriver, the Boston crab, the doomsday device, the suplex, the sharpshooter, the figure four, and the camel clutch. Despite their gruesome names, the moves were designed to be performed without injury. That was the whole point. Of course, you could also use the moves to inflict injury on the unprepared.

Krystal had never paid much attention to pro wrestling. It always struck her as fake, and it was, in a sense. Pro wrestling was a morality play with heroes and villains, a serial soap opera in which a hero could prolong his or her career by becoming a villain, and vice versa. The Mexicans had it down to a science, called Lucha Libre.

Lucha Libre meant “freestyle wrestling”, characterized by bizarre masks, elaborate scrambles, and aerial displays as wrestlers launched, leaped, and somersaulted off the ring posts in death-defying maneuvers designed to elicit oohs of awe. A luchadore’s mask is highly symbolic, and a symbol of pride. The most extreme form of lucha libre involved matches in which the loser agreed to forfeit his mask, a defeat so humiliating it often caused permanent withdrawal from the sport.

Ludlow’s gym was a converted warehouse with a ring, a trampoline, a padded floor, and three monastic dorm rooms upstairs. Krystal’s window overlooked an alley. There was a communal bathroom down the hall with two shower stalls. After a week of training she could feel the changes. Her muscles had become hard. The tiny bit of fat around her belly had disappeared.

Following Friday’s intense workout with Ella the Propella, Ludlow took both wrestlers to a nearby Qdoba. After they got their food and settled at an outside table beneath dusty palms, Ludlow said, “I know we’re moving fast, but if you feel you’re ready, I can get you a bout with Honey Badger in two weeks at the Roxy.”

“Who’s Honey Badger?” Krystal said.

Ella the Propella looked up from her taco. She was a stout Mexican with square shoulders who’d come off the Lucha Libre circuit. “She’s bad news. She gave Wampus Cat a torn Achilles tendon.”

“Listen,” Ludlow said. “I had a sit-down with her manager, and she promised me no shenanigans. You two will meet several days before the match and finalize your routine. You don’t get to come into the league and start winning, so it will go to a decision which Honey Badger will win. But it pays five thousand dollars. That’s four to you once I take my cut.”

“I’ll do it!”

“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. When we get back to the gym, we’ll watch some videos, so you know what to expect.”

Honey Badger, whose real name was Ruth Katchatorian, was a mesomorph from South Africa with a butch haircut, the top dyed white. She weighed one hundred and seventy pounds, and whenever she face-planted or suplexed an opponent, would hunch over, arms clenched, and snarl to the four corners of the ring.

“Be careful of her initial rush. She’ll try to bowl you over.”

“I thought this was all choreographed.”

“It is, and that’s her signature move. You have to be ready. You have to jam to the side, go low, and leave a leg out to trip her.”

Krystal and Ella got in the ring and worked until they both needed showers. Later, Krystal phoned Gary.

“Does this mean you’re coming home soon?” Gary said.

“I can have Sunday off. Did you get me a car?”

“I got three thou. You want a three thousand-dollar car?”

“Let’s hold off. I’m getting four thou for my first fight.”

“Fat City! I’ll pick you up.”

They had breakfast at an IHOP in Belle Glade. Two tables away sat a husband and wife who collectively weighed six hundred pounds and their four kids, aged two to six. The eldest child, wearing an appropriate striped top like a prisoner, sailed pancakes across the dining room like Frisbees while shouting, “UFO! UFO!”

Management huddled to deal with the problem. A pancake landed in front of Krystal, who forked it onto her plate, added butter and syrup, and chowed down. The little boy came over and stared petulantly.

“That’s my pancake.”

“It’s my pancake now.”

The little boy’s face twisted in rage and confusion. “MOMMEEEE!”

The manager spoke to his parents.

“EUSTACE, YOU GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!”

Eustace glumly returned to his table.

“That kid’s got a hard row to hoe,” Gary said.

“Do you think we should have a baby?” Krystal said.

Gary’s heart seized a piston. “Jeez! Kinda early to think of that, don’tcha think?”

“You’re thirty-six. I’m thirty. If we lived a hundred years ago, we’d be grandparents by now.”

“Well you’re about to embark on a career as a wrestler. Can we wait and see how that goes?”

“Of course. I just think about it every time we go to an IHOP.”

“Is this about your sister?” Eve lived in Tallahassee with her husband Marc, an IT guy, and had two children whom Gary had never met. Krystal had planned to invite them down to the new house, but now it was too late.

“Of course not. I just look around at all these happy families...”

Gary nodded toward Eustace.

The dad grimly shoveled food into his mouth. The mom poked and prodded at her phone. The children kicked one another beneath the table and fussed. It was warm in the IHOP despite the air conditioning and smelled of bacon and coffee.

The waitress dropped off their check. Gary stuck his credit card in the vinyl folder and set it upright. The waitress took the card and returned a minute later.

“I’m sorry, sir. The credit card company is denying your card. Do you have another card you’d like to use?”

Gary blinked. “What? Run it through again.”

“Sir, I tried that. Not only do they deny the card, they asked that we take the card from you and destroy it. I’m not comfortable doing that. Do you have another method of paying?”

Gary reached for his wallet, paid in cash, leaving a five-dollar tip.

FIFTY-TWO

MOXIE AT THE ROXY

The combatants met at the Roxy Friday afternoon to meet review their routine. Honey Badger was fifteen minutes late and walked with the exaggerated swagger of a bronc buster, accompanied by her manager, a cadaverous ectomorph named Eli, and her trainer, a dynamic, thick-set woman named Martha Grieves. They shook hands with Krystal, Ludlow, and Gary.

Katchatorian shook hands with a dead fish, didn’t look Krystal in the eye. They went into the ring where Ludlow and Grieves walked the wrestlers through their moves.

“Now we all understand that this is Krystal’s first professional fight, and she doesn’t win, but she can’t look like a newbie either. We’re all trying to make a living here.”

“I’m just thrilled to be here,” Krystal said. “And I want to thank Ruth for the opportunity.”

Honey Badger did a half wave. With her black sides and white top, she reminded Krystal of a Starbucks’ pastry. Clutching lists, Ludlow and Grieves acted out the bout, beginning with Honey Badger’s charge which would spring Steely Danielle into the ropes, from which she would rebound, performing a handstand reversal, her legs swinging around Honey Badger’s neck and taking her down. The bout proceeded through the powerbomb, brainbuster, and paddling blow fish, ending with Honey Badger pinning Steely Danielle with a face down leg lock. Krystal got to perform an aerial wurlitzer, a pro-bionic, and a fluffex. She would fight brilliantly, but inevitably succumb to a bigger, stronger opponent, thus setting her up for her next bout.

After the walk-through, Krystal and Gary went to a Cuban restaurant. They both ordered Cubanos, roasted pork loin, sliced ham, swiss cheese, mayo, and dijon on home-made bread. When they returned to the theater at five, Airwrecka was standing out front. Krystal rushed to her and they embraced.

“Girl! Thank God you’re here! You need to do my hair!”

“Well get me in there, girl! I invited a friend. I hope that’s all right?”

“You bet. I’ll leave the name with the box office.”

Krystal’s backstage dressing room contained a sink, a mirror surrounded by lights, and a mini-fridge stocked with mineral water and two suspicious Styrofoam boxes. Gary pulled one out and opened it, releasing an earth stench.

Holding the box at arm’s length, he went out into the hall and dumped it in a thirty-gallon plastic tub. The old theater smelled of sawdust, sweat, and makeup. He heard hubbub emanating from other dressing rooms in English and Spanish.

Downtown Brown appeared in a cafe au lait three-piece with flared trousers, a black shirt, ruby tie, and a matching Fedora with a pheasant feather thrusting gaily from the gray silk band.

“Mister Gary Duba!” Downtown sang coming forward with open arms. “How’s our girl?”

“She’s getting her hair done. We feel pretty-confident after the walk-through. Everyone is very professional.”

“Ain’t they? Well excuse me, I got to make the circuit. I’ll be dropping in on Krystal shortly.”

“Wait a minute, Downtown. When do we get paid?”

“Well you know first we have to add up the house receipts.”

“Oh horseshit! You don’t run a show like this pocket to pocket! How ’bout half up front or my girl walks.”

Downtown did a double take, assuming a wounded expression. “You don’t trust me? After bringing you into the game?”

“All we’ve seen is a lot of hard work and sweat. Come on, Downtown. Cough up.”

Downtown grinned like a Steinway Grand, pulled a roll from his pocket and peeled off twenty-five hundred in hundred-dollar bills.”

“Only because I like you!”

“We like you too, Downtown!”

Back in the dressing room, Krystal sat in front of the mirror while Airwrecka braided her hair into cornrows. Airwrecka wore a tie-dyed shirt, red hot pants, and three-inch stilettos, her hair topping out at seven feet.

Even without makeup Krystal was beautiful, with the upturned nose of a country girl. Gary opened three mineral waters, set two on the makeup counter, glugged the third. He heard the faint susurrus of the faithful arriving through the walls. The Roxy was built in 1925 and was on the Register of Historic Buildings. It had housed vaudeville, the silents, the talkies, rock and roll, rap, boxing, and now pro women’s wrestling.

There was a knock and Ludlow entered, wearing wide pleated pants and suspenders. He hip-checked Airwrecka, stood behind Krystal, kneading her shoulders. “How’s my sheila? You ready?”

Krystal held her thumb up. “I’m ready!”

“That’s my girl. Remember. This is just your first show. Let ’em see your personality. Play to the audience. Have fun out there.”

The thumb. “I’m down, Ludlow!”

“You go through the moves? Everything copacetic with Honey Badger?”

“We’re all pros here,” Krystal said.

“Excellent.”

There was a knock and Downtown entered.

“How y’all doin’? Krystal, you’re third on the ticket. The bouts start at seven and each one runs for about ten minutes, so I’ll be callin’ you at around eight-fifteen. Make sure you’re at Door C and ready to go a few minutes before that. You need anything? Water?”

“We’re good,” Gary said.

Downtown moved on. Airwrecka finished Krystal’s hair. Krystal had chosen a red one-piece leotard, nixing Gary’s suggestion of a black dildo silhouette.

“I want to be classy.”

At seven, Gary, Krystal, Airwrecka and Ludlow heard the PA system emit a preparatory squawk, and, like flies to sugar, were drawn to the arena where they took seats just off the main floor in shadow. The ring, four-feet off the floor, was surrounded by folding chairs laid out in rows. The theater, which could hold twelve hundred, held about one quarter that with boisterous families commandeering whole rows down front, two ringside long tables for sleazy announcers already slouched in their chairs drinking rum and tequila from paper bags, a couple of photographers roaming, and a sky cam attached to guy wires moving around over the stage.

Downtown held a cordless microphone.

“LADEEEEEEZ AND GENTLEMEN! WELCOME TO THE ROXY THEATER’S WEEKLY SERIES FEATURING THE GORGEOUS LADIES OF WRESTLING!”

Pause.

“¡DAMAS Y CABALLEROS! BIENVENIDOS A LA SERIE SEMANAL DEL TEATRO ROXY QUE OFRECE A LAS MARAVILLOSAS SEÑORAS DE LA LUCHA !”

“We have an exciting and dynamic card for you tonight, climaxing with the rematch for which you’ve waited fourteen months, SWEET MOTHER OF MERCY VERSUS MANDY MANGLEBAUM!”

Again, in Spanish.

Screaming, clapping, stomping, vuvuzelas. People kept streaming in. It was a surprisingly diverse crowd with many Latinos, blacks, frat boys, whole families including infants. The concession in the lobby was mobbed.

Downtown gestured like a matador. “And now, our first bout of the evening in the women’s one hundred and sixty-five-pound class, ZORRA versus TAWDRY AUDREY!”

The fighters entered from opposite corners. Zorra was a box-like Mexican with a fade leaving a thatch of red hair on top of her skull like a strip of Velcro. Tawdry Audrey was a rawboned hillbilly with freckles, her red hair incongruously done in corn rows like Krystal’s. Zora’s trainer and cut man were men, while Audrey’s were women.

Krystal nudged Gary and pointed toward Audrey’s trainer. “That’s Pitbull Pauline. She used to be a Chick Fight champ.”

Downtown gestured toward the stars. “OUR REFEREE TONIGHT...”

He looked around, feigning surprise.

“OUR REFEREE TONIGHT!”

A wide body in an XXXL striped sport shirt with the tails out bounded down the corridor and rolled into the ring.

“OUR REFEREE TONIGHT IS LEVON LEVIN!”

Levon Levin gestured the wrestlers to the center of the ring where they flipped each other the bird. Levon stood between them, his hand in the air.

“And…”

Chop.

“Fight!”

Downtown got out of the ring faster than Bruce Lee.

FIFTY-THREE

UNRETURNED BOOMERANG

As Downtown announced the winner, Ludlow took Krystal’s hands in his and looked her in the eye. “Let’s go backstage. You have to get your mind right before you enter the ring. I want to go over the fundamentals.”

Gary, Krystal, and Ludlow went back down the corridor to an outside hall filled with fighters going through their routines. Some stretched. Some walked around muttering to themselves and throwing punches. Ludlow led them to an alcove with some institutional chairs.

“The first thing she’s gonna do, she’s gonna bull rush you. You let her hit you about four feet from the ropes and hurl yourself backwards as hard as you can, up off your feet, and use the ropes to spring you back toward her. Then you go down on your hands...”

“I go down on my hands, do a backwards spring, and seize her head between my legs. I rotate like a spinning alligator and bring her down.”

“That’s it! You got it?”

“I’ve practiced it with Ella, and Honey Badger’s about the same size. I’m ready.”

“Okay. Remember, she’s gonna try to sharpen her bad girl credentials with a lot of huffin’ and puffin’ and maybe calling you names under her breath. Don’t let her get under your skin.”

“I can run the dozens same as her.”

People streamed out of the arena during the break to purchase popcorn, hot dogs, soda and booze, from the full bar in the lobby. Money changed hands.

From inside, Downtown announced the next bout in a stentorian voice.

“Next on our ticket, two outstanding contenders in the one hundred and twenty-five-pound category! Hailing from Havana Cuba, a bronze winner in Women’s Wrestling in the last Olympics in Fuji, Japan, fourteen and three since joining the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling...standing five four and weighing in at one hundred and twenty-five pounds, Los Glorious de los Los Arroyos, YANNICO THE PLANNICO ALDEMA!”

Chanting, screaming, cheering, vuvuzelas.

“And her opponent, hailing all the way from Minsk, Belarus, a former Girls’ Night Out flyweight champion, two-time Olympian, standing five six and weighing one hundred twenty-four and a half pounds, THE MINX FROM MINSK, NOVA STEPOVA!”

Cheers, screams, flying shoes, applause, vuvuzelas.

Ludlow bade Krystal sit. “Five minutes of meditation.”

Krystal sat in a folding chair while Gary stood behind her massaging her shoulders and arms. She felt like an athlete. Gary was stoked. Finally. After years of struggle, they would triumph, not through chicanery or luck, but through Krystal’s honest and heartfelt skill as a wrestler!

She was an entertainer, like Stevie Ray Vaughan or Larry the Cable Guy! With her buzz, there was no telling how far they could go. Someday they’d look back at this and realize that his luck in winning the lottery had been a mere blip, a hiccup in life no more notable than a free haircut. Someday they would live in a magnificent new home and laugh! Maybe they’d even buy back the old place!

It was still on the market. People said it had bad juju.

Airwrecka whipped around the corner and zeroed in.

“Y’all better get your ass out there. The Minx just pile drove the Planet.”

Wearing a towel with a hole cut in it, Gary behind her, hands on shoulders, Krystal waited at the entrance while patrons skittered hither and yon. Downtown stood on the ground talking to one of the reporters. Levon blew a whistle and pointed at his wrist.

Holding the wireless mic, Downtown stepped up and climbed into the ring, straightening his hat. He stood in the spotlight in the center of the ring for a minute, hands on hips, watching people flow back into their seats. Now the theater was half-full and there was an electricity in the air, a sense of anticipation.

Gary heard people whispering, “Black Dildo.” He hoped the name change wouldn’t hurt them.

“AND NOW! EL MOMENTO DEL DESTINO! THE MOMENT YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR! THE TOP SPOT IN OUR PRELIMINARIES! PRESENTING HER GORGEOUS LADIES OF WRESTLING DEBUT, FIGHTING AT THE CATCH WEIGHT OF ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO POUNDS, AN OVERNIGHT SENSATION. HAILING FROM NEARBY TURPENTINE, THE ONE, THE ONLY STEELY DANIELLE!”

“BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO!”

Gary craned his neck to see who was doing all the chanting and was surprised to see it was a mostly black section with Airwrecka on her feet leading them. They were joined by some leather-lunged rednecks and a contingent of goombahs in knit cotton shirts who looked like they’d been transplanted from Brooklyn.

Led by Ludlow, Krystal marched toward the ring, eyes straight ahead, Gary’s hands on her shoulders. Halfway to the ring, Patrice and Floyd lunged to the corridor and threw out their hands for slaps. Eyes straight ahead, Krystal slapped dozens of palms. All three climbed into the ring where Krystal bounced around burning off nervous energy and acknowledging the crowd with upraised hands.

“AND HER OPPONENT, HAILING FROM JOHANNESBURG SOUTH AFRICA, FIGHTING AT THE CATCHWEIGHT OF ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO POUNDS, WITH A RECORD OF FOURTEEN AND THREE, HONEY BADGER!”

Vuvuzelas sounded. Honey Badger trotted toward the ring accompanied by Eli and Martha Grieves. She climbed through the ropes and ran around the ring, stopped in front of Krystal, shook her finger in Krystal’s face, and did two back over flips returning to her corner.

Levon called the combatants to the center to touch hands. They glared at one another and returned to their sides. Levon pointed to each in turn.

“ARE YOU READY? ARE YOU READY?”

The hand dropped! Honey Badger put her head down and launched herself like a howitzer so fast, Krystal didn’t have time to get ready. Honey Badger bulled Krystal into the ropes, keeping her scalp in Krystal’s gut, reached up, grabbed Krystal by the neck and threw her to the ground. Honey Badger stooped, picked Krystal up by the crotch and neck, held her overhead and did the propeller. Honey Badger rushed to the edge of the ring and threw Krystal to the crowd.

Krystal flew six feet through the air landing in the first row of spectators who caught her, going over backwards into the second row.

Downtown Brown leaped into the ring signaling the match was over with crossed hands. Gary and Ludlow rushed to where Krystal was struggling to get to her feet.

“WINNER BY UNRETURNED BOOMERANG, HONEY BADGER!” Downtown bellowed.

The crowd screamed, cheered, jeered, stomped its feet, blew vuvuzelas. Several fights started. Gary and Ludlow each grabbed Krystal by an arm and whisked her out of the arena, down the hall into her dressing room, where they sat her in a chair and handed her a glass of water.

She took a sip. “What the fuck was that?”

“I think we got screwed,” Ludlow said.

FIFTY-FOUR

THAT WENT WELL

During the intermission between the under card and the main event, Downtown appeared in the doorway to the dressing room with an expression of contrition.

“Are you okay?”

Krystal looked up angrily. “What the fuck was that?”

“I know, I know, that wasn’t part of the agreement. Profoundest apologies. I really have no control over what the individual wrestlers do once they get in the ring. Are you okay?”

She clutched herself. “I’m fine.”

Ludlow rounded on the promoter. “We took this bout in good faith. What are you going to do about it?”

Downtown spread his hands. “There’s not much I can do. She was supposed to win anyway, and none of those moves are illegal. If I sanction her, she’ll just go over to Girl Fight.”

Gary held out his hand. “Pony up.”

Downtown waved his hands. “Oh no. You got to wait ’til we add up the receipts, just like everybody else. And don’t go tellin’ anybody I gave you half up front. Look. You want some advice?”

Gary crossed his arms.

Downtown pointed at Krystal. “You either learn how to wrassle or find another gig.”

Krystal’s jaw hit her knees. “You told me I was ready!”

“Yes, and you still have marquee value. In fact, you can use this to build up anticipation for your next bout.”

“How about no more catch weights?” Ludlow said. “That girl had forty pounds on our girl.”

“I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your training.”

Ludlow got in his face. Ludlow only came up to Downtown’s collarbone. “Well that’s what you’re doing. I’ve had three world champions!”

“Yeah, but not in a long time.”

Gary got between them. “Where do we learn how to wrassle?”

“There’s an old witchee woman lives back in the swamp, used to be quite the scrapper back in the day. Name’s Madame Delilah. Tell her I sent you. I’ll text you how to find her when I got a minute.”

“Well how long is that gonna take?” Gary said. “We need money.”

“It takes as long as it takes. You go see Madame Delilah. When she says you’re ready, you’re ready.”

Gary and Ludlow waited out front while Krystal showered. They smoked cigs and watched life skate, ride, roll, hop, skip, jump and amble by. It was nine-thirty by the time Krystal came out and night had fallen, the street lit with flashing neon and cruising cars.

Gary put his arm around Krystal’s shoulders. “How you feelin’, baby?”

“Like I got rode hard and put away wet.”

“Let’s go home. We’ll look into this Delilah thing tomorrow.”

They cruised north on Twenty-Seven, Gary scrupulously obeying the speed limit. He was in enough trouble. A vehicle roared up on their ass, unable to pass due to southbound traffic. After a few minutes of tailgating, the vehicle turned on its brights. Gary stuck his arm out the window and gave them the finger.

The vehicle gyrated, hoking and faking dashes into the oncoming lane until at last the left lane opened-up and the vehicle busted loose, like a junkyard dog, roaring alongside. Gary was reaching for his pistol between the seats when the girl in the passenger seat hurled something, the car hunkered down, laid rubber, and shot ahead, pulling in front of the truck and slowing down so that Gary had to stand on the brakes.

The fish sailed past him and landed in Krystal’s lap.

“EEEEYUUUUU!” she exclaimed, picking it up by the tail and hurling it out the window. It appeared to be a perch.

Gary laid on the gas. “All right, motherfucker.”

Krystal grabbed a pen and wrote on an empty Burger King bag. “I got the license! Let it go! We ain’t got no more bail money!”

Gary put the pedal to the metal. The F-150’s V8 surged. The rear end skipped on a wet patch. But the vehicle in front had a bigger engine and roared off into the night with fingers flying from both windows.

“Asshole!” Gary snarled.

“Pricks!” Krystal snapped. She turned on the radio, roamed around, found a country station out of Fort Myers playing Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight”. A sense of calm permeated the cab as Gary returned both hands to the wheel and hummed along.

Far ahead, red and blue lights lit up the corridor, strobing off the trees on either side. Gary slowed to a sensible fifty-five as they passed a FSHP car pulled up behind the fish flipper, a tall trooper in a Smokey hat at the driver’s window.

“Yes!” Gary fist pumped. “There is a God!”

“Fishing without a license!” Krystal crowed. They slowed as they passed and smiled at the fuming driver.

They were driving south on Weldon Way between the trailer park and home when the headlights picked up two feral hogs tearing at something in the middle of the road. Gary blinked the high beams, honked the horn and shook his fist.

“GET THE FUCK OUT AND STAY THE FUCK OUT!”

The pigs glared back, sullen and defiant. Gary drove straight at them. At the last second, they split, one right, one left, and the truck rolled over something. Gary pulled off a few feet ahead, took the flash out of the console and walked back.

A dead goose lay in the dirt, torn in two by the hogs. Gary spotted buckshot holes in its breast. He got back in the car.

“Someone shot a goose.”

“Those fuckin’ geese are everywhere,” Krystal said. “Stoppin’ traffic, shittin’ all over everything.”

“No shit. If they tasted good, it wouldn’t be a problem. But they taste like shit. You can shoot ’em, but you can’t eat ’em.”

As they pulled into the yard the clouds parted and a bright moon emerged, shimmering over the swamp. An alligator mooned itself on the dock.

“How the fuck did it get up there?”

Krystal swung down using the hand grip on the A pillar. “It hadda come up on the beach and get on the dock. Leave it be. It ain’t botherin’ anyone.”

Gary thrust his hands in his pockets. “Fuckin’ Wild Kingdom. This is why we have to make some money, so we can move outta this garbage pit.”

“We made some money, and we still got a gator in the pool, remember?”

“Oh yeah.”

Wearily, they made their way up the steps and into the trailer. Gary switched on the lights. Krystal headed for the bathroom, did a U-turn in the hall.

“It’s back.”

“Leave it be. It’s the only critter around here workin’ with us.”

FIFTY-FIVE

MADAME DELILAH

Madame Delilah lived deep in the Big Cyprus Seminole Indian Reservation, at the end of a twelve-mile dirt road that wound among hummocks, cypress elbows, mangrove, and the odd oak. They passed gators sunning, ducks and geese gliding gracefully onto mirror surfaces, white cranes perched on one leg, and what may have been a monitor lizard.

They passed a bottle tree.

Thicker forest signaled denser, drier ground. They passed a tree holding a dozen hex signs made from colored Popsicle sticks. Through the mangrove they saw an odd, brown building and when they pulled around the last curve, they saw that it was a geodesic dome finished in brown shingles, twenty feet tall with a low conning tower jutting up and triangular windows and a satellite dish. A hand-painted sign nailed to a tree said WARNING—PRIVATE PROPERTY. Another said BEWARE OF DOG.

A pit bull appeared before them, bandy legged and barking. A wiry woman with a brown scarf wrapped around her head wearing a full-length brown, black, and turquoise African print came out the front door, hands on hips.

“Belial,” she said in a whiskey-soaked contralto. “Hesh up now.”

The dog immediately stopped barking, turned around and sat at its master’s feet.

“Y’all come out. He won’t bite.”

Gary picked up the bottle of Buffalo Trace he’d brought, and he and Krystal got out of the truck. Delilah held open her front door.

“Come on in.”

The big main room was dark and rich in texture, from Navajo throw rugs, wicker furniture, African masks carved from black wood, and a raven on a perch. A round table with a wood inlay of a pentagram sat in the center surrounded by four mismatched wooden chairs. Framed posters of Judas Priest and Edgar Winter, candles everywhere, and what looked like a shrunken head. The kitchenette included an oven, a sink, a refrigerator, and a rack full of clean dishes. A door led to a bathroom. An iron spiral staircase went up to a loft, from which a ladder led to the crow’s nest. A ceiling fan hung from the loft. The room smelled of incense and patchouli.

Delilah motioned them to a brocade love seat while she sat in a Barcalounger facing them. Belial sat at her side, grinning with his tongue out.

“How did you know we were coming?” Gary said.

“Brown called. I like to bust a gut when you whacked that cop with that dildo.”

Gary handed her the bourbon. “This is for you.”

Delilah set it on a low table. “Thank you kindly. Got any money?”

“Fuck no. I had some, but I blew it.”

“I get twenty-five per cent of your next five wins.”

Gary looked at Krystal. Krystal nodded.

Delilah sat forward, bony elbows on her knees. “How’d you run through five mil so fast?”

Gary shrugged.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You leave girl here with me. She can have Sundays off. We start training tomorrow. But I gotta warn you, there’s a lot more unscripted shit goes on in Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling than some other sanctioning bodies.”

“Like what?” Gary said.

“Dirty fighting. Low blows. I will teach you about those.”

“Tell me about your qualifications,” Gary said.

Delilah leaned back and looked down her nose. “You’re here, aren’tcha?”

“Yes, we are. Downtown Brown recommended you, but he didn’t say why.”

“I’m the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. My grandfather, Nathan Knute Krabong, wrestled on the Sepia Circuit back in the fifties. He started teachin’ me when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. I used to wrestle with the boys, and let me tell you, those boys could wrestle. By the time I was fifteen, wasn’t a boy in the tribe would take me on. Too humiliatin’. I’m familiar with all the wrestling moves. I focus on conditioning, acrobatics, and sparring. I throw in a little Southern Spider Style.”

“What’s that?” Krystal asked.

“Type of kung fu from Mississippi. Also gonna teach you how to catch and prepare game.”

“I gave her an iguana and she didn’t know what to do with it,” Gary said.

“Don’t you worry none about that. I know how to skin an iguana, and any other critter you care to name. Don’t eat gator. Don’t like it. Sometimes I gotta put a couple down they get too aggressive.” She put a hand on Belial’s head.

“This here dog, he brings home enough game for both of us. He’s pure hell on waterfowl and nutria. Once he brought me a python, but I threw it back.”

“Where’m I gonna sleep?” Krystal said.

Delilah pointed to a fold out futon sofa. “Don’t worry none about Belial. He sleeps with me.”

“How does he get up in the loft?”

Delilah pointed at Belial. “Where’s your squeaky toy? Get your squeaky toy!”

Belial loped up the spiraling staircase and ducked out of sight, returning an instant later to stand triumphantly with some kind of furry toy in his mouth.

“SQUEAK! SQUEAK!”

“Good boy! Come on down.”

Belial came down slower than he’d gone up, holding a toy beaver in his jaws.

“Well do we need a contract or somethin’?” Gary said.

Delilah pointed two fingers at him. “You play straight with me I’ll play straight with you. You don’t, you’ll wish you had.”

“You ever put a hex on someone?” Krystal said.

“Oh honey, don’t let me commence!”

“Can people, like, pay you to put a hex on someone?”

“It’s been known to happen. Ain’t got no complaints, neither.”

“Who you wanna hex?” Gary said.

“Honey Badger.”

“That was a fucking mismatch. We never should have agreed to that. She had forty pounds on you!”

Delilah shook her head. “That’s on Downtown’s head. He sent me the video.”

Gary stood. “Well I’ll get your overnighter.”

Belial followed him as Gary walked to the truck, grabbed Krystal’s bag from behind the front seat and went back in.

Krystal got up. “I’ll walk you out.”

They stood by the truck hugging.

“Don’t you worry about me. I’m up for this!”

“I don’t worry about you, baby doll. I worry how ahmina get through these next couple of weeks without you.”

“You’ll manage.”

They kissed. Gary got in the truck, did a Y turn and headed back up the long dirt road which wound serpentine around sinkholes and hummocks. As he rounded a corner, he paused for a line of Canadian geese, like elderly tourists crossing the road. The weeds erupted and a gator scrambled out of the muck, snapping its jaws on the lead goose, sending the rest honking and running down the road, taking flight.

Gary stepped out of the truck and shook his fist. “THAT’S RIGHT! RUN! FLY BACK TO CANADA, YOU HOSERS!”

FIFTY-SIX

SAMSON

Wearing a one-piece yellow and black jumpsuit from Game of Death, Delilah hung upside down from her knees ten feet above the marshy ground while Krystal, wearing gray sweats and over the ankle sneakers watched from below. Delilah swung her torso up, gripped the branch between her legs and pulled herself up to a sitting position.

“Been climbin’ trees all my life. Feel real comfortable up here. Now watch.” With surprising ease, Delilah stood, hanging on to an overhead branch for support. “You start that spin the instant you launch. Don’t hesitate.”

She leaped into the air, tucking her head, drawing in her knees and putting her arms around them, unwinding just in time to land on her feet.

“Holy shit,” Krystal said. “I hope you don’t expect me to do that?”

Delilah picked up her backpack, slipped it on, and gestured at the tree. “Get on up there.”

“That’s ten feet off the ground! The ring posts are only five feet!”

Delilah pointed. Krystal leaped to grab a handful of oak six feet off the ground and pulled herself up until she clung to the tree on the branch vacated by Delilah. She looked down.

“You expect me to somersault off this tree? Are you nuts?”

“It’s not as difficult as it looks, and the ground is very marshy. Didn’t you say you were a gymnast?”

“Yeah, but that was on a mat!”

“Did you do aerial somersaults from a running start?”

“Yeah. Maybe I should try doing that again before I try it from here.”

“That tree provides motivation! You crouch and leap up, spinning as you go, tuck your knees, put your hands around them. When it’s time to unfurl you’ll know. It all happens very fast.” She clapped her hands twice. “BAM BAM!”

Krystal crouched on the branch, one hand on the trunk, heart in mouth.

“Leap, tuck and roll!” Delilah commanded. “Now!”

Krystal jumped forward off the branch, tucked her head, throwing her whole body into the turn, and immediately extended her legs. To her surprise, she landed on her feet. She didn’t even stagger.

“Wow!” she said.

Delilah applauded. “Now that you know you can do it you can do it off a ring post and plant your feet on your opponent’s chest. Come on let’s run.”

Krystal followed Delilah down the rolling game trail, occasionally stepping in water that splashed up over her ankles. The weather was hot and humid, but their motion kept the mosquitos at bay. Delilah led them in a mile loop that ended up back at the house.

Delilah pointed at her outdoor shower fed by a fifty-gallon drum strapped to a tree.

“Shower. Then we’ll eat. Then you’ll meet Schneider.”

“Who’s Schneider?”

“Schneider is your Kung Fu instructor.”

When Krystal came out wearing blue jeans and an Explorers Club T-shirt, Delilah was frying bacon in a cast iron skillet. They sat at the pentagram table, eating bacon, cornbread, oranges and peanuts. Krystal did the dishes, stacking them neatly in the wood rack.

“Okay,” Delilah said. “Let’s go meet your Kung Fu instructor.”

Krystal followed Delilah out the front door. Delilah crouched at the base of her home, held her hand out palm up next to a tiny hole and whistled.

Nothing happened. Delilah whistled again. Two minute black prongs appeared, followed by a two-inch wolf spider.

“Good morning Schneider! How are you today?”

Schneider dutifully crawled onto Delilah’s hand, standing on its back four legs and stretching the front four like a cheerleader. Delilah deposited Schneider on a chainsawed mangrove stump.

“Watch.”

At first the spider was still, but then it began to move in what looked like an elaborate dance, turning to face the four corners of the earth, its forelegs describing arabesques. Delilah straightened and keeping her eyes on the spider, followed along, turning with a dancer’s grace, her arms emulating Schneider’s. She looked at Krystal.

Krystal took her place opposite Delilah and they flowed around the stump performing an intricate spider kata.

“Hang on,” Delilah said and veered off, returning a minute later holding a cricket between thumb and forefinger. She knelt, held the squirming cricket where Schneider could see it, then tossed it to him. Schneider seized and pounced, holding it down with while its mandibles attacked the cricket’s eyes.

“You see how it gets on top and immobilizes its prey?”

“I only got four limbs.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s how you do it.”

“When do I get to practice this shit with a sparring partner?”

Delilah rocked back on her heels with a shit-eating grin.

“Uh oh,” Krystal said.

“It’s time for you to meet Samson.”

“Who’s Samson?”

“He’s your sparring partner.”

Krystal had not seen or heard from another human being since Gary left yesterday, and there were no dwellings anywhere near the dome.

“Is Samson coming over?”

“No, we’ll go to Samson. Let’s get some water. It’s a hike.”

Fifteen minutes later they were tramping through the everglades, Delilah pointing out psilocybin, used in native rituals, and boletes, puffballs, chanterelles, indigo milk-caps and ganodermas, sandhill cranes, nutria, dragonflies, and gators.

She paused by a swampy inlet, pointing to what looked like an army helmet poking up out of some weeds. “Here’s one of them nasty snapping turtles, got a neck like a snake. Don’t go near ’em.”

Onward, until Krystal stopped to drain her bottle of water, her clothes already soaked through. “Where does Samson live? On a boat?”

“We’re almost there. Please don’t make any comments about his appearance. He’s very sensitive.”

“Too sensitive to live among people.”

“A lot of people that way. I count myself among them.”

“Well I reckon you’re right. Me and Gary are perfectly happy living off by ourselves in a trailer without no noisy neighbors.”

Delilah stopped in a natural clearing surrounded by mangrove, like a crown. “This is where Samson lives. Don’t make any sudden moves. Don’t worry about Samson. Samson will not hurt you.”

“What kind of person lives out here without a house?”

“Oh, Samson’s not a person.”

Delilah wolf whistled. Krystal heard some snorting and shuffling, and a brown bear shuffled into the clearing.

FIFTY-SEVEN

SON OF SAM

“You have got to be shitting me?” Krystal said, trying to remain calm.

“Samson won’t hurt you. Samson is a gentle bear.”

“It’s a fucking wild animal, Delilah!”

“Please keep your voice down. Samson and I have rolled many times. Samson taught Ella the Propella how to roll. Now Samson will teach you.”

“What about its claws?”

“I will give you ten dollars for every cut Samson inflicts. And please don’t refer to him as an it.”

Krystal laughed. “All right. Tell me what to do.”

“Bend over in a wrestler’s crouch, smile, and motion for Samson to come to you.”

Krystal did as she was told. Snorting, Samson shuffled sideways causing Krystal to do the same. They circled each other until Delilah sharply clapped her hands.

Samson lunged forward, butted Krystal in the gut knocking her down, and sat on her, forepaws extended in triumph. The bear weighed over two hundred pounds. Krystal lay on her back, chuffing for air, trying to boost him off.

“Now what?” she said.

Delilah clapped her hands on whistled, motioning for Samson to come toward her. The bear rose and lumbered forward. Delilah handed it something out of her pocket.

“He likes Cheetos.”

Krystal picked herself up. “And what am I supposed to learn from that?”

Delilah laughed. “Next time he comes at you, you grab the fur on both shoulders and rotate clockwise, pivoting on your left foot and moving your right foot to nine o’clock.”

“He weighs two hundred pounds.”

“Get low. The lower your center of gravity, the more force you generate.”

Krystal put her hands on her hips. “I’ve watched pro wrestling. It’s all so patently fake. Why don’t we just choreograph the fights ahead of time like everybody else?”

“How’d that work with Honey Badger? She used you to score easy points. That bout was supposed to go at least five minutes.

“The Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling is not well refereed. There’s a reason it hangs on to the lower rungs. Now I got nothin’ against Downtown. He done alright by me. And bringing you to my door shows me he wants you to win. So, from now on, you got to stipulate you ain’t fightin’ above your weight. I’d like to put a clause in the contract that says if one of the fighters refuses to abide by the agreed-upon choreography, she’ll forfeit the match. But I can’t do that. Until you showed up, I had no dog in this fight.”

“So, what’s next? Anacondas? Gators? An Everglades puma?”

“No. But let’s you and me practice that move you’re gonna use against Samson.”

“If I throw him to the ground, won’t he get angry?”

“Laws, no. Samson’s just a good ol’ bear! Ain’t that right, Samson, sweety?”

She dug in her pocket and pulled out a handful of Cheetos. Samson happily munched.

“Now let’s you and me try it. What do you weigh, one-thirty? I go about one forty-five, and I ain’t carrying any fat. You remember what I told you?”

“I remember.”

They faced off in the clearing. Samson sat and watched, munching Cheetos. Delilah rushed arms forward to grab Krystal, who ducked, grabbing Delilah on both shoulders, pivoted clockwise and sweeping Delilah to the spongy ground where she executed a nifty somersault and came up on her feet.

“You got it. Ready to try Samson?”

Krystal made the gimme sign. “Bring it on!”

Delilah motioned Samson to his feet. Krystal wondered if they had some kind of telepathic or magical connection. The woman was a witch, after all. Nobody called her a witch, but what else do you call a woman who communes with spiders and bears? Krystal had often played the witch as a child with her sisters and cousins.

Samson walked on his hind legs to the center of the clearing and faced Krystal, who motioned him forward. Samson sat down.

Delilah stood in front of him. “Come on, big guy. On your feet.” She made rising gestures. Finally, she held a Cheeto over Samson’s head and he rose. Delilah walked behind Krystal and held the Cheetos bag overhead.

“COME ON SAMSON LET’S GO!” she shouted, startling Krystal, who almost lost her concentration. Samson lumbered forward. Krystal went low, gripped the bear by the fur on both shoulders, and swung him in a clockwise direction. Samson swatted her away with the back of his left forepaw like she was a fly, seized the Cheetos bag from Delilah, sat down and tore it apart.

Krystal landed on her ass.

“You okay?” Delilah said.

“What else you got?”

Delilah helped her up. “Maybe you should just train with me instead of Samson.”

“That would be good. Not that I don’t like Samson. He’s a hell of a bear. He’s the greatest bear I’ve ever met, and he’s got pretty good manners, for a bear.”

Samson belched loudly.

“You’re not supposed to eat the bag!” Delilah said. “All right. Let’s head back to the house. That’s enough for the day.”

Delilah tossed Krystal a bottled water from her backpack. They headed back down the trail with Delilah in the lead. Paths led through the swamp like a bowl of spaghetti dumped on the floor. Without Delilah, Krystal would have been lost.

After about an hour, Krystal caught a glimpse of the odd dome through the trees.

“Almost there,” Delilah said.

As they entered a dense patch of overhanging mangrove and cypress, two feral pigs emerged from the forest on opposite sides of the trail and turned to face them, malice in their mean little eyes.

Krystal put her hands on her hips. “Huh! Don’t they just look like two fuckin’ muggers waiting for some marks?”

“Yeah. The way they both stepped out from opposite sides. That’s very unusual.”

The hogs pawed and snorted, sporting two-inch tusks.

“What are we gonna do? You got a gun?”

Delilah swung off her backpack and reached inside. “Of course, I’ve got a gun.”

Krystal stared in surprise at a black Colt .45 1911. “What the fuck is that?”

Delilah lifted her hand just enough to reveal the Duke’s profile inlaid in gold on the barrel. “This here’s my John Wayne commemorative pistol. Look out. Here they come.”

The hogs rushed.

“Cover your ears.”

Krystal barely had time to slap her palms to her head before John Wayne roared. The first hog stumbled and went down in a heap. The second veered off into the undergrowth and vamoosed. Krystal cautiously approached the dead hog.

“Ho shit! You got it right between the eyes!”

“I been practicin’,” Delilah said. “Let’s grab that sumbitch and see what it tastes like.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

AN EXCITING CONTEST

Belmont Pest Control was parked in the driveway of a stucco ranch-style house in Belle Glade. The house was completely enclosed in a giant translucent plastic bag patched with duct tape, a five-inch pleated tube running from a nozzle at its base by the front door to the back of Floyd’s truck, which faced the street.

It was two o’clock on a sunny afternoon. The boys had been wrapping the house in plastic since eight in the morning and they were soaked with sweat. They had stripped off their hazmat suits and were down to ragged jeans and tank tops, both wearing sunglasses, an old blue bandanna wrapped around Gary’s head.

“All I think about is money,” he said.

“You should get on one of those game shows, like Jeopardy or something.”

“Yeah, right. First, you gotta be in California. Then, you gotta know the producer or something. Then they get a kickback.”

“Fuck they do.”

“Fuck they don’t. Plus which, I’m supposed to know who played third base for the nineteen forty-nine Pittsburgh Pirates or something. I might as well play the slots at Hallandale. I got to be my own boss. There’s got to be some way I can get some savvy dude to fork over a few mil for me to start my house suspenders program.”

Floyd lit a heater, inhaled and exhaled through his nose. “There ya go. Shark Tank.”

“Fuck izzat?”

“It’s a show where entrepreneurs go on and try to pitch their companies to these millionaires. ’Course they don’t come in empty handed. Whatever it is they’re selling, some gizmo or a new style shoe, they got that with 0’em. They got finished product.”

“I got finished product! Just look at my house.”

“Yeah, look at it.”

Gary leaned against the van and lit a cigarette. His house wasn’t exactly House Beautiful. Esthetically, it had its draw backs. But any house would look a little odd the first time you fixed the suspenders. What he needed was graphic evidence that it worked. What he needed was a hurricane. Set up a video cam and hope for the best. But where could he set a video cam where it wouldn’t be destroyed? He imagined a concrete bunker, a pillbox with a mailbox, and in the mailbox, the video cam aimed at the house.

Gary had no intention of testing his invention with him and Krystal in the house. Hell no. They’d bug out and hope for the best.

“I need video,” he said, tossing his cig to the drive and stepping on it.

“You need a lot more than that. Alright, ahmina start the blower. Open the valves.”

Gary climbed into the truck and opened the valves on four fat green cylinders filled with formaldehyde and dazomet, each marked with a yellow bio-hazard symbol.

Floyd gripped the pull cord on a lawnmower engine that had been converted into a blower. The blower roared to life contributing its cloud to ozone depletion, and the insect hungry gas flowed through the tube into the tented house. As the gas reached the house, the giant tent puffed out. Floyd kept a close eye on the tank gauges and the tent, and when the tent looked like it was about to take to the air, he cut the blower.

“Now we wait,” he said.

They leaned against the side of the truck watching the house. An alligator launched itself through the living room picture window, shattering glass and bouncing off the interior of the tent. The alligator leaped up, seized the plastic in its jaws, and ripped it asunder. The alligator flopped out of the jagged hole and high-tailed it for the canal in back.

Floyd looked at Gary. “Don’t that beat all?”

“Well are we gonna have to patch that shit? I mean, is it gonna take?”

“Yeah. Shut off the valves. Grab that roll of plastic and the duct tape. Better suit up, too. There’ll be gas slipping out.”

Gary put on leather gloves and the gas mask. To hell with the hazmat suit. It was too hot. The rip was about a yard long. Floyd used shears to cut a big plastic oval and held it in place while Gary secured it at twelve, three, six, and nine. Once it was firmly in place, they worked their way around the perimeter sealing it all up. The tent had deflated so that they had to hold the thick plastic from beneath to provide a firm backdrop on which to press the tape.

They retreated to the truck, started the blower, and watched the tent billow. A tiny black bat escaped from the top like a cinder. More bats followed until a dozen had taken flight. Four escaped behind them but were overcome with fumes, fell to the tent and slid off into the front yard.

“Izzat gonna put a cramp in it?” Gary said.

“Naw. Hole’s too small. We just keep pumpin’ the gas until it runs out, should kill every termite, palmetto bug and rat in the house.”

“They got rats?”

“They had a fuckin’ alligator. Why not rats?”

“Did you know that gator was in there?”

“Surprised me, hoss. Shouldn’t. Shit I seen. One place had a fucking Burmese python in the bathroom.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Which reminds me. You want some fast cash, some billionaire’s offering a lot of money to whoever catches the biggest python in this year’s python hunt.”

“For reals?”

“For sure. But what the fuck do you know about catching pythons?”

“I’m a hunter. You think I can’t bag a python? I seen ’em out in the swamp behind the trailer.”

“Yeah, but this bird wants the biggest python.”

Gary pulled out his phone, which he could barely operate. “Okay, okay. Lemme look this up.”

He searched for python hunt and billionaire offers reward for biggest python. First up was an item from the Miami Herald:

the hunt is on!

Fonebone CEO Orin Houtkooper of Palm Beach is offering $100,000 to whoever brings in the biggest snake in this year’s annual Python Elimination Program. “Invasive species are killing the Glades,” Houtkooper said. “STAYBAK is committed to preserving the environment. Besides. I want to hang it on my wall.”

Next was a public service announcement:

The South Florida Water Management District Governing Board is taking aggressive action to protect the Everglades and eliminate invasive pythons from its public lands. Starting in March 2017, the Python Elimination Program incentivizes a limited number of public-spirited individuals to humanely euthanize these destructive snakes, which have become an apex predator in the Everglades. The program provides access to python removal agents on designated SFWMD lands in Miami-Dade, Broward, Collier and Palm Beach counties.

“I sent this shit to Krystal. She’ll get it printed out at the FedEx.”

“Where she at?”

“Off training the swamp with some witchee woman.”

Floyd waggled his eyebrows. “How’s that?”

“Oh yeah. She got bum rushed in her first bout so Downtown Brown hooked us up with this old witchee woman in the swamp, trains wrestlers.”

“You got to be shittin’ me.”

“I don’t make this shit up, hoss. It just finds me. You wanna help me catch this python? I’ll split the reward money.”

“What python?”

“The world’s biggest python. I seen it out in the swamp behind my place. Motherfucker’s the size of a storm drain.”

“Yeah, all right.”

FIFTY-NINE

LO, THE MIGHTY HUNTER

Gary purchased thirty pounds of chum from Alfred’s Bait in Turpentine and hauled it out to the end of his pier in two five-gallon plastic buckets. He loaded his pistol with dum-dums he’d made himself with a buck knife and sat on the spongy old sofa smoking a cig, waiting for Floyd to arrive. He wasn’t about to tackle that python by himself. No sir.

The sofa was damp from rain and smelled like a dead rat, and in fact, Gary figured it had some dead rats in it, but he wasn’t ready to dump it. Not yet. Usually he covered it with a tarp during rain, but he’d forgot the last couple of times, so he just laid the folded tarp on the seat so the moisture wouldn’t seep up into his pants. One hundred thou would go a long way toward alleviating his problems. He’d still be in debt, but he wouldn’t have creditors breathing down his neck like he did now.

He wished he’d paid cash for a new truck when he had the money, but no. He had to buy that Lambo, and the insurance wouldn’t pay off because they said he caused the fire.

Well maybe.

Nothin’ against hard work. Gary worked like a dog. Always had. But with his mind, he should be far ahead in the game at this point. Never mind the lottery. That was a fluke, unlikely to be repeated. If only he’d earmarked money for House Suspenders!

Gary slapped himself hard. He slapped himself again.

“Boy, you a fuckin’ idiot! When you going to get your hands on that kind of cash again?”

Reduced to hunting pythons for a lousy six-figure pay off. Well it was a start. A year ago, he couldn’t wrap his mind around a hundred thousand dollars. He made so little he didn’t even bother to file for taxes, another reason the IRS was on his ass.

Floyd’s van crunched into the yard and Floyd got out wearing fisherman’s shorts, flip-flops, a Dolphins jersey and a fisherman’s vest. An ugly purple scar covered the inside of his left calf. He pulled a backpack and a shotgun case out of the truck and walked to the end of the pier, creaking with every step.

Floyd set down the shotgun, put his hands on his hips and surveyed the grassy swamp, a series of green pools interspersed with reeds, mangrove, cattails, and kudzu, the Creeping Charlie From Hell, that covered the state like a furze of green fungus.

“So what, we’re just gonna toss chum in the water and that’ll make this snake appear?”

“It’s a fucking science, Floyd! I’ve seen that snake. It hangs out rightchere, in this backwater. Snakes smell with their tongues. I looked it up! One whiff of this shit and that big boy’ll come runnin’. Then we just drill it through the head and collect our money.”

“Boy, you got it all figured out.”

“I’m just gettin’ started.”

Floyd pulled a fat doobie out of his vest and lit up, exhaling mightily and passing the joint to Gary. Floyd sat, took his Remington Twelve Gauge out of the leather case and reached for a box of shells. One by one, he inserted the shells in the magazine. Gary took out his magnum, opened the cylinder to make sure it was fully loaded, and flipped it shut. Standing, he jammed the gun in the back of his belt, picked up a metal soup tureen, scooped chum and cast it into the water in a wide arc, like a painting chimpanzee.

Floyd headed back to the truck and returned with a boom box and a six pack of Funky Buddha, wrestled two out of the plastic yoke, popped one and passed it to Gary.

“Threw about three gallons out. Now we wait.”

They sat back on the reeking, squeaking sofa and quaffed beer. Mosquitos attacked. Deep in the swamp, loons howled. The sun beat hard on the backs of their necks. Floyd popped open the cassette hatch on the boom box and slipped in a cassette.

Hank Williams sang “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

“That’s the real deal, right there,” Gary said.

“Hank Fuckin’ Williams. Accept no substitutes.”

“This shit they call country today, how does rap make it country?”

“Don’t get me started.”

“Taylor Swift...”

“She’s not country.”

“Dierks Bentley...”

“Not country.”

“The Dixie Chicks...”

“Fuck ’em.”

A delta of ripples headed their way in the glassy water.

Gary hefted his pistol. “Oh oh. Here it comes.”

Floyd pulled down on the bill of his cap. “Where?”

Gary pointed. They watched the ripples intently until fifty feet from the pier it stopped.

“You sure that’s a snake?” Floyd said. “Could be a gator.”

“Could be.”

The boys waited in breathless anticipation. A big bird glided in and cruised gracefully on its belly for several feet.

“Fuck izzat?” Gary said.

“That’s a big bird. A big fucking bird.”

“Looks like some kind of crane.”

The gator rose up chomped the big bird at the neck, dragging it under.

Floyd brought the Remington to his shoulder. “Kill! Kill the sumbitch!’

The boys unloaded a mighty fusillade. The gator rolled and writhed, the bird in its jaws. After what seemed like an eternity but had only been nine seconds, gator and bird lay locked in death’s embrace in a spreading circle of blood. Soon, other deltas appeared heading their way.

“Great,” Gary groused. “A fucking gator con.”

Floyd grabbed a boat pole off the swamp boat, snugged tight to one side against old tires. “I’ll go drag it in. Like to see what the fuck it was.”

“Shit, Floyd, you’ll get your ass chomped in two! Look at them sumbitches! Hold on. We’ll take the boat.”

Untying the swamp boat, they poled out fifty feet where Floyd roped in the bodies. Wearing heavy leather gloves, they rolled the dead gator and its giant prey into the boat.

“Some kind of crane. Big fucker.”

As they were tying up, red and blue lights flickered off the underside of the old oak and mangrove lining Gary’s property.

Gary tied up and got on the pier. Hands on hips, he looked skyward.

“What?” he demanded of the gods.

Sheriff Ralph Hunnicutt approached in Smokey hat and amber aviators, followed by a gangly deputy.

Sheriff Hunnicutt walked up to Gary on the pier. “Gary, what the fuck you doin’? I got people calling me from the trailer park talking about gang warfare.”

“I’m real sorry about that, Sheriff. We was just pluggin’ a gator.”

“Gary, you know you need a license to hunt gators. Do you have a license?”

“Well I do somewhere. Can I get back to you on that?”

“Did you plug a gator?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is it?”

Gary led the way back to the boat where Floyd was tying up the other end. Sheriff Hunnicutt stared at the mess of scales and feathers swimming in blood shaking his head and grunting, “Mm, mm, mm.”

“What?” Gary said. “I suppose I need a permit for that bird too.”

“Gary, do you know what that is?”

“Hell, no.”

“That’s a whooping crane. There are less than a thousand left. That there’s a federal crime.”

“Fuck!” Gary howled to a heedless god.

SIXTY

LO, THE MIGHTY HUNTER PART TWO

“Boy howdy,” Gary said gazing into the sunset. “I got the Duba Curse.”

“What’s killin’ that bird gonna cost?” Floyd said.

“Don’t know. Sheriff says he’ll contact the Department of Fish and Wildlife. I didn’t even kill that bird. Fuckin’ gator killed it.”

“Least he didn’t take our guns.”

“How’m I gonna get seed money for House Suspenders when all I do is fuck up?”

“Don’t let it get you down. We all have our bad days. Other day I was out ridin’ my Fat Bob, pulled into an S&S to get some duct tape and beef jerky, I set the side stand and get off. Only it’s so fuckin’ hot, the tarmac’s like taffy and the kickstand just sinks and the Fat Bob goes over. So, I get around, stoop down with my ass to the bike, and hoist it back up, only I hoist too far, and it goes down on the other side. So, I go around to that side and I hoist it up and I’m wearing shorts, and the straight pipes burn the fuck out of my calf! If a car fulla nuns hadn’t pulled in, I’d probably still be there flippin’ it from one side to the other.”

“What about the nuns?”

“They pull in, three nuns in a run-down Dodge, see me gruntin’, and hung on to the bike until I could push it over onto hard concrete. They was on an ice tea run. So, I get my duct tape and jerky and go to the ER. They tell me there ain’t much they can do.”

“How’s the Fat Bob?”

“Got a few scratches, nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“You ever eat iguana?”

“Nope. Why?”

“I’m thinkin’ the first person opens a grilled iguana franchise is gonna clean up.”

“Why?”

“Well I had some and it was good, and this kid with the cart says it’s a main food of people in the Caribbean. Eat it all the time. There’s hundreds of thousands of people here from the Dominican Republic and I don’t know what all, love iguana and would snap it right up.”

“I’ll tell ya what might be better.”

Gary gazed at the setting sun through mosquitos. He wore a yellow repellant bracelet which made no difference. “What could possibly be better than iguana?”

“Nutria.”

“Huh?”

“Nutria. They’re big fat water rats and there’s already a shitload of restaurants in Louisiana got ’em on the menu.”

“You’re shittin’ me?”

“Nope. Russia? They can’t get enough nutria. People are gettin’ rich shipping nutria to Russia.”

“Are those those fat fuckin’ rodents that look like hamsters?”

“Yeah.”

Gary pulled out his phone and searched for nutria. They looked like beaver with curved orange teeth that grossed him out. “Don’t look too bad ’cept for the teeth.”

“Yeah, you don’t serve ’em with the head. You hide that meat ’neath a sauce.”

Gary set his phone on the seat. “Shit. They’re all over the place. But they’re like rats. Who wants to eat rat?”

Floyd pulled out a fat doobie. “They’re rodents, they’re not rats. Rabbits are rodents. Ever eat rabbit?”

“Shit, yeah.”

“Well there ya go. They call it hassenpfeffer so it don’t sound like rabbit. And they remove the ears. Somebody didn’t tell you it was rabbit you’d think it was some respectable game like raccoon or possum.”

“You ever eat nutria?”

“No, but I’ve thought about it.”

Floyd lit the joint, inhaled, exhaled into a mosquito battalion. They fell in droves. Others flew around erratically smashing into each other. He passed the joint to Gary.

“A marijuana-based insect repellant,” Gary said.

“Ya think?”

“Watch.”

Gary cruelly targeted a dense cloud of bloodsuckers, dispersing them like a cucumber tossed into a box of cats.

“Yeah, but then you’re wasting good smoke on bugs.”

“Not if you just inhale, and then exhale. It serves two purposes.”

Gary stoked that joint and let fly.

“They’re too dumb to know this ain’t good for ’em.”

Gary handed the joint back to Floyd. “You got a point. We just keep gettin’ higher and the mosquitos just keep comin’ back. There’s more of them than there are of us. We could smoke dope all day and not make a dent in the mosquito population.”

Floyd reached down into his pants and scratched his balls. “Neither one of us is gonna get rich gassin’ palmetto bugs, that’s for sure.”

“Seems like wildlife got it in for me, startin’ with that raccoon you shot.”

“What you mean?”

“Think about it. I get the new place and that fuckin’ ’gator lands in my pool. Next thing I know, the swamp’s on fire and they’re finin’ me for shooting a gator and setting fire to the swamp. Next morning, feral hogs invade my house. Now I got this whooping crane hangin’ around my neck like an albatross.”

“They’re fuckin’ endangered, too.”

“Hell. I wouldn’t be surprised if an albatross shit on my head right now.”

They gazed westward into the fading light, two old friends, each lost in their own thoughts. Six Canadian geese glided in and coasted on the mirror-smooth water. Gators plunked into the water heading their way, but the geese were wise and took off in a flapping, honking dance.

A tendril of smoke rose from a corner of the old sofa.

Gary held out his hand. “Where’s the doobie?”

Floyd snapped out of his reverie and looked around. “Do you smell something burning?”

The sofa erupted in flame, sending its occupants flapping and honking to the end of the pier.

“You moron!” Gary said. “You dropped the fuckin’ joint in the sofa!”

“I guess it ain’t too wet to burn.”

“Come on. We gotta boost it into the water before it sets the dock on fire.”

They went to the side that wasn’t engulfed in flames, got down, and shoved the burning sofa over the edge. The burning side hit the water with a hiss, leaving the other side on the pier. The water was only two feet deep.

“For fuck’s sake,” Gary said, stooping and picking up the end. He cake-walked to the edge of the pier and threw it in.

Floyd pointed. “Dude. Is that your phone?”

“Fuck!” Gary jumped into the water, reached for his phone, and went down. Floyd watched in fascination as Gary thrashed about and rose, triumphantly raising his right fist, clutching a fat nutria.

“Got one!”

SIXTY-ONE

CASSOWARY

Friday night and crowds thronged Bustillo Boulevard in Little Havana, lined up outside the Comedy Club and the Roxy Theater. The Roxy’s line was four times the size of the Comedy Club’s because the Roxy was a much larger venue and tonight was an eagerly anticipated bout, pitting the much-hyped Steely Danielle versus the twelve and four former Chick Fight champion Cassowary.

After Danielle’s ignominious defeat at the hands of the Honey Badger, many pundits observed that it had been a travesty throwing a novice in against a seasoned competitor who outweighed her by forty pounds. This time the opponents were more evenly matched. They weren’t even the headliners.

The old-fashioned marquee jutting out over the sidewalk said
gorgeous ladies of wrestling presents
alice “ocelot” celine vs. la chupacabra
hedda headfake vs. the giant rat of sumatra
cassowary vs. steely danielle

Low riders, Ubers, choppers and beaters cruised the four-lane boulevard, elbows and arms hanging out. Papi chulos wolf-whistled women and deployed pick-up lines.

“Hey, little mama! Lookin’ for a good time?”

“Hey, girl! You must be a brick ’cuz you hit my heart hard!”

“Hey, girl! Your name must be Coca Cola, because you're soda-licious!”

“Somebody call the cops. It's got to be illegal to look that good.”

A lowered ’79 Chevy slowed to the curb outside the Roxy. A chulo leaned outside the shotgun seat and called to a tall woman in a towering platinum beehive and three-inch heels, “Girl, you are a skyscraper and I want to climb you!”

Patrice, wearing Ralph Lauren jeans and a sleeveless sequined silver top, stepped out of line, wig bobbling as she leaned over the car.

“I’d crush you like an insect,” she said in a throaty contralto.

The chulo slapped the side of the car. “Drive! Drive!”

Patrice and Alfredo, his companion for the evening, a proper Mexican gentleman in a rust-colored suit and string tie, had barely settled into their seats in the fourth row when Downtown Brown climbed into the ring, holding a wireless mic.

“LADEEEZ AND GENTLEMEN! SENORS Y SENORITAS! WELCOME TO FRIDAY NIGHT WRESTLING AT THE ROXY! TONIGHT’S OUTSTANDING CARD CULMINATES IN A RUBBER MATCH BETWEEN THE OCELOT AND CHUPACABRA!”

The crowd of four hundred, with more streaming in, erupted and shouts, whoops, vuvuzelas, and whistles.

Gary, Krystal, Kudlow, Delilah and Airwrecka could hear Downtown through the walls. Two hours earlier, Krystal and Cassowary had worked out their routine in slo mo, and medium mo. Krystal would still lose, but this time she would look much better doing it, would demand a rematch which Cassowary would instantly grant. Cassowary, whose real name was Meg Wakia, was a dark-skinned Australian, her brown black hair sculpted into a cassowary cap making her resemble an Indian cabinet minister. Cassowary stood five feet six inches tall and weighed one hundred and thirty pounds.

Gary had brought a black nylon backpack which he treated with reverence.

“TONIGHT, WE HAVE A TRULY INTERNATIONAL CARD! HOOCHIE MAMA VERSUS COOTCHIE CUTIE! HEDDA HEADFAKE VERSUS THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA! AND NOW, TO START THE FESTIVITIES, MOSCOW MULE VERSUS KENYA DIGGIT!”

Delilah patted Krystal on the shoulder. “You’re next.”

Krystal rose, her hair in tight cornrows, and stretched, wearing a one-piece black leotard with the Belmont Pest Control symbol, a dead cockroach in a green oval, on her chest and back. Krystal pulled on a brightly colored Mexican blanket with a hole cut in the middle and with Delilah leading and Gary’s hands on Krystal’s shoulders, the retinue headed for the ring. They paused at the end of the corridor looking down the aisle as the Moscow Mule, a towering big-boned woman with a Slavic jaw, contended with Kenya Diggit, a lanky Kenyan with hair like a black tennis ball, while Levon Levin danced around.

The Mule got Kenya down in an arm lock, but in a seemingly impossible move, Kenya pivoted like a break dancer, freeing her arm and wrapping her legs around the Mule’s neck. Down went the Mule. Kenya straddled her from behind and went for the can opener. But in a seemingly impossible move, the Mule bucked her off and hopped on her back. Leap frog!

Kenya won the match with a tap-out at three minutes and fourteen seconds. Downtown held her hand up high. Krystal and Cassowary quick-stepped to the ring from opposite sides. As agreed, they entered simultaneously, dancing around the ring with their arms up. Gary and Delilah got in with Krystal. A huge Aussie with a shaved skull and a handlebar mustache and an Abo shaman got in with Cassowary.

“OUR NEXT MATCH PITS THE INTERNET’S FAVORITE COP BOPPER, STEELY DANIELLE...”

He paused.

“BLACK DILDO!” the audience screamed.

Patrice stood and pumped his fist. “BLACK DILDO!”

“BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO!” chanted the crowd.

Downtown nodded knowingly. “Yes, I know...BUT WE CALL HER STEELY DANIELLE! HER OPPONENT, A PREDATORY BIRD NOTORIOUS FOR ITS FEROCITY, ALL THE WAY FROM DOWN UNDER, CASSOWARY!”

They met in the middle of the ring.

“No eye gouging, groin shots, or fish hooking,” Levin recited by rote, ordered the fighters back. He dropped his hand and danced back as the wrestlers circled. Krystal felt an almost preternatural calm as she closed with Cassowary, each putting their hands on the others’ arms like collegiate wrestling. They circled. The juked and jugged. Cassowary went down on one knee and attempted a hula hoop, but Krystal did an aerial somersault coming up behind Cassowary, who shoved her greasy pompadour in Krystal’s face.

Krystal’s eyes burned. The bitch put something in her hair! All bets were off!

“Whadja put in your hair, bitch?” Krystal hissed.

“Fuck you, you racist fuck!” Cassowary hissed back. “How are you the Black Dildo? No white girl can be Black Dildo!”

They closed again. “You want to be Black Dildo, then you have to beat Black Dildo!”

Cassowary turned abruptly and threw Krystal over her hip to the mat, coming down with all her weight on Krystal’s gut, knocking the wind out of her. Cassowary got on top and rained down blows.

“Buck!” Delilah urged. “She ain’t no Samson!”

Krystal bucked Cassowary free and got to her feet. Cassowary charged.

“Spider dance!” Delilah said.

Krystal leaped up and spun around with a reverse crescent kick, striking Cassowary in the chops. The action ebbed and flowed, the crowd on its foot whoopin’ and hollerin’.

“Aerial pomegranate!” Delilah urged.

With perfect timing, Krystal ran at the charging Cassowary, leaped in the air and as she was overhead upside down, sunk her fingers deep into Cassowary’s greasy black helmet, dragging the Aussie to the mat on her back. Krystal quickly moved to an arm bar, planting her knee in Cassowary’s back and forcing her to tap.

Cassowary’s handlers were outraged but knew better than complain lest their ploy be exposed.

The opponents gathered in the ring with Downtown in the middle. As he took Krystal’s hands, an expression of horror rippled across his smooth facade.

“Tell ya later,” Krystal said out of the side of her mouth.

“AND THE WINNER, BY TAPOUT, IS FLORIDA’S OWN STEELY DANIELLE!”

“BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO!”

SIXTY-TWO

NUTRITION

When it came time to collect, Downtown was nowhere to be found. An angry mob of wrestlers and their handlers gathered outside Downtown’s office on the third floor overlooking the avenue. Chupacabra vowed to suck his blood. The Ocelot swore she would tear his face off. Camel Bat called the cops. The cops came.

A flustered black cop with a brush mustache took their report. “Look, I’m a wrestling fan too. We don’t know what happened to Mister Brown. All I can do is take down your report, and if he doesn’t show up in forty-eight hours, we’ll put out a missing person.”

“This is bullshit!” Chupacabra snarled.

The cop shrugged. “Sorry. That’s all I can do. He turned to his partner, a diminutive Dominican woman in a peaked cap with a glossy black bill. “Let’s go.”

The wrestlers stomped, swore, issued exhortations. Several of them decamped to the Comedy Club bar next door.

Gary grabbed his backpack. “So, what if Downtown ran off with the money? We won! We did it! You did it!” He picked Krystal up and swung her around while she squealed.

“What we do now?” Delilah said.

“I ain’t letting nothin’ ruining this night! We’re going to the Capital Grill to celebrate!”

“I can’t afford the Capital!” Ludlow croaked.

Gary waved dismissively. “I got it!”

Krystal took his arm. “Where you got it?”

He hoisted his backpack. “I got it in my man bag.”

“What? What money? How much?”

“Relax! I just opened a new credit card with Wells Fargo. I’m a preferred customer.”

“What the fuck!”

“I know, right? It surprised me too.”

While Gary and Krystal drove in the trunk, Delilah, Airwrecka and Ludlow Ubered to the Capital Grille on Brickell Avenue. The inked, pierced, and enhanced driver said, “Be sure to give me a good review!”

Gary flashed him the thumbs up.

“I thought the horns were a little much, didn’t you?” Airwrecka said.

At ten-thirty, they did not have to wait long for a round table in the corner. Rum flowed as freely as tequila. Cuba was liberated. Even at this hour, the popular eatery was mostly full. Tourists, South American businessmen, rich kids.

Their waiter was an elegant young matador, whisking dishes up and down with masterful grace. They passed around appetizers. Airwrecka and Delilah ordered the sushi-grade sesame seared tuna with gingered rice. Krystal and Ludlow ordered slice filet mignon with cipollini onions, wild mushrooms, and essence of fig. Gary ordered a steak.

“What are we gonna do about the money?” he asked Ludlow.

“We’re gonna have to wait a few days and see if Downtown surfaces. We can probably get the cops to search his office, dude hasn’t paid his taxes in years. I’m baffled. Downtown’s got roots. He’s been here twelve years. I can’t believe he’d throw everything away for the sake of one lousy payday. I mean, how much can he pull in? The house was about six hundred, ten bucks a pop, that’s only sixty gees. The building’s worth more.”

Ludlow shook his head and looked down. He smiled and looked up. “Unless he’s on the run. Unless Downtown owes money to one of the cartels or something and had to vamoose. No time to tell anybody. He sees them coming down the aisle. He knows he’s fucked. It’s like that scene in The Godfather when Sonny goes after what’s his name, the worthless brother in law.”

Delilah sipped gin. “Do you have any reason to believe this?”

“I’m just speculating. But with Downtown, anything is possible. Did you know he played football for Clemson? And that plays blues on weekends? He may have been abducted by aliens. Anything is possible.”

Gary thought about Downtown in space.

“What about Krystal? Where do you think we should go from here?”

“Well first off, there won’t be any more deals with the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling.”

Delilah pounded the table. “Hear, hear.”

“Minx Tussel has made us an offer. They will pay you ten thousand dollars to fight Ann Thrax.”

Even in that rarefied atmosphere, people kept glancing at them, wondering who they were. Maybe it was the swagger that came with the win. Maybe it was their mixed bag of nuts. A white redneck, a white redneck woman in a blinding sleeveless white T-shirt, hair done in cornrows, a Yosemite Sam manager type, a six-foot seven-inch black woman in a Grace Jones jacket, and an older cafe au lait woman in brown blouse, brown jodhpurs and alligator boots.

A little girl approached Krystal, her doting parents looking on.

“Are you the Black Dildo?” the child asked.

Krystal bent forward. “Yup! What’s your name?”

“Georgia.”

“Oh, that’s such a sweet name!”

The grinning father walked up. “I’m sorry, I hope we’re not intruding. We saw you online, I mean...you know.”

Krystal dimpled. “It’s okay. I thought maybe you knew me by my wrestling career. I’ve only had two fights.”

“We just came from the Roxy,” Gary said. “She tapped out Cassowary!”

“That’s great!” the man enthused. “Can I get a picture?”

Krystal rose and came around the table to pose with the man while Gary took the picture.

“Honey,” his wife called.

“Gotta go. Have a nice evening!”

They watched him go.

“You are a hit with normal people,” Delilah drily said.

The matador whisked away their dishes. A waitress brought them a celebratory cake. They ordered coffee. After much laughing and sloshing, came the bill.

Eight hundred and ninety-five dollars. Gary took out his wallet and proffered a brand spanking new credit card. The matador bowed and vanished.

“Anybody need a ride?” Gary said.

Ludlow pulled out his Blackberry. “I’ll just Uber.”

Airwrecka pulled out her Galaxy. “I’ll Lyft.”

“I could use a ride,” Delilah said.

The matador returned with a frown. “Sir, I’m very sorry, but your card would not go through?”

Gary looked at him in consternation. “It’s a brand-new card. I’m pre-approved.”

“Yes sir. Sir, not only did the system reject your card, we received a call almost immediately asking us to impound and cut up your card.”

“Those bastards!” Gary said.

“Sir, do you have another means of paying.”

Gary looked around the table, then reached for the backpack at his feet. “Yes, I do. I was hoping to hang on to this, it’s worth a lot more than this dinner, but now it seems I have no choice. Will you give me a moment?”

The waiter backed off. Gary looked around.

“Will everybody please stand?”

Everybody stood. Gary opened the backpack dumping the nutria on the table.

SIXTY-THREE

JUSTICE IS SERVED

Everybody ran like hell. Delilah was first out the door. Could that woman run! Gary and Krystal were right behind her, veering down the street to where they’d parked the truck. It was every man jack for himself and devil take the hindmost.

They piled into Gary’s truck, Krystal in the middle, Delilah at shotgun, and rolled! They rolled north like Bonnie and Clyde with federales on their trail. They joined the river of steel and chrome flowing north.

Delilah pulled a pipe from her backpack. “Ha!” she barked, slapping her knee. “I like to bust a gut when you dumped that rat on the table!”

“It’s not a rat,” Gary said. “It’s a nutria, and some people consider them a delicacy.”

“Oh, I know all about the nutria. Cooked a few myself. They ain’t half bad if you know how to prepare them.”

At one-thirty in the morning, traffic was thick on the Interstate, FHP lurking in the weeds in the median. Gary flowed in the middle of the pack, just another old truck among thousands. No one at the restaurant knew what he drove. Aside from his guests, no one saw him dump the nutria. They owed that nutria dinner!

“You got any good recipes? I’m thinkin’ of cooking some up myself.”

“Sure, I got lots of recipes. Been thinking of doing a book.”

Krystal twisted around, snagged her backpack, and dug around for a cig. Gary held out his hand. All three smoked contentedly, contrails flowing out the open windows.

“Actually,” Gary said, “I’ve been thinking of opening my own restaurant. We’d serve nutria and iguana.”

Delilah spoke with clenched pipe. “Everybody knows nutria’s just a water rat. Iguana’s got a lot more cachet, you ask me.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’. A chain of iguana restaurants could go big. Bigger ’n Chick-Fil-A.”

“Now you’re talking chain,” Krystal said. “A minute ago, it was one restaurant. And what happened to your house suspenders?”

“I’m just brain storming. We got to find some cash flow, know what I’m sayin’? You trained six weeks for that bout, and what have we got to show for it?”

Delilah looked out the window at a big couple on a Gold Wing with a teddy bear bungeed to the sissy bar, towing a little trailer flying an American flag. “Krystal’s got talent. She can make it as a wrestler. We just have to be more careful. I never thought Downtown would take a powder like that. I can’t help but get the feeling he’s on the run. Maybe have nothing to do with the show.”

Krystal exhaled through her nostrils. “Like maybe he had an affair with some top gangster’s girlfriend? And the gangster found out and sent some torpedoes to kill him?”

“More like he got an acute case of gonorrhea and had to get to the ER,” Delilah said.

Krystal wrinkled her nose. “Eeeeyuh!”

“Yes, Downtown cuts quite a swath with the ladies. Used to be married. Four times. More likely, he owes big money to some shylocks and absconded with the proceeds to prevent injury or possible death. If that’s the case, you ain’t gonna see him again.”

“He a gambler?” Gary said.

“’Fraid so. I would not put it past him to take an interest in his own bouts.”

Gary pounded the wheel. “Son of a bitch!”

Krystal turned on the radio. A man with a wheezy voice said, “They’re watching us right now. And not just one or two, but literally dozens of UFOs from six or seven advanced civilizations. And the reason they’re monitoring us, they’re trying to decide whether to exterminate the planet. Just blow it up. ’Cause they don’t like what they see. I see Marion from Huron, South Dakota is on the line. Welcome, Marion.”

“Thanks for having me on, Ferd,” Marion said in a deep drawl. “I been seein’ ’em all my life. My cousin Delbert was abducted by the aliens and kept for over a week.”

“Did they sexually abuse him?”

“You bet.”

“I gotta take a short break, right now, but we’ll be right back with Marion from South Dakota.”

“Men,” a sultry voice said. “Do you show up too soon at the party? Do your fireworks go off before the Fourth? Do you leave your partner gasping and fuming? This is Billie Jo McGonnigill for Saturn Booster, the new wonder drug for erectile dysfunction. Why pay forty or fifty dollars or more for Viagra, which only contains one tenth the boosting power for Saturn Booster? Call in the next ten minutes and I will send you a free sample. Don’t be a loser! Use Saturn Booster!”

“My man don’t need no Saturn Booster,” Krystal said, twisting the dial to WBCW, Florida Country Radio. Merle Haggard singing “Momma Tried”.

Gary picked it up on the chorus. “I turned twenty-one in prison doing life without parole. No one could steer me right, but Mama tried, Mama tried...”

Krystal and Delilah joined in, Delilah taking bottom. They were in key and harmonized sweetly. The song ended and Toby Keith sang “Down in Mexico.”

“I think you passed my turn-off,” Delilah said.

“Oh hell, I’m sorry. Why don’tcha just come with us. You can spend the night on the sofa. I’ll take you back tomorrow.”

It was three o’clock when they finally reached the end of the road, the swamp glittering silver by the light of the lowering moon. Two feral pigs snorting around beneath the trailer ignored them as they tromped up the steps.

Gary turned on the light. Palmetto bugs headed for the exits.

“You need to take a shower?” Gary said.

“I wouldn’t mind. Got my toothbrush.”

“Check the toilet. Might be a snake.”

While Delilah showered, Krystal got a couple mismatched sheets and a wool surplus Army blanket and put them on the sofa. Delilah emerged wearing sweats from her backpack.

“Thanks so much,” she said. “It certainly has been a memorable evening.”

Gary turned off the light in the main room and took a shower. Krystal was waiting for him in the bedroom, wearing a black peignoir.

“Stick it in me, Big Daddy,” she cooed.

They rocked and rolled. There was a pounding at the door, flashing red and blue lights on the drapes.

“Open up!” cried a cop.

“What the fuck?!” Gary groused, hurriedly pulling on his jeans. He went through the darkened living room where Delilah was sitting up on the sofa.

Gary opened the door to a tall sheriff’s deputy in a Smoky hat.

“What can I do for you, officer?”

A nutria wearing a tracking collar scratched his ankle.

Gary looked down. The nutria looked up.

“Are you gonna take that rat’s word for it?”

The deputy leaned on the rail. “Gonna have to take you in, Gary. We got witnesses, and we got your credit card.”

SIXTY-FOUR

A SERIOUS OFFER

Gary was chagrined to once again find himself in the Glades County Courthouse with only one phone call. He left Habib a message on his machine. It was Sunday morning, and he was unlikely to get bailed out before Monday. He sat on a bench engraved with gang signs, tags, genitalia, big-titted gals, indecipherable scrawls done with felt markers, some kind of gouging device, or by tooth.

An enormous man who looked like Li’l Abner sat next to him wearing a yellowed wife beater exposing his blue and green tribal sleeve. He had a chin like a bulldozer and a glistening black pomp for which Elvis would have killed. The cracked, flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the cells showed a silent game show.

Habib appeared twice before the big man said out of the side of his mouth, “You won the lottery?”

“Yup,” Gary said, eyes on the television.

“You married to the Black Dildo?”

“Yup.”

They sat in companionable silence.

“My name’s Earle.” He stuck out a shovel.

There were a dozen people in the cell, a wonderfully diverse group, some of whom poked each other and pointed at Gary. They smiled approvingly and gave him the thumbs up.

“Warn’t she gonna rassle?”

“She did. First time she lost. Second time she won but the promoter took off with the money. Nobody got paid.”

“So, how’d you get in here?”

Gary sighed. “I dumped a nutria on the table to avoid paying the bill.”

Earle nodded sagely. “That’s a good idea. But choo din’t get away.”

“Got all the way home but they tracked me with that nutria. They put a tracker on it, and it led them right to me. I had that nutria at home for several days and I guess it got attached to the place.”

They watched a half-hour infomercial about an all-purpose exercise device.

“How’d you run through ten mil so fast?”

“It wasn’t ten mil, it was seven, and it wasn’t so fast. We was in that house a good six months before they kicked us out.”

Gary tried to sleep on the floor against the wall, Earle sitting next to him, when the deputies brought in some hepped up board punks who’d been caught spraying swastikas on the local synagogue.

Gary slept fitfully, wakened numerous times by beefs, splats, squeals, raps and smacks.

He woke at one am to the riddum of an aspiring rapper.

“My dong is long. My shlong is strong. Let it feed like an eagle eating eagle in the weed.”

Groaning, Gary saw the hip-hop artist, a gawky black kid in chinos and an artfully ripped Tupac muscle shirt.

“That don’t even make sense!” a man bellowed from a bench.

“You want to test me, broheem?” the rapper said. “Step right up. I ain’t what I seem.”

To these soothing tones and others, Gray drifted off to sleep.

Someone shook him by the shoulder. He woke with a start to find a young man wearing a blue cotton Armani suit, a blazing white shirt with the collar outside the suit jacket, and black Brunos, reeking of Paco Rabanne. He had a fashionable three-day stubble on his handsome chin, and rich black hair.

“Mister Duba?” he said. “Mister Duba?”

Gary sat up and looked around. Where was Earle?

The man seemed comfortable on his haunches. “I’m Sid Saidso. I’m a programming executive with Netflix. I’ve been following your exploits and I’d like to talk to you about possibly doing your own reality show.”

Gary sat up, rubbing his eyes. “My exploits?”

Sid Saidso’s smile was a thousand-watt bulb. “Since the lottery! I’m executive producer on What’s Your Snoblem, which is in its second season, and Barfalo, which debuts in November and stars Bruce Willis and Brie Larson.”

“Barfalo?”

“A bulimic buffalo terrorizes settlers in eighteen-eighties Nebraska. But never mind about that. I believe in deep preparation. I’m not a drive-by guy. I know how you won the lottery. I know about the alligator in the pool. You were on that plane that exploded. They said it was filled with scorpions.”

“Tarantulas,” Gary said.

“Exactly. You’re a fascinating dude. Your wife is even more famous. Sponsors would pay plenty to feature your exploits. It won’t be cheap. It won’t be exploitative. I respect what you do.”

Gary scratched his head. “What do I do?”

“That’s what we’ll find out.”

Sid Saidso dipped in his jacket and extended a white linen card between his exquisitely manicured first and second fingers. It showed the black silhouette of Charlie Chaplin dancing with his umbrella, and said,
sid saidso
saidso productions
los angeles and rome

There was a website, an email address and two international phone numbers. Gary tucked it in his front pocket.

“What are you doing in here?”

“I heard you were in here and slugged the first cop I could find.”

Gary regarded Sid Saidso. “No shit.”

“Kidding! They said I was veering all over the street. Now I ask you. Do I seem the slightest bit impaired to you?”

Saidso held his right hand out like the head of a snake, steady and level to the ground.

“Did you see a big guy? Looks like Li’l Abner?”

“No, I just got here. Here’s what I’m thinking. My team will follow you around. They’re very unobtrusive. You won’t even notice them. We use drones. We’ll wire your house to the extent that you’ll allow. I’m looking at either forty-four of fifty-six minutes to be aired weekly. I believe I can get you a seven-figure deal.”

Gary counted on his fingers.

“I know Roebuck Simms bailed you out of jail, but I don’t know why. I think I can get him on the show.”

“You know about Steely Danielle?”

“I was there! I tried to talk to you then, but some thug kept getting in my way.”

“What thug?”

“A six-foot seven Jamaican transsexual. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“So why ain’tchoo bail us out?”

“Believe me, my lawyer is on the way. As soon as I’m out, you’re out. By the way. The nutria.” Saidso made the ‘OK’ figure with thumb and forefinger. “Brilliant. I even have a nutria wrangler.”

A guard named O’Malley who looked like El Capitan in Yosemite came back. “Duba, let’s go. You’re bailed out.”

Saidso followed Gary to the gate. “How do I get in touch with you?”

“I’ll call you.”

Habib waited in the reception area. Gary collected his things and signed the forms.

“Thanks for bailing me out.”

“What can I say, I’m sentimental. Also, I have three properties need new roofs.”

SIXTY-FIVE

MAN VS. NATURE

Gary phoned Krystal.

“Where were you?”

“I’m sorry, hon, I had to drive Delilah back to her place. Then my mother called and now we’re having lunch. Did you get out?”

“Yeah. Habib bailed me out. I’m with him now.”

“I hope it wasn’t too horrible for you?”

“No, in fact I met a guy wants me to do a TV show. Says he’ll give us a million dollars.”

Krystal barked like a seal. “Okay, hon. You tell me about it when I get home. You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

Habib led the way into a nearby parking garage and went up two flights. He opened the back hatch of his Mercedes SUV and pulled a manila envelope from his bursting barrister’s case.

“This is a list of my properties. They all need new roofs. You take care of this in a timely manner and I’ll consider us even.”

Gary got in the shotgun seat and looked at the properties. There was a sheet for each including a color photograph, assessed value, and features.

Habib started the vehicle and wound downward via ramp. “They all got hit by heavy hail last week.”

Habib paid the parking lot attendant. The gate lifted and they pulled out onto Magnolia Avenue. “I’ll drop you off at your place.”

“This is gonna take me at least three weeks, boss,” Gary said. “If I do it alone.”

“That’s your problem. What else you got to do?”

“Dude says he wants to put me on my own show.”

They drove past Arby’s, KFC, Taco John, Taco Bell, Les Schwab Tires and Farmer’s Insurance.

“What dude?”

Gary pulled the card from his pocket. “Sid Saidso.”

“Who said so?”

“Sid. Produces a show called What’s Your Snoblem?”

“I’ve heard of that,” Habib said. “Neighbors get together and bitch. What’s your show?”

“Says I should have my own reality show. You know. They follow me around and film me doing things. I could shoot alligators.”

“They already got a show for that.”

“I could shoot pigs.”

“They already got a show for that.”

“I could show off my house suspenders.”

“There ya go. Maybe you’ll find some backers.”

Habib dropped Gary at the end of the road at ten-thirty. Gary went inside and took a shower. No snake. He found a personal deep-dish pizza in the freezer and nuked it. It tasted like dough. He grabbed a Mason jar of shine, grabbed Henry Perkins’ samurai sword, and went out on the end of his pier to drink, think, and spear catfish. He’d thrown the sofa away, replaced it with two springy metal kitchen chairs he’d found at an ARC thrift center.

He swigged acidic shine, gazing out over placid waters above which moved clouds of mosquitos and flies. Blue-winged dragonflies swooped from cattail to cattail. Ducks coasted near shore.

Gary hiccupped. Gary belched. Gary hiccupped and belched simultaneously. He wondered if that was some kind of achievement. Would people like to see that on his show? He felt very sorry for himself. Here he was, thirty-six years old, stalled like an abandoned locomotive. He’d had it all and he’d spent it all. He lived in a trailer and owed money all over the state. Why hadn’t he invested his lottery winnings in the house suspenders?

“Gary,” he snarled, “you are one stupid motherfucker! How many chances do you think the good Lord’s going to give you? You just about used up all your luck. It’s a miracle you haven’t been run over by a truck. You got a good woman in Krystal. You should give this wrestling thing another chance.”

After all. Gary had been generous. Gary had paid for everything. Now it was Krystal’s turn to pull the cart. Downtown Brown invaded his brain like a cloud of mustard gas. That motherfucker. Not that the measly five they’d been promised would have ended their problems, but it would at least have kept the creditors at bay for a few days.

But supposed Downtown had been abducted?

What if he’d bugged out one step ahead of a hitman?

What if he’d gone to Brazil?

How much were the receipts?

He almost wished they’d get a hurricane so he could film it not blowing his house away. With his luck, it would blow him away and leave the house intact. If it happened right now, he could film it on his smart phone. It would look like crap. He needed a professional. Maybe Sid Saidso could help him. He pulled out the card and called Sid. Went straight to voice mail.

“Sid, it’s Gary Duba. Give me a call when you’re able.”

Sighing, he jammed his phone in his pocket and took another slug of shine. It was almost as if nature itself had declared him the enemy. The snake. The raccoon. The alligator. Sliding the sword in and out of its scabbard, he looked around for nutria. What did they taste like? Maybe he should find out. The public might find a nutria-tasting event fascinating. Same for iguana. Inspired by Robert Kiyosaki, Gary vowed to produce new streams of revenue.

The Lizard Lounge!

Nutritious Nutria!

Perhaps Sid Saidso would be interested in financing these as part of the show. It wouldn’t take a lot. Gary knew of several restaurant locations in Turpentine, right on the main drag. He could hire Floyd part time.

A pelican cruised in, plopped down, and glided toward the mangrove which dominated the shore. The pelican dipped its beak and stuck its ass in the air as it went down for a morsel. An obscene cable, like Brock Lesnar’s bicep, dipped from the mangrove and wrapped itself around the startled pelican. The pelican thrashed and the cable looped and looped until it fell from the tree with a splash.

It was the mother of all pythons.

Gary leaped off the deck, his sandal-clad feet sinking an inch into the muddy bottom as he set off for the trees, clutching his sword in both hands. He pounded through the water twenty yards to where the python—the biggest fucking python he’d ever seen—was trying to jam the pelican down its gullet, its jaws at seventy-five degrees.

Holding the sword in both hands, Gary whacked off its head. The massive body continued to writhe.

Birds took flight. The snake’s head still did not let go of the bird, which hung limply in its coils. The python’s body roiled like the devil’s lariat and fell down over Gary’s head and shoulders. Gary elbowed and fought as the coils began to contract, and then stopped. The thing went limp and slipped off him like a loose robe. Gary looked down. Holy fuck.

It was the biggest python ever. Grabbing the spade-shaped head, he ran for his truck before the gators got it.

SIXTY-SIX

FONEBONE

Gary pulled his old truck into the gated entry to Orin Houtkooper’s Palm Beach estate at ten o’clock Tuesday morning, truck bed covered with a tarp. Krystal was with him. He leaned out and pressed the buzzer, eyeing a camera mounted on the brick wall.

“Yes?” said a voice.

Gary got out, facing the camera.

“I’m going to uncover the bed of my truck. Can you see what’s in it?”

The camera swiveled. “Yes, I think so. What’s this about?”

Gary untied the tarp. “I understand Mister Houtkooper is offering a reward for the biggest python. Take a look at this baby.”

He whipped the tarp back uncovering loop after loop. “This baby’s eighteen feet long and weighs one hundred and eighty pounds. Sorry about the head, but I figure a good taxidermist can fix that.”

The camera focused on the head, which was attached to the body with several rolls of duct tape.

“Please wait one minute.”

Gary squeezed a pimple. Krystal picked at her nails.

The speaker squawked. “This is Orin Houtkooper. Whom am I addressing?”

“Gary Duba. I bagged this bad boy near my place up by Turpentine last night.”

“Mister Duba, I’m opening the gate. Please drive into the courtyard and pull up in front of the main door.”

The steel gate silently split to either side. Gary drove in and parked in a brick turnaround surrounding a fountain featuring an aquamarine dolphin. Gold koi swam in the fountain, along with lily pads. The two-story house was Italian villa style, with a red tile roof, Florentine arches, and statues of nymphs. A burley man in tan coveralls and a newsboy cap came toward them from the four-vehicle garage.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Ames Butler, Mister Houtkooper’s chauffeur and mechanic. I’m going to help him measure the python.”

A second later, Houtkooper emerged wearing torn jeans, Versace Medusa pool sandals, and a Beach Boy-themed Hawaiian shirt. He was hale, buff, and bald in designer sunglasses. He shook Gary’s hand with a strong grip and calloused palm.

“Hello. Thank you for coming. I’m Orrin Houtkooper. And you are?”

“Krystal.”

“Well let’s take a look at this bad boy. How long ago did you kill him?”

“Less than twelve hours. He don’t stink too bad yet. Whatcha plan to do with him?”

“I’m going to have him stuffed, but really, I’m just trying to do my part to protect Florida from invasive species. I plan to do this every year.”

Butler was already wrestling the snake out of the bed, using rubber gloves. They got it on the ground stretched out and measured it from tip to tail.

“Eighteen feet,” Butler said. “Just like he said.”

Houtkooper rubbed his hands together in glee. “What’s the story on the neck?”

“It’s all neck.”

“I mean the duct tape.”

“Killed it with a samurai sword. One swipe. Swoosh!” Gary reenacted his triumph.

“Wow oh wow! I’m so excited. Would you like to come inside?”

The foyer contained another fountain with a nymph, Italian tile floor and a soaring atrium with a stained glass dome depicting Eden, or the San Diego Zoo. Marble stairs swept up on both sides to a second floor. Houtkooper led them through the house with a lush living room on one side and a dining room on the other, out onto a marble deck overlooking the canal. They sat on the deck looking over the marble balustrade at luxury boats moving slowly up and down, leaving churning white wakes in the green water.

Minutes later, a Dominican maid in a white smock wheeled out a cart with coffee, cream, sugar, mangoes, orange juice, bananas and doughnuts.

“Mister Duba, I will write you a check before you leave. Tell me how you came to kill this python.”

“It started with a snake in my toilet. And now I’m gonna be the star of my own TV show. Let me tell you how it happened.”

An hour later, Gary sat back.

Houtkooper stared at him in wonder. “You’re either insane or the greatest liar I’ve ever encountered.”

Krystal leaned forward. “Google black dildo Florida.”

They sipped coffee while Houtkooper consulted his state-of-the-art notepad, the shape and consistency of a sheet of paper. He watched Krystal’s moment of fame, then watched it again.

“Were you arrested?”

“I sure was! That’s where I met my hairdresser.”

“You can Google me too,” Gary said. “Lottery winner shoots gator in swimming pool.”

Houtkooper Googled.

“What’s a Fonebone?” Gary said.

Houtkooper held up his gossamer notepad. “This is a Fonebone.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a sleek device. “And this. Its built-in software prevents anyone from tracking or recording you. I built the prototype in my parents’ basement. I never went to college. I started fooling around with computers when I was seven. Built my first computer when I was ten.

“I hope you can stick around for the photographer and the taxidermist. They’re on their way.”

Gary put a hand to his head. “Oh mannnnnnnn...I didn’t get a license for that python.”

Houtkooper poked, searched, and read. “Pythons can be killed on private lands at any time with landowner permission - no permit required - and the FWC encourages people to kill pythons on private lands whenever possible. Pythons must be humanely killed at the time and site of capture and may not be transported alive off of the private property without a permit from FWC.”

“The python didn’t suffer!” Gary said. “Now I got this whooping crane hanging around my neck.”

“Tell me about that.”

Gary explained. “I never shot that whooping crane! I shot the alligator. The whooping crane just got in the way.”

“I might be able to help you with that,” Houtkooper said.

Butler came out to the patio and whispered in Houtkooper’s ear.

“The photographer is here. I think we’ll take this in the front courtyard. There’s no point in dragging that snake all over the house.”

They went out front and held the snake. Gary, Houtkooper, Butler and the taxidermist, a small man with a mustache and a bad comb over. The snake was eighteen-feet long. The photographer was a bald ex-biker named Bill who moved around the courtyard snapping with abandon.

Afterward, they loaded the snake into the taxidermist’s van, went back out to the courtyard, and Houtkooper wrote Gary a check for one hundred thousand dollars.

SIXTY-SEVEN

THE COMEDIAN

That hundred thou was gone. Gary took a job at Vootie Burger, from four to midnight. Gary stood at the second window handing out the food. He saw all sorts of things. He saw a man in a pick-up truck with a badger riding shotgun. He saw a twenty-foot limo with smoked windows. After he forked over the burgers and the limo started to move, he saw a Hollywood star in coitus with two willowy women, one wearing a Carmen Miranda banana hat, the other a beret.

Gary had given up trying to collect. Downtown Brown was in the wind. The Miami Herald ran an article. PROMOTER ABSCONDS WITH PROCEEDS. Krystal went to work keeping the books for Ludlow and some other promoters. She still trained and visited Delilah when she could.

It was eleven Friday night. The drive-through had been non-stop. Except when it stopped, and meth heads would lean on their horns and get out of their cars to fight. Gangsta rap, The Eagles, The Berlin Philharmonic poured from myriad sound systems. Some made the ground thump. Gary would look into creating some kind of jammer that could knock out trunk-mounted bass.

A gang banger with two inked teardrops leaking from his left eye and a red bandanna on his head held out his hand.

“Ayyyyyyy. Bout the fuck time.”

Gary filled it with Vootie Burger.

An older woman with a copper wig and a schnauzer pulled up. Gary forked over two burgers.

“Thank you so much,” the woman said, unwrapping a burger on her lap and handing it to her companion.

A disgruntled black man with a bullet head and brush mustache pulled up. Gary waited for the order. He kept glancing at his phone.

“Where’s that order?” Gary said.

The burger landed in front of him. He placed it in the bag with the napkins and handed it to the man. “Thank you.”

The man removed the burger, unwrapped it, lifted the bun and stared. He hurled the hamburger through the window and hit Gary in the face.

“I SAID NO PICKLES!”

Gary launched himself out the window like a top fuel dragster, trying to remove Bullethead’s head with his knee. The man was immensely powerful, and they tussled, feet jamming the car into gear. They crept forward at an angle, thumped over the curb, over the median into oncoming traffic. Screech, squeal, KABLOOEY.

The impact stunned both combatants as the car careened out of control and was struck once more. The window was shattered. No crash bag.

“No crash bag!” he said, bleeding from his scalp.

“Motherfuckers!” said the driver, who looked like the actor Charles S. Dutton.

“You should sue their ass!”

“Motherfucker!”

A Latina with a yellow hat approached. “Are you all right?”

People stood on the curb, filming. Sirens.

Gary lay there until the police arrived, wrenched open the door with a crowbar, and handcuffed him. He sat at the curb next to the driver.

Next stop: Glades County Jail. The jailer greeted him by name. Bullethead’s name was Major Sutton. A couple inmates called out when Gary entered holding. He looked around for Sid Saidso, Earle or Patrice. He was on his own. He sat on the oak bench, intricately inlaid with genitalia and gang symbols. Major Sutton sat next to him. He wore gray slacks and a white dress shirt that had seen better days.

“You know I didn’t make your burger?”

“I’m having a bad day.”

“I know how that goes.”

Several seconds passed. Gary stuck out his hand. “Gary Duba.”

“Major Sutton.”

“What do you do?”

“I do stand up. I host a game show.”

“You mean like you’re a comedian?”

“Yes. I have a game show too. What’s Your Snoblem?”

“I’ve heard about that. What’s that about?”

“People bitch about things.”

“Do you know Sid Saidso?”

Sutton’s mouth went oval and he pointed at himself. “Do I know Sid Saidso? He’s my producer.”

Gary guffawed. “This is where I met Saidso! He wants to do a reality show with me.”

Sutton went pop-eyed. “You’re that guy?”

“I just caught the biggest python in Florida history!”

“I saw that! Congratulations!”

“What do contestants win?”

“Boob jobs, penis enhancements. My sponsor was Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. The winner would receive free plastic surgery.”

“Didn’t he go to prison for murder?”

“Manslaughter and malpractice. And now we need a new sponsor.”

“So, What’s Your Snoblem is not on the air?”

“Not currently, but Sid has Noxitril lined up.”

Gary had called Krystal, but it was too late. There was nothing she could do until morning. Jerry Springer was on the tube, sound turned off. Subtitles ran in a strip. “You XXXXX XXXXXX!” “XXXX you, you XXXX!”

Habib appeared in white Stetson, turquoise and silver bolo, and a yoked jacket. Gary silently recited, “Have you been in an accident? Do you think you have not been fairly compensated? Contact the Long Arm at Rodriguez Law Offices to find out how much your injuries are really worth. You don’t pay us unless they pay you.”

Sutton and Gary found a corner and flaked out. The lights never dimmed. Gary slept fitfully, dreaming of giant nutria, half hearing men puke, curse, or piss into the stainless-steel pisser. Someone took a shit crouching and grunting like a hellish toad, releasing stench throughout the wing.

“For the love of Christ!” a prisoner cried. “Give us some matches!”

In the morning, a jailer handed out boxed breakfast consisting of cold egg and potato burritos with flecks of unknown meat, a banana, and orange juice in plastic bottles. One inmate traded his for a fix. Another reached over, snagged his neighbor’s and added it to his. A third turned the cardboard and plastic container into an ocarina and played “St. James Infirmary”.

Dutton was sitting up clutching his knees when Gary woke.

“Did I miss breakfast?”

Dutton handed him a sealed box. “I got your back. You come see me at the Comedy Club. It’s next to the Roxy.”

Gary sat up, unwrapped the unsavory burrito and bit in, chewing mechanically, swallowing with a dunking sound. “I know where it is. Krystal fights at the Roxy. We just fought there.”

Gary told him about the bout.

“I was working that night! I remember the marquee! So, Krystal’s Steely Danielle? How’d you get that name?”

“Cuz we can’t call her the Black Dildo.”

Sutton’s mouth morphed complexly. He leveled a cigar-like finger. “Krystal’s the Black Dildo?”

Gary nodded.

“I musta watched that a half dozen times. Man, she let that cop have it!”

“She’s got a temper, that’s for sure.”

The bailiff banged on the bars. “Duba, let’s go. You’re bailed.”

SIXTY-EIGHT

FREEBIRD

Krystal was waiting for him in front. He signed for his things and stepped out into a sunny parking lot.

“Who bailed me out?”

“I did. I saved some of that money you gave me.”

“How much is left?”

“Fourteen thousand and eighty-five dollars.”

Gary did a slow whiplash. “How is that possible?”

“Income tax took most of it. I had to give Habib some. He wants you to get started on those houses right away. The rest went to Visa, MasterCard, and American Express.”

“How’d you get here?”

“Floyd let me borrow his old van. It’s a rolling bomb. We could use it to clear out half the mosquitos in Glade County. I’m fighting tomorrow night. They’re paying me ten thousand dollars.”

She pointed to Floyd’s old gray van. The dead cockroach in the piss-yellow oval symbolized Gary’s career prospects. His myriad failures loomed before him like the Pittsburgh Steelers’ defensive line. He hoped he could find Sid Saidso’s card. A reality show didn’t sound too bad right then. The only shows Gary ever watched was Judge Judy and Jerry Springer, which he pulled in out of thin air with an old rabbit ear antenna and aluminum foil halo. Floyd had cable. Gary saw Swamp People and Deadliest Catch at Floyd’s place and realized what he was missing.

Gary had spent thousands on state-of-the-art audio and video for the new place, but the creditors had hauled it away.

“Who’s paying you?”

“Webster Mantooth. He’s the new manager of the Roxy. I told him half up front.”

“Any word on Downtown?”

Krystal put her fingers to her lips and made a kissing sound.

“Who you fighting?”

“Chupacabra.”

Floyd’s listing van smelled of formaldehyde and bug killer. The seats creaked. A diagonal crack ran from the upper left to the lower right of the windshield. Krystal fired it up releasing a dense cloud of dark gray smoke from the rusted muffler. They drove down the highway leaving thousands of dead mosquitos in their wake.

“I thought you were fighting the Yellow Rose of Texas.”

“She had to pull out. Chupa was the best they could do. She outweighs me by forty pounds but I’m not worried.” She clenched her fist. “I have the powa. I have the knowledge. I know the paddling blowfish. I know the foaming pipe snake.”

“Ten thou, huh?”

“You bet. When they told me I was fighting Chupa, I threatened to pull out. I just deposited the check.”

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Gary said, high-fiving Krystal.

They drove with the windows open because the AC didn’t work. Buckets and canisters rattled around in back. They passed a Ford 350 pulling a motor home towing a Jeep, with a motorcycle bungeed to the rear bumper and an aluminum skiff upside down on the roof. They were passed by twelve members of the Tasmanian Devils MC. They passed a flashing FHP cruiser that had pulled over two bicyclists, each bike laden like an Indian train, the bicyclists wearing multi-colored spandex and backpacks the size of refrigerator units. They were passed by a flotilla of U-Haul rentals with New York plates heading south. They passed four discarded tire carcasses. They were passed by a Ferrari with the Beast with Two Backs in the driver’s seat. They were passed by a screaming FHP cruiser. They passed the cruiser with the Ferrari pulled over, the passengers by the side of the road, the woman pulling on her panties.

When they pulled into their yard, two feral hogs were rutting by the steps. Krystal put her hand on Gary’s thigh. “Let’s go, you old weasel.”

They went inside. Krystal lifted her T-shirt and flashed her tits. Fifi LePew batted her eyelashes. “Take a shower! I’ll be waiting.”

Gary took a shower. No snake. He was beginning to like the snake and wondered how he could get it to return. When he came out, Krystal lay on the rumpled bed sheets, wearing a nothing but a Harley T-shirt pulled up. “Stairway to Heaven” played on the boom box. Gary gave a rebel yell and pounced, sliding right in. They rutted like a paint mixer and fell off the bed with Krystal on top. She leaped up, stuck out her ass and ran into the living room. Gary caught up with her and pulled her down with him on the sofa. She sat on his lap and they did the wild thing.

A raccoon entered through the screen door. It stuck its little paw in the crack and swung it open like a teenager returning home and skittered behind the couch. Gary froze. Krystal said, “What?”

Gary pointed. “It’s Inigo Montoya!”

Krystal squeaked, leaped up and ran for the broom. Inigo Montoya slithered behind the sofa.

“It was Floyd!” Gary pleaded voice tremulous. “I didn’t pull the trigger!”

Krystal rushed back brandishing the broom.

“Get rid of it! Get it out of here!”

“My gun’s in the truck.”

“Fuck the gun! That gun is bad luck! Here.” She thrust the broom at Gary, who yanked the cheap-jack Big Lots sofa away from the wall with a jerk exposing the trash panda who lurked like Fu Manchu, rubbing his paws. Gary herded the critter toward the door where it showed itself out.

Gary stood with broom at port arms, panting.

“Why did you talk to it?” Krystal demanded.

“Months ago...before our luck changed, and changed again, and then changed back, when you were in jail for licking that manager. There was a rabid raccoon in the yard. Floyd shot it with my magnum. We buried it in the yard. It was a rabid raccoon! What choice did we have? And then several months later, that other raccoon showed up at my door and accused me of murdering its father!”

“Gary, that don’t make a lick of sense.”

Gary threw the broom over his shoulder. “Nevertheless.”

It was only then that he noticed that his flag was at half-mast. Krystal advanced like a storm front.

“Don’t worry, big boy. I can fix that.”

Soon they were back at it, rocking the kitchen table until it collapsed. They retreated to the bedroom while “Freebird” soared on the radio. Their sex was brobdignagian! Their sex lasted for hours! In centuries to come, bards would sing of their sex! They could have filmed their sex and paid off their credit cards. Who wouldn’t want to see the Black Dildo in action? But Black Dildo was now Steely Danielle and she had a match tomorrow.

They collapsed in a heap, covered with sweat.

“Now what?” Krystal said.

“Try to get some sleep.”

SIXTY-NINE

BLACK DILDO VERSUS CHUPACABRA

Under the watchful eye of Webster Mantooth and referee Levon Levin, Krystal and Chupacabra went over the fight three hours ahead of time in the empty arena. They shook hands in the middle of the ring. Chupa was a stocky woman in a leotard that said Taco Power, Wonder Woman boots, hair cropped short and dyed platinum blonde. She was four and oh, but Krystal’s last victory had been unexpected amid bizarre circumstances, increasing her marketability exponentially. A freckle archipelago traversed Chupa’s pug nose. Her manager, Vassily Shuvelov, looked like a buzzard with a pronounced larynx and climbed in the ring alongside her trainer, Sylvia Wrath, a pink-haired fury.

They agreed that Danielle would come out swinging, Chupa would duck under, grab her and do a wurlitzer and throw her to the ground. Danielle would roll onto the small of her back and do a break dance sweep, bringing Chupa to the canvas. Danielle would go for the arm lock, but Chupa would bounce off the ropes with altitude and kick Danielle in the chops. They agreed on a sequence of thirteen maneuvers at the end of which, Danielle would perform a flying scissors take down and a leg lock whereupon Chupa would tap out. It was all settled. They all shook hands.

“Have you heard from Downtown?” Gary asked Mantooth, a mild-mannered middle-aged Methodist with a pronounced under bite.

“No one’s heard from Downtown since he vanished. I pray they don’t find his body in the belly of an alligator on the twelfth green at Lakewood.”

Levon wore gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved Waldo shirt. “I have a feeling we’ll never hear from him again. Just one of those unexplained disappearances.”

The show was sold out. Univision was there. Gary had to reserve tickets for Airwrecka and Patrice, who was bringing his boyfriend Manfred. Two hours prior, Krystal sat in her dressing room while Airwrecka braided her hair and Delilah whispered in her ear.

“Remember what we practice. The spider dance. The paddling blowfish. The foaming pipe snake. Remember your koan.”

“Euripides, you menda dese. You bend a blended bar with ease.”

“And when they circle back to sneeze,” Delilah prompted.

“THAT’S WHEN THE WEASELS SEIZE THE CHEESE!” they shouted in unison.

Airwrecka dropped her scissors which fell point first and stood upright quivering. Ludlow Kudlow started and clapped his hands “Is it time?”

Gary was nonplussed. “Not yet, Lud.”

Lud reached inside his jacket, removed a silver flask, unscrewed and imbibed. He offered it to Gary, who passed. Delilah took the bottle and chugged until it was empty. She handed it back. Ludlow shook it.

“I’ll catch you on the flipside, baby,” Delilah said.

A boy in a hoodie stuck his head in the door. “Five minutes.”

They formed up, Gary leading, Krystal’s hands on his shoulders framed by Delilah and Ludlow, with Airwrecka bringing up the rear. From twenty feet away, they felt the crowd’s sound and heat. It was a hot August night and the joint was packed. Various factions sported banners like states at a national convention. Chupa’s fans commandeered a solid block waving Chupa banners.

“CHUPA! CHUPA! CHUPA!” they chanted.

Krystal’s fans unfurled their Black Dildo banner, despite the promoter’s pleas to call her by her real fake name.

“BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO!” they chanted, waving black dildos. Univision was taping, as well as Shoddy Productions which marketed off brand wrestling DVDs. Many individuals held their smart phones aloft taping Krystal’s advance to the ring.

Wearing a black tux, blue shirt, and white tie, Webster Mantooth appeared in the center of the ring.

“DAMAS Y CABALLEROS! WE COME NOW TO ONE OF OUR FEATURED FIGHTS OF THE NIGHT! FIGHTING OUT OF PECADILLO MEXICO WITH A RECORD OF FOUR AND OH! THALIA ‘CHUPACABRA’ ESTEFAN!”

The Chupa peopled clapped, cheered, shook their banners and blew their vuvuzelas as Chupa climbed into the ring followed by Vassily and Sylvia Wrath. Chupa danced around the perimeter with her hands in the air.

“HER OPPONENT, WHO CAME OUT OF NOWHERE WITH HER STUNNING DEFEAT OF CASSOWARY, HAILING FROM TURPENTINE, FLORIDA, STEELY DANIELLE!”

Patrice leaped to his feet waving a hard rubber schlong. “BLACK DILDO!”

“BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO!” her people chanted waving their rubber shlongs.

Levon met them in the middle of the ring. “Obey my commands at all times. Shake hands.”

They slapped five and retreated to their corners. Levon chopped down.

“Fight!”

Krystal came out swinging. Chup ducked under, grabbed her and held her aloft for the wurlitzer. Her hand slipped and Danielle fell to the canvas, automatically going into her break dance sweep, right leg catching Chupa behind the knee, sending her down on her ass.

“Puta!” Chupa hissed.

They bounced to their feet and circled, careful rehearsals forgotten. Chupa shot for a take down as Delilah shouted ringside, “Spider dance!”

Krystal leaped up into a reverse spinning crescent kick which sent Chupa sprawling into the ropes. Krystal stalked her along the ropes. Vassily stuck his cane through the ropes, hooked Krystal by the ankle, and pulled her flat on her face. Paper cups, pieces of clothing, and vuvuzelas rained down. Chupa’s followers got up and surged around the ring toward Krystal’s followers. Patrice rose to his feet, gripping his three-foot dildo like a baseball bat. Chupa’s fans unveiled chains, brass knuckles, and nunchucks made from two plastic water bottles filled with plaster of Paris, connected by a short rope.

The camera crews were torn.

Gary rolled through the ropes and ran across the ring to get at Vassily, while Levon blew his whistle. Gary rolled out the opposite side and faced off with Vassily who hunkered in a fighter’s stance, his cane forgotten. Sylvia Wrath jumped on Gary’s back for the rear naked choke, but Delilah appeared out of nowhere and applied Dim Mak, the death touch, to Shirley’s neck and she fell unconscious to the floor. Vassily picked up his cane and advanced like a fencer. Gary picked up a folding chair and held it in front of him like a lion tamer. As the Russian thrust, Gary whirled around backwards and whacked him on the elbow. Vassily dropped the cane. Gary picked it up and hurled it into the crowd. Vassily went after it. It was a very valuable cane.

Krystal climbed the ropes and brought Chupa down with a flying scissors kick, landing on Chupa’s back and pulling her leg back into a painful lock.

Chupa tapped out.

SEVENTY

WD40

Flush with spending cash, Krystal, Gary, Delilah, and Ludlow floated down the sidewalk past the Comedy Club. A familiar voice intruded on the warm night air.

“White boys love Hornitos. They think it’s Mexican Viagra.”

Gary gripped Krystal’s arm. They looked at the peg board next to the door.

STAND-UP TONIGHT: Major SUTTON

“Come on! I know that guy.”

“Not me, hons,” Delilah begged off. “I got to get back to the bayou.”

“I’m going home after an iced tea, kids,” Ludlow said.

Gary and Krystal found a table in the back. Three dozen people crowded the small round tables or the bar, watching Sutton wearing a Navy blue suit and white shirt open at the collar, the spotlight gleaming off his polished brown head. Several college boys were clustered front and center. The tables were so tightly packed, the waitresses had to move sideways. They ordered tequila and water except for Ludlow, who had an iced tea.

“I had to fly to Cleveland. I’m in line for security,” Major said. “I keep seeing the same people over and over. Young woman with baby. Rapper in a hoodie. Lumber jack with skateboard. Along comes a TSA agent with a dog on a leash, sniffing for drugs. Dog stops at this businessman pulling a suitcase on wheels. You can just tell this guy’s flying business class on his way to an interstate manager’s meeting. Dog starts barking. Agent says, ‘Sir, would you open your suitcase?’

“‘What, here?’”

“‘Yes, right here, sir.’”

“Guy opens his suitcase. The dog snags a summer sausage and wolfs it down. ‘Thank you, sir. You may proceed.’”

Gary and Krystal laughed and applauded. Major shielded his eyes.

“Ho shit! It’s my man Gary Duba, soon to be a major motion picture!”

Gary waved.

“I get to the gate. The gate is full but there are no agents. There’s nothing happening. Sign says on time, but there’s no plane at the gate. Back in the day, you brought a gun to the airport to make sure the plane left on time.”

A young man with a beard and a manbun said, “Wow, man. Just wow.”

“Did you assume my gender?” Major said.

The young man and his two companions crossed their arms. One hissed.

One said, “Lame.”

Major pointed at himself. “Am I bombing up here?”

“You suck!” said one.

“That’s sick, man,” said another.

“Lame,” said the third.

“What time does a Chinaman go to the dentist?” Major said.

The three stood. “That’s it,” said the manbun. They trooped out. A young couple raced to take their seats. Major bowed at the waist.

“Welcome. You can have those drinks.”

The couple giggled. She looked like Cleopatra Jones. He looked like Napoleon Dynamite.

“Finally, we’re on the plane. I’m flying Cattlecar Airlines. I’m sitting next to a woman with a support ocelot. Behind me there’s a guy with capybara wearing a vest. Across the aisle’s a young woman with a garter snake wrapped around her neck. I told her it was in the wrong place. I’m the only guy there without a therapy animal. I’m feeling antsy. But get this—I can rent one for one hundred and sixty dollars. I call the attendant.

“What can I rent?”

“‘Sir, all we have left are coon cats.’ I look him in the eye. Is that what you think of me? That because I’m a person of color, I should rent a coon cat?”

“‘That’s all we have left. We had a very limited selection.’”

Major took a sip of water. “I threaten to sue. Five minutes later, the attendant brings me a check for fifty thousand dollars and a complimentary coon cat.

“He hands out dwarf peanuts. The ocelot is gulping them down. I order the mozzarella and roasted red pepper agnolotti in vodka sauce, served with kale, fire-roasted peppers, a petite soft baguette and apple wheat berry grain salad for eleven ninety-nine. I’ve had MREs that taste better. Each MRE comes with a pouch of water, a heating sleeve, an entree that may contain beef stew, chicken, muskrat or possum, crackers, raisins, and Skittles.”

The audience tittered. The audience drank. Major peered around.

“Folks, Omma hand the mic over to the somber and funereal Alice Prosciutto. Alice!”

A skinny, pale woman with an amazing poof of red dandelion hair took the stage, wearing a dress she’d rescued from Goodwill where it had been serving a forty-year sentence.

“In the meantime,” Major said, “Try the mozzarella and roasted red pepper agnolotti in vodka sauce, served with kale, fire-roasted peppers, a petite soft baguette and apple wheat berry grain salad.”

Warm applause followed Major as he walked to the rear of the club, following a serpentine pattern. Gary rose to greet him. They hugged. Gary introduced Krystal. Major went down on one knee and took her hand.

“I am in awe. I am in your thrall.”

“Get up, Maj. You’ll tear your knees.”

“I talked to Sid. Wants to know when you’re going to get back to him?”

“Hell, let’s go,” Gary said. “Let’s do it. His lawyer and my lawyer. Hell yeah.”

Krystal slammed her fist to the table. “Fuck an ‘A’ Bob.”

Major ordered a vodka gimlet, “and whatever they’re having.”

“My friends,” Alice Prosciutto said, “did you ever accidentally shoot your neighbor six times?”

Major pulled out a card and wrote something on the back. “That’s my address. I’m having a barbecue Monday. Why don’t y’all come ’round bout three?”

Gary tucked it in his pocket. He needed a card.

Major pulled out his phone. “Let me give Sid a call. He’s usually around.”

The call went through. Major cupped his mouth. He put it away.

“Sid will be down in fifteen minutes.”

“Seriously?” Gary said.

“He’s right up the street at the Drunken Monkey.”

Fifteen minutes later, Sid swooshed in, resplendent in Gene Kelly khakis, a flowing yellow and blue Hawaiian shirt, and a yellow porkpie hat. He too embraced Gary as a long lost brother and gushed over Krystal.

“The marketing possibilities are infinite,” he said, taking a seat and ordering absinthe. “Anybody need anything? You hungry? Anybody need a bump?”

Krystal raised her hand, but Gary grabbed it by the wrist and forced it down, like a parking brake. “We’re good.”

Sid framed a scene with his hands. “Here’s how I see it. Florida Man. Gary Duba’s having a bad day. There’s a snake in his toilet, a rabid raccoon in the yard, and his girl Krystal’s in jail for getting naked at a Waffle Hut and licking the manager. With his best friend Floyd, Gary sets out to sell his prized Barry Bonds rookie card to raise the five hundred for bail. But things get out of hand.”

Sid sat back, smug, hands open to accept bouquets.

“Then what?” Krystal said.

“Then what? Everything! All of it! The lottery! The alligator! The python! You’re a legend! This show is pre-sold. Huge overseas market! And you!” He pointed at Krystal.

“The Black Dildo! ’Nuff said!”

Gary couldn’t keep himself from beaming. Maybe this was it. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It wasn’t often a man got a lucky break. Gary felt he must be some kind of freak, but this was his fourth or fifth major break. It was like God was testing him to see if he was worthy. He knew he wasn’t worthy.

“What happens next?”

“I’ll put together a proposal and an offer. We’ll shoot eight initial episodes. I already have a crew lined up, and a writer structuring your story. You’ll walk us through it and of course participate in meaningful reenactments.

“We have all of Krystal’s fights.”

“She only just whupped Chupacabra’s ass three hours ago.”

Sid beamed. “That was my team down there.”

SEVENTY-ONE

THE LIZARD LOUNGE

They parted outside. As Gary and Krystal walked to his truck in a garage, they passed Lizard on A Stick. Gary went to the window. It was the same Latino kid with the shock of black hair. He smiled when Gary came up.

“Ola! You want lizard? It’s on the house.”

“Naw, I’m flush. What’s your name? I’m Gary.”

“Julio.”

The boy expertly skewered grilled lizard, added green peppers and mushrooms, wrapped in wax paper. He handed them out. Gary gave him a twenty.

“Where do you get the lizards?”

“I catch them.”

“What are they?”

“Iguana.”

“How do they taste?”

Julio just smiled and pointed. Gary bit into the charcoal grilled meat. It tasted just like chicken, with just the right blend of peppers and sauces.

“Julio, how’d you like to come work for me?”

Julio rapidly nodded his head. “Doing what?”

“Cooking iguanas. You know all the recipes, right?”

The next day, putting on a roof on one of Habib’s properties, Gary spotted the perfect location, a former Friday’s in a corner location in a trendy new strip mall near Turpentine. Using python money, Gary leased the property and with him and Floyd doing most of the work, renovated it. Gary took the Florida Man offer to Habib who promised to get back to him but didn’t get around to it for two weeks. By the time everyone had agreed, and Gary signed, it had been a month since the meeting at the Comedy Club and the Lizard Lounge was set to open.

It was a hot November day and Christmas was on full display. Poinsettia festooned the light poles. Red and green was everywhere. The Lizard Lounge had been finished with a South Pacific Tiki theme, despite the prevalence of iguana throughout the Caribbean. Bamboo strips lined the walls. The bar lurked under thatched straw. Tiki gods looked down from the walls and up from the mugs. Sid’s film crew was there. Krystal, who waited tables, wore a hidden body cam.

The first patrons arrived at eleven fifteen, shortly after opening. Gary greeted them at the door, wearing cargo pants, a Hawaiian shirt and a pith helmet. The man, of medium height and appearance, wore a gray seersucker jacket over a Jimmy Buffet shirt and Jeans. The woman, slim and prim with her brown hair cut short.

“Welcome folks! You’re our first customers.”

“Is that right?” said the man.

“How’d you find us?”

“We were just walking down the street, looking for a place to eat and decided to give it a try,” the woman said. “We’re from Minnesota.”

The man grinned. “Fresh off the farm!”

Gary led them to a table looking out on the patio and handed them Tiki themed menus.

Lizard cacciatore with kale guacamole

Barbecued Lizard

Lizard brochettes

Lizard chili

Pan-broiled lizard

Lizard casserole

Back in the kitchen, Julio dervished from salads to tapioca to the fresh iguana he’d prepared.

“What can I do?”

“Grill arugala, mix with ancient grains and coconut oil.”

As Gary mixed, he noticed a ferocious lizard in a cage by the back door.

“Fuck is it?”

“Is monitor lizard, Mister Gary. Is no good for eating. Stupid cousin bring it in this morning. I tell him to go climb a tack.”

“What are you doing with it?”

“I will get rid of it when I get a chance.”

“Well ahmina put it in the truck. I don’t want it hanging round in here.”

Wearing a grass skirt and a black wig, Krystal sashayed up to the Minnesotans. “Welcome to the Lizard Lounge folks! You’re our first customers.”

“We’re very excited,” the woman said.

“We’re from Minnesota.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Krystal said. “We carry fourteen rums and twelve tequilas.”

“Bit too early for me,” said the man. “I’ll have an iced tea.”

“Just water,” said the woman.

When Krystal returned with their drinks, they ordered. Four more customers arrived. Perched in the middle of his culinary powerhouse, Julio was an octopus of activity, flipping, mixing, baking and cutting with masterful flair. Watching him, Gary thought about moving the kitchen to the center of the dining room a la Ginza of Tokyo.

Now the place was humming. Now the place was happening. People slowed as they passed to look at the window graphic, a sunglass-wearing iguana lounging poolside with a pina colada. Sid’s soldiers surreptitiously slithered and stalked. Directional mics picked up every word.

In short order the Minnesotans’ entrees arrived at their table on a black lacquered tray, covered with clay lids. Krystal brought them in for three-point landings and whisked the lid off madame’s entree, roast lizard. There lay the succulent lightly browned protein, a broad-leaf of kale over the neck. Madame used her fork to dislodge the leaf exposing the head, its staring eye, its rictus grin.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” she cried, pushing herself away from the table causing her chair to fall over backward.

“GOOD GOD!” cried her husband, standing up with a jerk.

Diners panicked. This was just the sort of scenario that preceded a mass shooting. They dove for the exits. Gary rushed out. The man turned on him in a fury.

“I’m going to sue you. This should never happen to a human being!”

“It’s traditional! It’s considered a delicacy!”

She hung on to the table and put a hand to her neck. She collapsed. Krystal knelt at her side and helped her stretch out on the floor. The man whipped out his cell phone and began recording.

“What are you doing?” Gary said.

“What does it look like I’m doing, you moron?”

Julio came out of nowhere like a tropical storm and beaned the man in the head with a frying pan. The man staggered but did not go down. He straightened and threw his fist into Julio’s face. They both went down in a heap. The police arrived. They took Julio into custody. No papers. The ambulance came and took the woman way. After listening to the lawyer describe what happened, the Turpentine police arrested Gary for operating a restaurant without a license and employing an illegal alien.

Sid Saidso got it all.

SEVENTY-TWO

COURTHOUSE CAPERS

Once again, Gary returned to the Glades County Jail. There were no familiar faces. All the talk was about alleged serial killer Vanderlay Mukerjee who was being held overnight until he could be transferred to a more secure facility. Scuttlebutt had the fiendish doctor performing hideous experiments on his already dead subjects, molding their flesh into grotesque parodies.

Monday morning, Gary found himself hauled before the magistrate. He stood in the docket wearing a cheap blue suit off the rack at Men’s Wearhouse, next to Habib, who wore a bolo tie, a tan Western-style jacket with a yoke and elbow patches, a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate, and hand-tooled Western boots. Krystal stood with Sid Saidso at the back of the courtroom.

“Mister Duba, you have appeared before this bench six times in the past two years. While individually, your transgressions don’t compare to those of, say, Vincent ‘The Chin’ Gigante, you are shaping up to be something of a public nuisance.

“Do you have any compelling reason why I shouldn’t sentence you to jail time?”

“Your honor,” Habib said, “I have two witnesses who will speak to Mister Duba’s character.”

It was late on a Thursday afternoon, the day after the grand opening and the closing. Judge Walter Wilberforce was tired and cranky. Outside, the sky was overcast and the weather people were in a frenzy over Hurricane Gretchen, gathering force in the Gulf. The Judge had reservations that evening at Bistro Bastille, a new French restaurant that was getting rave reviews.

“Mister Rodriguez, I’m sure Mister Duba has many fine qualities, but I don’t see how they alter the facts of the case. Operating a restaurant without a license. Employing undocumented workers. He still owes six figures in federal taxes. There are federal agents waiting outside this courtroom.”

“Nevertheless, your honor, Mister Duba is a well-known and long-established member of this community. He represents zero flight risk and he is not the bloodthirsty fiend portrayed in the media.”

“Very well, Mister Rodriguez. You may have five minutes for each witness.”

Habib turned and motioned. Patrice, wearing a burgundy superfly suit with flared trou, lapels the size of bomber wings and a ’fro out to here, took the oath and the witness chair.

“Your honor, I am Miss Patrice Talley, formerly of Kingston, Jamaica. I had hardly known Mister Duba for a few hours when he offered to pay for my sex change operation. And he did. He is a very good man.”

The assistant district attorney rose. “May I ask the circumstances of your meeting?”

“How is that relevant?” Habib said.

“It’s very relevant, if they were engaged in an illegal activity. Your honor?”

Wilberforce nodded. “Answer the question.”

“Mister Duba and I were fighting after I caught him trying to take pictures of myself and a good friend engaged in a private business.”

Habib beamed. “Your honor, that only speaks to my client’s generous nature. One minute they are at each other’s throats. The next, he is paying for Mister Talley’s sex change operation.”

“Call your next witness.”

Quincy Simms took the stand, wearing a sharp three-piece cotton suit with a pale blue shirt and a Dolphins tie. “Your honor, Mister Duba came across me in the dead of night when my car gave out, and spent an hour taking my carburetor apart and putting it back together. He literally sucked the palmetto bugs out with his mouth. I had never seen him before. He had no idea who I was.”

“And who are you, Mister Simms?”

“I’m Roebuck Simms’ father.”

Like any red-blooded Floridian, Wilberforce was a die-hard Dolphins fan.

BANG!

“I’m dismissing Mister Duba on his own recognizance. Don’t make a fool out of me, son.”

As they danced down the courthouse steps, a mob of media surged up. Sid Saidso tracked them with his video cam, affixed to a sweatband around his head. Here came stacked and vivacious anchor babe Cloris Sanchez, formerly a Mexican weather girl.

She paused to say hello to Sid, whom she knew from her stint on the entertainment circuit.

“What’s going on, Cloris?”

“Alleged mass murderer Vanderlay Mukerjee is about to be sentenced. I’ll phone you later, Sid.”

News vans double-parked in the street, disgorging gangs of smartly-dressed content providers.

Habib left them at the street. “I need you to jump on those roofs.”

“I’ll do it today. Sorry about the delay. I don’t know why these things keep happening to me.”

“Well I got a theory,” Habib said.

“What?”

“You sure you want to hear it?”

“Come on, Habib. You ain’t gonna shock this good ol’ boy.”

“You know how there are certain individuals who have been struck by lightning multiple times and survived?”

“No.”

“Well there are. You can look it up. It’s like they’ve got some weird kind of lightning magnet in their bodies. Well you’ve got a weird magnet.”

“Oh, come on, Habib! What happened to me could happen to anybody!”

Sid turned to Habib. “Will you be representing the Dubas for the reality show?”

Habib shrugged. “Sure. Send me the contracts.” He waved and walked on.

Sid Saidso beamed. “BAM! That little bit in the courtroom this morning, that’s gonna make the show.”

“When do we start?”

“I’ll get you a proposal by the end of the week.”

Gary’s truck was waiting for them in the parking lot behind the restaurant. They got home at eleven. Keeping an eye out for Inigo Montoya, Gary and Krystal went up the steps. He unlocked the door. Krystal went around opening all the windows.

Gary slumped in the sofa and turned on the TV. There was Cloris Sanchez, high color in her cheeks.

“...has escaped. The person they brought before the judge was not Mukerjee, but another prisoner whom the infamous plastic surgeon had altered to look like him. Mukerjee, who has been accused of twelve murders, is currently at large. The Chief of Police will give a press conference in one hour.”

SEVENTY-THREE

WHO MONITORS THE MONITOR LIZARDS?

Major lived in a sun-faded white and yellow ranch style on Bluebird Lane in an older subdivision outside Belle Glade. His nearest neighbor, hidden behind a massive oleander, was unoccupied with plywood filling the windows. Gary and Krystal arrived at four p.m., Julio’s unloved monitor lizard in a cage in the back. Gary had taken pity on the creature, kept it fed and watered in the shade. He couldn’t very well just turn it loose.

They got out of the truck.

“That lizard is creepin’ me out,” Krystal said.

“I’m dropping it off at Lizards! tomorrow.” Lizards! Was a pet shop in Turpentine.

“Why don’t you just turn it loose?”

“It’s an invasive species!”

“Well why don’t you just shoot it?”

“In a cage? I should at least give it a running start.”

Krystal threw up her hands. “Fine!”

As Gary approached the house, Krystal ran back. “I forgot my eyeliner!”

They smelled the tantalizing aroma of barbecue. A fat-tired black and blue mountain bike with TPD painted on the rail in white letters leaned against the wall next to the front door. A sign on the door said, “Come around back.”

As they circled the house clockwise past hibiscus beaches, they came to the concrete slab patio surrounded by crab and scrub grass, a drainage ditch in the backyard. Major sat on a plastic chair from Walmart, leaning forward, his arms on his thighs. A small, dapper, olive-skinned man in a wide lapel burgundy suit with pink pinstripes, with a bizarre paste faced them holding a small automatic pistol. He looked up at the newcomers and gestured with his pistol.

“Come here. Sit down.”

Gary ran through his options. He could turn and run, but what about Krystal? The little man was too steady. Cautiously, he advanced and sat on the bench of a wooden picnic table. Krystal sat next to him.

“What’s going on?”

“I am Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee,” the little man said with precise enunciation, “plastic surgeon to the stars. Unfortunately, through no fault of my own, I am forced to flee my adopted country. This requires a grubstake. Mister Sutton assured me on countless occasions that he would steer clients to me, several clients in particular. I only just recently learned that Mister Sutton not only reneged on our deal, he talked smack of me to these clients, who subsequently sought out other plastic surgeons.”

“Muk!” Major said. “You killed seven people!”

“Every one of those unfortunate persons failed to disclose to me certain medical conditions that would have precluded me from practicing my art, had I known.”

Krystal could not stop staring. Mukerjee’s face looked like a Picasso painting, with a sideways nose, split-level eyes, and a mouth going the other way.

“What’s wrong with your face?”

Mukerjee gazed with placid eyes. “There is nothing wrong with my face. Everything you see is by design. When I realized the full scope of Sutton’s betrayal, I knew I had no choice but to become a fugitive in my adopted country. Never in my wildest dreams, as a child in the slums of Mumbai, did I imagine that this great land of ours, the land of opportunity and freedom, would turn on me in such a savage fashion.

“I graduated summa cum laude from the UF Health Plastic Surgery and Aesthetics Center in Gainesville. Within a year, I was doing over a million dollars business. I improved the esthetics of two Miss Universe runner-ups and four Miami Dolphinettes. I would tell you of the many stars who proudly display my craft, but I am sworn by oaths of confidentiality.”

“Sarah Jessica Parker?” Krystal asked hopefully.

“I cannot comment. I only want what’s mine. I must now ask you all to accompany me to wherever it is Mister Sutton stashes his goods while he makes me whole.”

“Muk! I was the one told Madonna about you!”

Mukerjee pointed the pistol at the comic. “No names. Move.”

Sutton led them single file through the kitchen, down to the hall, to his office with a bay window looking out on undeveloped scrub grass. An old wood desk sat in a corner at an angle. Framed movie posters hung on the wall: The King of Comedy, The Original Kings of Comedy, Stormy Weather. A solid cube jutted against the wall covered with a tablecloth holding Sutton’s trophies: Best Nightclub Comic Miami, 1999, Performer of the Year—Bilks, Stratton Tools, Man of the Hour—Glenn Burke Productions. Sutton silently moved them to the desk, pulled off the tablecloth revealing a steel Protex floor safe with an electronic lock.

“I ain’t got jack shit,” Sutton said.

Standing in the office doorway so that he could cover them all, Mukerjee pointed at the safe. “Nevertheless.”

Grumbling under his breath, Sutton got down on his haunches and entered the code. The safe clicked. He pulled it open and stepped aside, gesturing like a stage magician. “See?”

Inside lay featureless black videotapes, a couple vinyl bank bags, a fat packet of legal papers, and some photo albums.

“Open the green bags on top of the safe.”

Three slim wads fell out of the upended bags. Sutton picked them up and forked them over. Mukerjee glanced at them.

“This is disappointing.”

“Yeah, well next time stick up somebody who has money.”

Mukerjee stuffed the wads into his jacket pocket. “I will need your transportation.”’

“HA!” Sutton popped. “I took an Uber home last night. My car’s in the shop. Go. Go and check the garage if you don’t believe me. How the hell you get here?”

“I was forced to improvise.” He turned to Gary.

“I will need your transportation.”

Gary handed over the keys. “It’s an old truck out front.”

“Give me your cell phones. I am leaving you in good faith, and do not wish to be reported. Mister Sutton, yank the power cord from your computer and hand it to me.”

“Fuck! Ahmina lose all the jokes I wrote this past week! That’s some good shit!”

“They will come back to you.”

Gary couldn’t take his eyes off the dude’s face. One eye fixed on Sutton. The other stared off to the northwest searching for pterodactyls. The nose went one way, the mouth the other, like an Art Spiegelman drawing.

“Now all of you in the living room. I am backing out. I am not causing trouble. Do not attempt to obstruct me. I am an ace shot. I was in the Indian Army.”

“You told me you emigrated when you were twelve!” Sutton said.

“The Indian Army has a Youth Brigade.”

They entered the living room.

“Sit.”

They sat. Mukerjee backed out of the room, holding the pistol.

The front door opened and closed. They watched through the picture window as Mukerjee got in the truck and started to back up. He had withdrawn ten feet when he cried out, jerked the wheel, and stepped on the gas causing the truck to swerve into the drainage ditch, listing like an abandoned ship.

Mukerjee exploded from the driver’s door, ran twelve paces and fell on his face.

Gary looked at Krystal. “Did you let that monitor loose?”

SEVENTY-FOUR

SHOUTS AND ARMS

At twelve noon on Friday, they gathered on the broad front porch of the Glades County Courthouse. Gary, Krystal, Major, the Mayor, the Chief of Police, and State Senator Cicely Steuben to present the three friends with the Key to the City and a reward of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars put up by the Plastic Surgeon Association of America.

Sid Saidso’s crew was there. Patrice and his new friend Fritz were there. Quincy was there with a beautiful woman named Chantelle. Trixie and Stanton had driven down from Orlando.

Mayor Hector Scaramucci had a black Beatles cut and wore a navy-blue suit, white shirt, red tie, with an American flag pin in his lapel. WFTV and WKMG were set up at the curb. A thousand people gathered on the sidewalks and in the street, which had been cordoned off.

“Fellow Floridians!” the mayor boomed. “Turpentine has always been a friendly place and we pride ourselves on our small-town atmosphere and lack of drama. Other than me, you would be hard-pressed to name a famous Turpentinian! Yet, in the past year, we have become aware of a man, a giant, a legend who walks among us! It’s true, Gary Duba has lived here for the past eleven years, and nothing in his history indicated the greatness that was to come.

“In the astonishing breadth of one year, Duba has gone from triumph to tragedy to triumph to tragedy to triumph to tragedy too many times to tell. He won the lottery! He set fire to the glades! His beautiful and talented wife Krystal was by his side every step of the way until she herself stepped up to grab a little of that glory for herself!”

“BLACK DILDO!” chanted the crowd. “BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO!”

With a good-natured expression, Scaramucci tamped down the crowd. “My friends, please remember that there are children and Baptists present and show a little respect for your neighbors. Turpentine is all about friendliness.

“Then, when it seemed they had nothing more to achieve, Krystal entered the world of professional wrestling as Steely Danielle! We are proud she represents Turpentine. And then, when you thought it couldn’t possibly get any better, Gary bagged the biggest Burmese python in Florida history, earning the respect and a paycheck from Orin Houtkooper, founder and CEO of Fonebone!”

“FONEBONE!” changed the crowd. “FONEBONE, FONEBONE!”

“An ordinary man would be content with those achievements. An ordinary man would quietly retire to his trailer in the swamp. But Gary Duba is no ordinary man! Now he has presented his masterpiece! A masterpiece of public service! He, Krystal, and local comedian and all-around stand-up guy Major Sutton captured the infamous mass murderer Vanderlay Mukerjee!”

“They din’t just catch him!” yelled a voice in the crowd. “They kilt him!”

“Technically,” the mayor said, “he had a heart attack. In any case, the world now breathes a sign of relief. Gary, come on up here!”

Gary sidled over to the mayor who put an arm around his shoulders. “I’m proud to call Gary Duba, Turpentine’s Man of the Decade, my friend!”

Gary smiled, although he hadn’t met the mayor until that morning.

They went inside for the press conference, where Gary, Krystal, and Sutton sat at a raised table facing a room full of media. Cloris Sanchez was first out of the gate.

“Mister Duba, were you among the passengers of United #591, which was forced to make an emergency landing in Miami last month, and blew up on the runway?”

“I was there. Thank God no one was hurt.”

“What were you doing on that flight?”

“Flying.”

A man with an immaculately groomed beard leaped into the fray. “Mister Duba, is it true you killed that python by cutting off its head?”

“Yessir, I did. I had recently come into possession of a samurai sword and I was thinkin’ about ritual seppuku when that mother-- excuse me, when that snake appeared. It was killing a pelican. I like pelicans more’n snakes anyway. Wasn’t like I’d been training for that my whole life, but I have seen The Seven Samurai.”

Shouts and arms.

Gary leaned into the mic. “I want to give a shout out to Haley Beth Van Droot. Haley Beth, if you’re listenin’, I knew your father Henry, and I have a few things of his he wanted to pass along to you. You can contact me through Sid Saidso Productions.”

Krystal leaned into the mic. “We got a TV show now! Y’all be sure to watch. It’s on Vidflix.”

Pandemonium. Sid Saidso came to the podium.

“I’m Sid Saidso, producer of What’s Your Snoblem, which has been renewed, by the way, and I can confirm that we’ve struck a deal with Gary Duba Productions to do a reality show based on his life.”

“Who’s it gonna star?” cried a voice from the back.

Sid turned to Gary. “Why don’t you tell them a little about the show?”

“Well, they’re gonna follow me around while I do stuff. We already got shows about hunting alligators, snakes, and feral hogs, but this is mostly gonna be about me and my ideas. I still think a restaurant that serves iguana is a good idea. There oughtta be a chain of ’em. Lizard on A Stick. I didn’t come up with that name, my good friend Julio did. We’ll license it from him, if we can find him.

“And y’all know about my house suspenders, right?”

“No,” Cloris Sanchez said. “Tell us about it?”

“Y’all see soon enough. It’ll be on the opening segment. It’s what I invented to keep houses from blowing away during hurricanes. You anchor that house in solid concrete pillars sunk into the ground.”

Krystal leaned in. “Tell ’em about your holistic hearing aids.”

“Oh yeah.”

A deputy entered the conference room from the back, went up to the chief of police and whispered in his ear. The chief stood and commanded the center mic.

“Folks, we’ve just received word from the National Weather Center that tropical storm Hermione is blowing in from the west and they are expecting eighty mile-an-hour winds. It won’t hit for a couple hours yet, but I just wanted you to know, especially those who have come from farther away, that you might want to make plans to head back early.”

Gary smacked is palm on the table.

“Finally!”

HOGZILLA

CONTENTS

1. Hermione

2. Fans All Over

3. Rustix

4. Vikings

5. What’s For Dinner?

6. The Burt Reynolds Playhouse

7. Krystal Shops

8. Return to Paradise

9. Mission For Santa

10. Let's Roll

11. Voodoo Economics

12. Men!

13. Back to the Swamp

14. Tubular Tetrahedron

15. Liability Issues

16. Who Could Possibly?

17. Crunch Time

18. A Surprise Guest

19. Kang of the Everglades

20. Sound Advice

21. Superfly III

22. Dance, Tallywhacker, Dance!

23. An Honest Mistake

24. The Gauntlet Is Thrown

25. The Check, Monsieur

26. Corruption on the Course

27. Recidivism

28. Numbnutz

29. Golf

30. An Unexpected Hazard

31. Here Come De Judge

32. A Generous Offer

33. Deep In The Jungle

34. Marshmallow

35. One More Chance

36. Meat and Hair

37. Excitement Mounts

38. The Iguana Bowl

39. An Alien Cult

40. The Narrative

41. Reese's

42. Invasive

43. Close Encounters

44. Far Farxiga

45. Let's Roll

46. Kaddish

47. The Application

48. Pearls Before Swine

49. Multiple Personality

50. Convergence

51. Emergency Meeting

52. The Power of Christ

53. Bottom Line

54. Out of the Woods

55. The Trail Grows Warm

56. Dead Eye Pincus

57. Porkchops

58. Who Is Stronger?

59. Whatever Happened to Downtown Brown?

60. Choppers

61. Halcyon Acres

62. The Golden Hog

63. Wombat Supreme Is Dead! Long Live Wombat Supreme!

64. What Else Ya Got?

ONE

HERMIONE

Gary and Krystal watched on producer Sid Saidso’s phone from the courtroom in the Glades County Courthouse, as their trailer flew off in a plastic cloud. The house suspenders didn't work because the house was a piece of shit and disintegrated in the ninety mile an hour wind. Sid had set up a camera at Gary’s trailer in anticipation of the Gary Duba Show.

The house suspenders worked great on Gary’s previous home, Chateau Ami, the only house in Turpentine Acres, which was to have been an upscale gated community. Gary bought the house last summer with his lottery winnings. In a binge unprecedented since Caligula, Gary blew his millions on fancy cars, gifts to his friends, booze, and cocaine. The bank repossessed. Gary tried smuggling tarantulas, selling blow, and an iguana-themed restaurant. He even killed the largest python in state history, at the behest of dot com billionaire Orin Houtkooper, earning a cool hundred thousand, which barely covered the interest on his debt.

It was not until Gary and Krystal inadvertently caused the death of Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee that Gary surfaced from a swamp of bad publicity. Turpentine gave him the key to the city, a handsome twelve by eighteen rosewood plaque with a foot-long brass key, and a parking pass for all municipal lots.

As Gary and Krystal watched their earthly possessions howl into the void, Sid tried to cheer them up. “Soon you’ll be rolling in dough. We haven’t filmed the first episode and already sponsors are lining up! WD40! Duct Tape! Tillamook Beef Jerky! Duck Commander! Farm & Fleet! Are you guys ready to rock?”

Gary clapped his hands. “Let’s rock!”

Major Sutton, at whose home Mukerjee had died, draped his arms over Gary’s and Krystal’s shoulders. “Hell of a day! Hell of a day!”

“It’s not every day you get the key to the city and your house blows away,” Krystal said.

“Ain’t that the truth. Ain’t that the truth.”

As soon as the police issued the all clear, the courtroom emptied out. Everyone ran, including the press. Turpentine’s streets were filled with fallen trees and trash, but damage was minimal. The real damage was northwest near Port Charlotte. Taking their key to the city, Gary and Krystal followed Sid’s Cherokee in Gary’s F-150. It took them forty-five minutes to reach Partridge Way, the dead-end road on which Gary had lived. They had to stop several times to move trees out of the way. They passed the Wokenoki Trailer Park, concrete rectangles stripped bare. Swamps decorated with shreds of plastic siding. Residents wandered zombie-like, plucking things from the wreckage.

The road dead-ended in the dirt turnaround. All that remained of Gary’s double-wide were the cinder blocks on which it had perched. The pier survived and his swamp boat was upside down on a hummock twenty yards offshore.

“Fuck,” Gary said.

“I wish we had some blow,” Krystal said.

“You can do the Gary Duba Show, or you can do Cops. You can’t do both.”

Gary reached into his jeans for a fat doobie, lit up, toked, and passed it to Krystal, who toked, and passed it to Sid. Soon they were higher than the Space Needle. Krystal waded toward the stanchions, kicking palm fronds out of her path, uncovering a feral hog which ran off squealing.

“There’s nothing left! Nothing!”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get new stuff.”

“All my family photos.”

“My baseball cards!”

“Where are we going to live?” Krystal asked.

“We have a meeting with the network tomorrow," Sid said. "Once they have your names on the dotted line, you will receive a two hundred fifty thousand-dollar advance.”

Gary pumped his fist. “Ho shit!”

“Where do we stay tonight?”

“You can stay at a motel. I’ll give you a thousand bucks. I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow and we’ll drive to Miami. The meeting’s at two, in the Four Seasons.”

Sid pulled out his wallet and peeled off ten crisp C-notes. “You can pay me back later.” He got in his car. “Come on. You can leave the truck here.”

Krystal slapped her hand on Gary's wrist and peeled off five. They drove past county crews sawing downed trees and loading them in dump trucks. They turned into the south side Walmart. The place was jammed with people stocking up. A woman pushed a shopping cart filled with toilet paper while pulling a shopping cart filled with toilet paper. Krystal went to women’s clothes. Gary headed for the gun department.

“How much for the Predator? You got it in three-oh-eight?”

The clerk, a large doughy man in a shirt showing an American eagle sinking its claws into the head of the Russian bear, lit up. “We sure do. That’s a sweet rifle. It’s on sale right now for five hundred dollars.”

Gary put his hand to his pocket and stopped. That would leave him one hundred and twenty dollars to get through the next couple of days. Plus, there was a three day waiting period. Plus, his rap sheet would freak them out. Better to purchase elsewhere.

“Ah, I’m just looking.”

The clerk peered at Gary with pale tiny eyes. “I know you.”

“Nah.”

“Sure, I do! Weren’t you the guy who claimed that those syringes the cops found in your rectum weren’t yours?”

“Nope.”

“Wait. Aren’t you the guy who was arrested for defecating on traffic from a lamp post?”

“Nope.”

“Sex with an alligator.”

“You got me confused, pal.”

“Help me out here.”

“I’m the guy who apprehended notorious serial killer and Plastic Surgeon to the Stars Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. They just gave me the key to the city.”

The clerk’s face lit up. “That’s right! Congratulations!”

They shook hands. Gary got a basket, picked up toiletries and looked for Krystal. Sid sat on a bench past the checkout lanes absorbed in his Fonebone. Walmart had twenty checkout lanes but only two were staffed. Two employees stood in the empty Self-Checkout Corral waiting to help self-checkouts. Krystal stood at the back of a line of four working their way through one of the registers, behind a three hundred pound man in a pink jumpsuit in a handicapped cart loaded with groceries, including nine packs Twinkies, a case of Diet Coke, and six Swanson frozen dinners. Krystal wheeled a cart filled with panties, a bra, makeup, gold lame strap-ons, and a bottle of Blanc de Brut.

The Guatemalan clerk asked a woman ahead of them to reinsert her debit card.

“I don’t know why it’s not working,” the woman whimpered.

“Buh-bye,” Krystal muttered under her breath.

Gary put a hand on her arm. “Patience.”

“She’s been at it for ten minutes. Why’s she buying ten cans of spinach? Who does she think she is? Olive Oyl?”

“Just chill.”

The man ahead of them twisted around in his tractor seat. “You guys, ahmina back up. I been in this line for fifteen minutes. I gotta go.”

Gary and Krystal stood back while the man backed up, wheeled his electric shopping scooter through the sliding glass doors into the foyer, got up and stomped off.

TWO

FANS ALL OVER

The Lamplighter Motel was an L-shaped one-story with sixteen rooms, office at ninety degrees. Sid paid for the rooms. Several iguanas fought in the rain-water at the bottom of the pool which had been drained for the season. Gary and Krystal carried their packages into their room, which featured two queen-sized beds covered with green and purple paisley duvets, a LeRoy Neiman print of a horse race at Hialeah, and a flat screen TV on the opposite wall.

“You shower first,” Gary said.

Minutes later, Gary slipped into the shower naked and cupped her boobs from behind.

“Ride me, Daddy, ride me!” she cooed while he grunted behind her.

Gary howled like a wolf. Krystal yelped like a cockatiel. Howling and yelping, they fell to the shower floor.

“OUCH!” Krystal said, putting her hand to the back of her head.

“Ow,” Gary said, rubbing his elbow.

Drying off, Krystal gathered shampoo, conditioner and skin cream and put them in her backpack. She put a dab of L’Oreal in her hands and rubbed it into Gary’s thick hair and combed it into a mullet.

They met Sid in the lobby at six and walked to Los Tres Amigos, an adobe-style Mexican restaurant. The storm had left behind a bracing evening in the seventies as they sat outside by a fountain, sconce mounted electric torches flickering, at a round table beneath an umbrella. Of the twelve tables, six were occupied. Gary noticed a skinny, black-haired, sunken-cheeked man in blue jeans and a cheap blue sport jacket seated beneath a royal palm in the corner, staring at them.

A sombreroed waiter took their order and headed for the door. Sid pulled a pen and pad from his gray Perry Ellis jacket. “Let’s go over the first season. Each program will consist of twenty-two minutes of content. Each program will have a theme. We will follow each of you in turn, but mostly Gary. We’ll do an episode where Krystal trains for a fight, and then the fight itself.”

Krystal pulled an American Indian from a pack with her teeth. “I don’t know if Delilah’s down for that. She values her privacy. That’s why she lives in the middle of nowhere.”

“Delilah will be paid.”

Krystal stared at Gary.

“What?”

“Light me up, you moron!”

Gary pulled a pack of matches from his jeans and lit it without closing the lid. Sun flared in his hand. Gary leaped to his feet shaking his hand violently.

“OUCH GODDAMNIT! I LIT MYSELF ON FIRE!”

Krystal tossed her water glass, hitting Gary in the face.

“Wha’dja do that for?”

“I was trying to put you out!”

The waiter set down three margaritas, followed by the manager, a short, bald-headed man wearing a bushy mustache, a shabby gray suit and a bolo tie, Eduardo on a pin on his chest. People stared. Hands hovered hesitantly over Fonebones.

“Is there a problem, my friends?”

Krystal lit her cigarette with a lighter. “Numbnutz here set himself on fire.”

“I was trying to light your cigarette!”

“There’s no smoking in here,” the manager said.

“We’re outside, for fuck’s sake!”

Sid Saidso whipped out his Fonebone and peered like Lucien Ballard.

“City law. Nothing I can do about it.”

Krystal threw the butt to the ground and smashed it with her shoe. “You gotta forgive us. We’re upset about the storm. It blew our house away.”

The manager’s eyes widened in sympathy. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Let me buy your drinks.”

The waiter returned. Gary ordered gator sausage gumbo. Sid ordered fish tacos. Krystal ordered a beef burrito. Diners murmured, pointed, and took photographs. The black-haired, sunken-cheeked man in blue jeans and a cheap blue sport jacket approached smelling of Paco Raban.

“Aren’t you Gary Duba? Didn’t you kill Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee?”

“Well I didn’t kill him; a monitor lizard bit him and he had a stroke. Krystal here set the lizard loose. But it was my lizard.”

The man pulled out his phone. “Can I get a picture?”

“Sure.”

Krystal and Gary stood with the man between them while he took a selfie. They sat. The man remained.

“Would you like to see me with Tool Box Killer Lawrence Whittaker? I correspond with a number of serial killers and have visited several. I only regret I was unable to meet Doctor Mukerjee.”

“Sorry,” Gary said.

“It was my life’s goal.”

Sid leaned back. “We’re having a meeting.”

The man looked uncertainly from Gary to Sid. His face darkened. “My only goal was to meet Doctor Mukerjee and get his autograph on one of his pamphlets.”

“He had a pamphlet?” Krystal said.

“He listed his procedures and prices. Face lift: $450. Butt lift: $550. I have a pamphlet signed by Paulina Perestroika.”

“She was one of his customers?”

“It was the only thing I had to write on.”

“Why would a butt lift cost more than the face lift?”

“How should I know? It was my dream to meet him and YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED MY DREAMS!”

The stranger seized a steak knife from the next table and ran at Gary who backpedaled faster than a top fuel dragster. Krystal seized Gary's chair and brought it down on top of the madman's head, knocking him to the ground. Gary kicked him in the ribs with his lizard-skinned boots. Sid leaped to his feet and closed in filming. The manager ran toward them wringing his hands.

“Please,” he said. “I must ask you to leave.”

Krystal pointed at the serial killer groupie backing away on his pants. “He attacked Gary with a steak knife. Look! He’s still got it!”

The man looked at the knife clutched in his hand, leaped to his feet, and rabbited over the wall.

The manager looked after him. “He took my steak knife.”

“Sir,” Krystal said, “we apologize for causing you any convenience. It’s been a rough day. We just won the key to the city for stopping Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and notorious serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. Right after that, Hurricane Hermione destroyed our home. We’re pretty shook up.”

Sid handed the manager a C-note. “We’ll keep it down.”

The manager backed away. “Very good, sir.”

A waiter cleared away the lone place setting where the berserker had sat. The waiter returned holding a tray on his shoulder, set three platters down and removed their lids. While they were eating, Sid pulled out his pad.

“Episode one will deal with Florida's biggest python. Episode two, how you got the key to the city. Episode Three will deal with the loss of your ancestral home, and how the Sugar Cane State Bank has allowed you to move back into your previous home in Turpentine Acres.”

“What?” Gary squawked.

“Oh yes, didn’t I tell you? They’re one of our sponsors.”

THREE

RUSTIX

The seventy floor Four Seasons on Brickell Drive soared 789 feet, the second tallest building in Miami, with a commanding view of Biscayne Bay and Miami Beach. Rustix had reserved a meeting room on the fourth floor overlooking the pool and cabanas. Sid stopped at Cripple Creek Ranch Wear in Miramar where Gary bought fresh jeans, a Scully Horseshoe Rose Embroidered shirt, a Lucchese men’s tan mad dog brown hobby stitched belt and a Stetson Seneca. Krystal wore Mikah High-Rise Snakeskin-Print Leather Pants over a lavender blouse with the top two buttons undone, and a ragged black thrift store motorcycle jacket with a half dozen zippers, her red hair hanging in a ponytail from beneath a Wild One hat. Sid wore a seersucker suit.

They walked through the lobby toward the elevator bank, past furniture clusters on Rothko rugs, turbaned sheiks, a Eurotrash couple, he in gray silk suit and sunglasses, she in a yellow sundress, clutching a Bichon Frise, three Miami Heat players towering over everyone, Mickey Rourke clutching a Chihuahua, and Axl Rose holding a corgi.

They rode the mirrored elevator with an elderly Jewish couple. He wore a yarmulke, she a sky-blue dress and aggressive perfume. On the fourth floor, they walked down the hushed corridor, floor to ceiling windows looking out on the expansive pool and Biscayne Bay, until they came to the Saratoga Park Room. Inside, four executives rose from a lozenge-shaped table on which sat laptops, briefcases, and stacks of paper. The three men looked like a Russian nesting doll, one jumbo, one medium, and one small. The jumbo a hale Irishman with a red nose, the medium, a chocolate Beau Brummel in a Versace Pied de Poule silk blazer and slacks, the small a bumptious Buddy Holly in jeans and a gray Perry Ellis blazer, the woman, a cool brunette in silk slacks and a white shirt.

Jumbo reached them first. “Gary Duba! Steely Danielle! I’m Bob Fahey. These are my associates, Eric Narwhal, Rick Stuben, and Amanda Gregory. On behalf of the Rustix Network, welcome!”

They shook hands.

“I saw you fight at the Roxy!” Stuben gushed, horn-rimmed glasses bobbing up and down. “You beat Cassowary!”

Krystal returned his grip. “That was a memorable evening.” The promoter, Downtown Brown, lit out with the box office and hadn’t been heard of since. Later, the cops arrested Gary for skipping out on a restaurant bill.

“Have a seat!” Fahey boomed. “Help yourself to coffee and beignets!”

Gary and Sid got coffee. Gary, Krystal and Sid sat opposite the Rustix execs. Gregory folded her hands. “Are you familiar with the Rustix Network?”

“Not really,” Gary said. “I don’t have much time to watch TV.” They watched Gary’s dad’s old Hee Haw and Dukes of Hazzard VHS tapes and were fond of Randolph Scott Westerns. Hurricane Hermione had taken it all away.

Sid held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. “Upholstery Wars, Honey Wagon, Kubik’s Rubes, Root, Hog, or Die, Pasta King. You guys are geniuses. I particularly enjoy Ribald Piebalds.”

Eric Narwhal smiled. “Thank you. That’s my baby.”

“How do you get them to rut like that?”

“We give them veterinary Viagra.”

Gary set down his mug. “Can I get some of that?”

“No,” Narwhal said. “It’s strictly for animals.”

Krystal elbowed him. “What about that veterinarian?”

Narwhal tapped his pad. “Anyway, we have a list of the first four episodes. The first episode will bring people up to speed on Gary, starting with his lottery win, the alligator in the pool, the fire, the anaconda, the death of Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee, and Turpentine awarding him the key to the city.”

“You oughtta get Major in there,” Gary said.

Narwhal made a note. “We’ll talk to Major. He’s an important part of the story.”

“What about Steely Danielle?” Sid said.

Narwhal made a note. “I wonder if we can expand this opening episode to forty-four minutes. Let’s look into that, Bob.”

Fahey beamed, lacing his fingers over his expansive gut. “By all means.”

“Episode Two will recreate your hunt for Florida’s biggest python. We have Houtkooper’s permission to use news footage, but he has declined to appear. Episode Three will deal with The Lizard Lounge and aftermath. Episode Four will deal with Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer

Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. Episode Five—I’m penciling in Steely Danielle. Do you have an upcoming event?”

“I’m fighting Transgender athlete A Thing Called Xue on January fourteenth.”

“What weight?” Gregory asked.

“Catch weight at one eighty.”

Gregory gasped. “You can’t make that weight!”

“Of course not. I’ll probably go in at one twenty-five.”

“He’ll pound you into gravy!”

Sid stuck out a pencil. “Let’s not refer to A Thing Called Xue as ‘he’. Thing’s preferred pronoun is Xue.”

Narwahl’s forehead erupted in wrinkles. “Xe?”

“Think of it as Ojibwa language. Say it with me. Man called Xue.”

“Thing called Xue,” the Rustix execs dutifully recited.

Gregory shook his head. “As a pro wrestler, you know you have virtually no chance of beating a man who outweighs you by fifty pounds.”

“Thing called Xue is transgendered.”

The Rustix execs looked at each other in disbelief.

Narwhal plowed ahead.

“Episode six, we’re undecided whether to go with iguanas or feral hogs. Do you have any preference?”

Gary crossed his arms and looked at the ceiling. “Gotta go with iguana. They’re a lot easier to catch. Besides, isn’t there already a show about feral hogs?”

“American Hoggers,” Fahey said. “We thought about doing a crossover. They come here to help you hunt, and then you go there and help them catch rattlesnakes.”

“Fuck that,” Gary said.

Narwhal marked something in his pad. “Iguanas it is.”

“Iguanas are the smart choice,” Amanda Gregory said. “They’re exploding in South Florida, brawling in the street, parks, and homes. Animal control is overwhelmed. The legislature has a bill offering a bounty. Iguanas are the second leading cause of power outages.”

Gary did double finger snaps into his palm. “Now you’re talkin’! I’ll need some guns. That’s a legit business expense, ain’t it?”

The Rustix executives looked to Fahey. “No guns. You can trap them. You can poison them or use machetes.”

“Ya poison ’em, you can’t eat ’em,” Gary pointed out.

“We can do a show that tracks dinner from the field to the table,” Krystal said. “We see Gary kill it, skin it, and cook it. We can invite some of these celebrity chefs.”

Fahey looked at his crew. Frowns of consideration, nodding. “That’s a great idea. Amanda, would you get in touch with Gordon Ramsay and Rachel Ray?”

“You got it.”

“Contracts!” Sid said.

Gregory reached for her Coach briefcase, pulled out thick wads of paper, and handed one each to Sid, Gary, and Krystal.

“Whereza pen?” Gary said.

Krystal put her hand on his arm. “Not so fast. We gotta have a lawyer go over this first.”

“Of course,” Fahey nodded. “I would be happy to recommend a good entertainment attorney.”

Gary held his hand up. “We got it covered. Could you email the contracts to Habib Rodriguez?”

FOUR

VIKINGS

Sugar City State Bank agreed to let Gary and Krystal return to Chateau Ami in Turpentine Acres if Gary would be their pitchman. Done deal. The day after the Rustix meeting, Gary and Krystal drove to their once and future home. While they were away investors had sold five houses on the street that dead ended at Chateau Ami. The road to the housing development was littered with palm fronds, branches, and plastic bags. There was now a sliding steel gate between stucco posts, and a gate house. The hand-painted Turpentine Acres sign had been replaced by a hand-painted Kensington Gardens sign with a coat of arms. A gryphon, an eagle, and a harp. A Groome Security guard saw them coming from his booth and opened the gate. Gary pulled inside and got out. The security guard was a big man, crewcut, looked like ex-cop, wearing a tan uniform with Bill embroidered on his left chest.

“Gary Duba?”

“Yes sir,” Gary said, producing a letter from Sugar City. “They said I could start moving back in today.”

“I’m Bill Preston.” Preston handed Gary two identical keys on Groome Security plastic fobs. “Nice work with Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee.”

“Thank you.”

They shook hands.

“I’ll turn off the burglar alarm from here.” He fished in a pocket and pulled out a card. “This is the head honcho.”

Gary looked at the card. “Leopold Bing?”

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

They passed five new haciendas, all Spanish style, stucco with red tile roofs, all in excess of five thousand square feet, all with pools and four car garages, two with plywood boarded windows and downed trees still in the yard. Chateau Ami was the last house on Bougainvillea Court before a forest that segued into swamp. Where once had stood a mighty hedge of bougainvillea was now flattened shrubbery with deep mud ruts caused by heavy equipment. Behind the house, the solid green wall gave no evidence of the fire seven months ago, when Gary tried to burn an alligator with his flame thrower, igniting his Lamborghini Urus. Lambo parts still littered the landscape.

Gary drove past two concrete plugs with iron rings.

“Sum bitches took down my house suspenders.”

Krystal gestured. “And yet, here it is.”

Gary parked in the turn around. The fountain was dry. Chateau Ami was nine thousand square feet with six bedrooms and nine baths, two story foyer with grand staircase, formal dining room, sunken formal living room with fireplace and three sets of arched French doors, gourmet kitchen, breakfast room, family room with vaulted ceilings, home office, billiards room, wine cellar, gym, home theater, four car garage, covered loggia, infinity swimming pool with spa, and a guest house with a tennis court. They unlocked the realtor lock on the front door and went in. The house smelled of mildew and Pine Sol. Most of the furniture had been put in storage. All the rugs were gone from the living room and they could see pale circles on the parquet floor where cleaners had used chemicals to get rid of the blood stains.

There was a knock at the door. A middle-aged man in Bermuda shorts, straw hat, sunglasses, sandals, and loud Hawaiian shirt stood on the stoop holding a six-pack of Swamp Heads.

“Hi!” he said. “I’m Boris Bongo Box. I live right up the street. Are you the Dubas?”

“Yup.”

“Saw you on the news. Figured you might be back. Want a beer?”

“Come in, Boris.”

Boris walked a little ways into the living room, put his hands on his hips and looked around. “They say you shot a feral pig in here. Is that right?”

“I shot the sum bitch, but the rest got away.”

“They say this place is haunted. That’s why it hasn’t sold.”

“Haunted?” Krystal said. “By what?”

“By the death of some cartel boss. El Cheapo.”

“He was here a couple times, but the only blood in this house comes from that feral hog I shot.”

“And that time someone shot Patrice in the leg.”

“Yeah, well, we was aiming for that gator. That was just bad luck.”

Boris put his hands up. “Just what I hear.”

“From who?”

“My son Peter. He’s twenty. He’s studying environmental science at Colorado State. I saw your press conference. You’re gonna have your own show?”

“Just, like, a day in the life, you know. They follow me around while I hunt gators, make shine or cook up some iguana. It’s gonna be like a cooking show. I mean part of it. Mostly it’s just gonna be me doing what I do, and some on Krystal when she’s training or fighting. What do you do, Boris?”

“I’m chief engineer at Skoal Robotix. We make robot dogs for police departments and robot security guards for malls. I make robot sculpture. I’m hoping to get my latest in the Miami Museum of Modern Art. I've got a show next week. Maybe you'd like to come.”

“Sure. Whadha make?”

“It's a kinetic sculpture shaped like a bull.”

“You made a mechanical bull?”

Boris laughed. “Bison, actually. Not the kind you ride, although you could I suppose. It has full mobility. Carries its own sound system. I may do a video. I play keyboards too.”

“Come on back.”

Gary opened the sliding glass doors leading to the patio, and the pool, which was covered with a green tarp. It was a warm, humid, late morning in December. “Home sweet home. We were only here for three months.”

They stood around the tarped pool. “So this is where it happened,” Bongo Box said.

“You mean the gator? Yeah, we had six guys out here shooting the sumbitch. That’s how Patrice got shot. Ricochet off the patio.” He pointed to a groove in one of the stones.

“Fuck izzis?” Krystal said, staring at the tarp. She cupped her ear. “You hear that? There’s something down there.”

There was a ragged hole chewed through the vinyl topping at the shallow end. Gary got down and put his ear over the hole.

“Holy fuck! What’s going on down there?”

Boris squatted and listened intently over the deep end. “Sounds like something skittering around. Some kind of squawking.”

Gary drew his pocketknife and flicked it open. “Fuck me...fuck me...”

Bongo Box pointed to the tie-down posts, held in place with cotter pins. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just pull these pins and roll it back?”

“Good idea.” They unpinned the tarp, leaving only the cotter pins at the shallow end. Gary got on one side and Bongo Box on the other. “Let’s pull it back.”

They walked the tarp back and looked. Green iguanas fighting in the brackish water, doing Matrix kicks off the sides. Krystal put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God...”

“Yeah,” Bongo Box said, “they’re getting to be a real problem. I had to chase a couple off our patio last week.”

“Got any guns?” Gary said.

“No. There's no shooting in Kensington Gardens. It's in the rule book.”

“The fuck you say!”

The iguanas didn't look up. It looked like a scene out of Vikings. Gary called Floyd on his Fonebone.

“Floyd, we got a situation.”

Gary described the situation.

“I got a job in Cables this afternoon, but I can come over tomorrow. I got a couple twenty-twos we can use.”

“Can't shoot 'em. It's against the rules.”

“No problem. You'll see when I get there.”

Gary counted eighty-six iguanas. “Man, it’s a shame I had to shut down the Lizard Lounge.”

“Would you folks like to join Marie and me for dinner?” Bongo Box said. “We're going to grill.”

“You want some of these iguanas?”

“No. We have hamburgers.”

Gary looked at Krystal. “We got nothing better to do.”

They walked up the street to Bongo Box’s manse, wings enclosing the patio and pool. Bongo Box's four car garage contained an oxblood SUV, a new Miata, and a hulking shape covered in a tarp. Bongo Box whipped off the tarp revealing a hulking machine with a humped middle made of a hexagonal steel frame, hexagonal tubes enclosing a massive humped back, standing on four titanium legs hinged to bend backward like a dog. The body was the same front and rear like a palindrome. Boris had mounted a buffalo head on the front, with curving horns. A vestigial tail made of an old car antenna.

Boris flipped a switch behind the horns. “Say hello, Tallywhacker.”

The creature snorted and dipped its horns. “Hello,” it said in a sonorous bass.

Krystal jumped. “Holy shit!”

Boris laughed. “It has the latest AI software and an organic brain made from cloned T-Rex cells.”

“Am I supposed to talk to it?”

“You can.”

“Hey, Tallywhacker. Who do you like in the playoffs?” Krystal said.

Bad feedback screeched like the sound check at a Tool concert. Gary and Krystal slapped hands to ears. Boris reached out and shut Tallywhacker off with a switch at the base of the neck.

“Sorry about that.”

“Can you ride him?”

“You could. He’s very strong. I gave him an internet hookup so he can familiarize himself with the culture. Maybe I should ride him in the video while playing keyboards.”

“You got yourself a show,” Krystal said.

“You know, babe, you could star. I mean, now that we’re hooked up with a production company and you’re already famous.”

Bongo Box looked at them quizzically. “She’s famous?”

FIVE

WHAT’S FOR DINNER?

“Ain’t you heard of the Black Dildo?”

“No.”

“Where you been hidin’?” Krystal said, jaw jutting.

“I don’t spend a lot of time on social media.”

“Don’t you follow pro wrestling?”

A hint of fear crept into Bongo Box's face. “I’m afraid we don’t. We watch the Dolphins.”

“I wrestle as Steely Danielle, ’coz they can’t call me Black Dildo,” Krystal said matter-of-factly. “I got my own comic book.”

“Comic book?”

Gary pointed his finger. “You wait right here. I’ll get you one.”

Gary jogged down the driveway and headed back to Chateau Ami.

Krystal pointed to the house. “It happened right over there. We’d scarce been in the place three months before they came to evict us. Tell you the truth, Gary ain’t the greatest financial genius. I mean, he won seven million dollars. How do you go broke in three months?”

Two feral hogs dashed across the scrub across the street, where a concrete foundation rose.

“Association’s going to have to do something about those hogs,” Boris said.

Gary jogged back and handed Boris a comic in a mylar sleeve with backing board. The Black Dildo. The cover showed Krystal flying through the hair in a shiny black super outfit with a yellow cape, whacking a Russian thug—in a striped suit with wide lapels sideways—with a three foot rubber dildo, while emaciated caged children watched in the background. You knew the bad guy was Russian from the bottle of WODKA and bowl of borscht on a table. Another thug lay spread-eagled on his back wearing a wife beater, all tatted up with Russian gang markings. Christ on the cross, Orthodox church chained rose, snake-entwined dagger.

“We hadda change the bad guys from cops to Russian gangsters on accounta, you know, I don’t want to piss ’em off any more than I already have.”

“I’ll sign that for you,” Krystal said.

“Well come on in the house and meet Marie.”

They went from the garage through a big kitchen, a stucco dining room with an avocado green tile floor, oak table finished with a carved vine pattern, a sideboard beneath a black velvet painting of a matador in a gold lamé suit and red scarf facing a bull that looked like Mt. Shasta, through the sunken living room, copies of Vanity Fair and the New Yorker on a glass table, out sliding glass doors to the patio where Marie, a lush Latina beauty with lustrous auburn hair, turned to face them.

“So! Our scandalous neighbors!”

Bongo Box kissed Marie on the cheek and introduced Gary and Krystal.

Bongo Box handed the comic to Marie. “Krystal has her own comic book.”

Marie held it delicately. “I’ll read this later.”

Krystal snapped it up. “Let me sign that for you.”

She set it on the cedar picnic table, opened it to the splash page and wrote, “To our fabulous neighbors, the Bongo Boxes! Love, Krystal, aka “Steely Danielle.”

Boris picked it up. “I’m taking this inside. We don’t want anything to happen to it.

Baby, do have more hamburgers?”

“They’re in the freezer. Defrost them in the microwave. Four minutes.”

“We’re gonna be neighbors,” Gary said. “We’re moving back in.”

Marie had a beauty queen smile. “Did Boris tell you your house is haunted?”

“How can it be haunted if we ain’t in it?”

“I don’t know. I never thought about it that way.”

The Bongo Box's sloping lawn ended at a lake, cattails and reeds erupting everywhere. Two foundations had been laid at seven and ten. A white resort clubhouse sprawled on the north end with several piers sprouting slips and boat lifts for canoes, kayaks, and one-masted sailboats. Across lay forest.

“You got kids?” Marie said.

“We ain’t responsible enough to have kids.”

“None that I know of,” Krystal said.

“No one thinks they can handle kids until they have kids. We have two. A boy and a girl. Peter is at Colorado State studying environmental science. Lynn is studying microbiology at Stanford.”

“Is he gonna be a weatherman?”

“He doesn’t know what he wants to be. Would you like a drink?”

“Sure,” Krystal said. “You got a sea breeze?”

Marie turned to Gary. “What about you?”

“Hell, I’ll take a glass of bourbon.”

Marie headed for the house, skirt swirling, holding the door for Boris on the way out with a platter of burgers. “Coming right up.”

Two feral hogs emerged from the weeds across the lake to drink.

“You think those’re the same damn hogs?”

Boris stood at the grill, wearing a denim apron with pockets holding tongs and spatula. “Long as they stay over there.”

“That’s the same gang that raided my house. I recognize their colors. You hunt?”

“No. We shop at Whole Foods.”

“You and me should go hunting sometime. We used to practically live off wild hogs.”

Boris put the burgers on the grill. Marie came out with a tray of drinks.

“Do you need any glasses or dishes? We have tons.”

Krystal sipped her sea breeze. “That would be great. All our stuff got blown away in the hurricane. Did you have much wind damage?”

“We were without power for forty-eight hours. Fortunately, I had a generator. It took them a day before they could get in here and clear the trees. We had to replace some windows. Two houses were completely devastated.”

“Sumbitches took down my house suspenders,” Gary groused.

“Oh, they worked. The home-owners’ association took them off the day after.”

“What home-owners’ association?”

Boris flipped burgers. “Kensington Gardens Home-Owners’ Association. How do you like your burgers?”

“Medium,” Krystal said.

“Kensington Gardens?! What the hell? What owners? We’re the only ones here.”

Boris flipped burgers. “Actually, the lots are ninety per cent sold and they’re building thirteen houses on the other side of the lake, beyond the woods.”

Boris pulled the burgers, set them on gluten free buns on china plates. “There’s salad over there, and the condiments are on the table.”

Gary grabbed his plate. “Don’t you have to live in a place to be on the board? Who’s on the board? I ain’t on it. Are you on it?”

Boris shrugged. “I’m on the board. The board is all owners, they just haven’t moved in yet. You can be on the board if you want to run.”

“Screw that.”

“Or they’re speculators,” Marie said, sitting at the cedar picnic table. She’d put the ketchup out in a terracotta bowl with a little spoon. The mustard was in a silver tureen.

“Do you know who they are?”

“What’s the big deal?” Krystal said. She turned to their hosts. “He has trouble with authority.”

Gary chewed with authority. He swallowed. A shard of onion struggled and was sucked in. “That coat of arms oughtta be a hog, a gator, and an iguana.”

Marie gestured excitedly. “Oh look! The iguanas are fighting!”

Halfway down the greensward, two iguanas were going at it, toe to toe. A bobcat rushed from the shrubbery and seized one in its jaws, shaking violently.

“Boris!” Marie cried. “Do something!”

“What? Why?”

Marie turned away. “I can't watch.”

Gary sipped his bourbon. “I got a magnum in the truck, but I can’t hit shit at this distance. And you can only hunt bobcats during bobcat season. We’ll have you folks over for an iguana cook-out. I used to have a restaurant called the Lizard Lounge. We specialized in iguana. You need any? We got a shitload.”

The bobcat had settled down near the water to eat its iguana.

“Can a bobcat kill a wild hog?” Marie asked. “I really prefer bobcats.”

All paused to gaze at God’s creature peacefully enjoying its repast. A twelve-foot alligator lunged from the water, seized the startled bobcat in its jaws and withdrew, leaving only expanding ripples and a dead iguana.

Marie crossed herself. “Mother of God.”

“I’ll bring this up with the association,” Bongo Box said.

Gary chowed down. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get rid of it.”

SIX

THE BURT REYNOLDS PLAYHOUSE

After three bourbons, Gary related his gun battle with Judge Murphy. “Yeah, there we was, Floyd and me, neck and neck with Judge Murphy in her Mercedes doing ’bout eighty-five, trading shots! Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, and we exited the highway at Billy Bob’s. They never did buy my rookie card, cheap sumbitch.”

Marie started clearing dishes. Krystal rinsed them off in the sink, ran the Insinkerator, and handed them to Marie. “We’ll have you guys over as soon as we get settled. Place still isn’t furnished. It’s a shame. We had a lot of nice furniture, but it all got repossessed.”

“You say Gary has a TV show?”

“We just signed the contracts. That’s how we can afford to move back into our ancestral home. We already started filming, like our press conference. We got all that.”

“When and where does this show appear?”

“It’s gonna be on Rustix in the fall.”

Marie stacked dishes in the big Westinghouse dishwasher. “We have expanded cable. I’ll have to look and see if we get Rustix.”

“Gary’s killed gators before, so don’t you worry about that. He killed an anaconda with a machete. Chopped its head clean off. He had to duct tape it back on for the cameras.”

“What cameras?”

“Orin Houtkooper offered a hundred grand for whoever caught the biggest anaconda. It was in all the papers.”

Marie’s eyes widened with new appreciation. “Oh! You know Orin?”

“Well Gary does. There’s a photo of him and Orin with the snake. Hang on...”

Krystal poked at her Fonebone, triumphantly presenting the color photo from the front page of the Miami Herald Examiner:

biggest snake ever
fonebone inventor honors local man

“We know Orin through Boris’ business. What a small world. He's also a great patron of the arts.”

It was now dark. Gary and Boris sat in the den lit by green-shaded banker’s lamps, smoking Havanas.

“I don’t suppose there’s video of my house during the hurricane.”

Boris tilted back in a leather Barcalounger beneath a framed poster of The Day the Earth Stood Still, the original in black and white. “There might be. We installed cameras on the streetlamps back in July. Kids kept sneaking in and tagging the foundations.”

“Why’d you remove my house suspenders?”

“We didn’t know you were coming back. The realty company thought they were a liability.”

“Liability, hah! I need that footage! House Suspenders are the next big thing. They’re gonna revolutionize the housing industry.”

Boris tapped a fat ash into an amber tray on his rosewood desk. “You’ve got a TV show. Why do you need Piranha Pool?”

“It’s been my dream ever since I thought ’em up, about ten years ago. They woulda saved my trailer if it hadn’t been built out of plastic shit. I got the video of the whole thing breaking up and flying off into the swamp. Looked like a flock of seagulls.”

“Don’t you have to have some kind of business record to get on Piranha Pool? Sell some house suspenders?”

“My agent’s gonna get me on. Same company owns Piranha Pool as owns Rustix. We’ll get a few sets out there, but the problem is, we need heavy weather to prove that they work. They’re like insurance. Nobody wants it to happen. But if it happens, you’d better have insurance. How’d you like a set? Next hurricane might be a lot bigger. This was only a category three. I’ll install ’em myself. I’ll only charge you for the materials.”

“Let me talk that over with Maria. It’s a very generous offer.”

“Omma put ’em back up. What did they do with the chains?”

“I believe they’re in your garage.”

“Omma string ’em with Christmas lights.”

Boris opened a drawer. “Let me give you a copy of the rules.” He handed Gary a sheath of stapled pale blue paper. Gary thumbed through.

“Holy shit. There are a lot of rules.”

“They’re all designed to promote community.”

“No bonfires?”

“Do you golf? We’re putting in eighteen holes on reclaimed swamp land. Designed by Max Swell.”

Gary frowned at the blue paper. “No shooting? I can’t shoot on my own property? How do you expect me to bag that gator?”

“We can vote for an exemption considering the public safety. I can call an emergency meeting next week. They might want to hire it out to an expert.”

Gary blew smoke at Boris. “I am an expert. Listen. This is gonna be a great episode on my show! We can do a nice little tribute to the community. Hopefully, there will be more people.”

Boris glanced at his watch. “Gary, I hate to kick you out, but Marie and I have a video call with our daughter in a few minutes.”

Gary stood. “Thanks for having us over, hoss! You look into that gator thing, will ya? We can really put this place on the map. And see what you can find in the way of video. It would really help me on Piranha Pool if I can show the house suspenders in action.”

Marie said goodbye to them in the stucco foyer. “We’re so happy for you! And happy that you’re moving back in!”

“We’ll have you guys over as soon as we get settled,” Krystal promised. “I’ll make my famous possum stew.”

Maria beamed in the arched doorway for a second before closing it. Hand in hand, Gary and Krystal walked down the blacktop toward their house beneath a canopy of stars. Wild pigs snorted from the woods. Bobcats yowled. Owls hooted.

“Kensington Gardens my ass,” Gary growled.

Krystal laughed. “I know!” She whirled away, curtsied and said in a thick Cockney accent, “’Er royal ’ighness will see you now, ducks! What kind of name is Bongo Box?”

“I think it’s Cuban. He had the cigars. They’re putting in a golf course. Wanted to know if I golf.”

“They should put in a bowling alley.”

“You ain’t wrong, little girl. Maybe once we get settled we’ll look at putting one in ourselves. And a theater that shows classic movies. Porky’s. Porky’s Two. Roadhouse. Stuff like that.”

“The Burt Reynolds Playhouse.”

“Ah, you got it, little girl. Maybe I can buy his wig back and we can put it on display in the lobby.”

SEVEN

KRYSTAL SHOPS

Feral hogs had destroyed a nine-thousand dollar sofa before Gary and Krystal were evicted. They’d gained access because she and Gary were spaced out on horse tranquilizers, lying in their own drool as hogs entered through the open patio door. No more nine thousand-dollar sofas. No more feral hogs.

Never again.

Since training with Delilah, Krystal had turned over a new leaf. No blow. A little reefer. Okay. Some wine. But the hard stuff was done. Finito. No blow, no crack. She pulled into the ARC Thrift Store, next to Greims’ Drive-In, currently showing Razorback and Rogue, went into the one-story building and grabbed a cart, inhaling dust, the smell of old clothing, shoes, newsprint. Row after row of shabby men’s clothes on steel poles. Jumbles of sporting gear including boxing gloves, hockey sticks, bicycle helmets and snowboards. She roamed the aisles along with a dozen other hopefuls, examining souvenir mugs, ugly sweaters, and jigsaw puzzles.

She found a three-foot plaster Yosemite Sam wearing a fur hat, clutching a cartoon shotgun and put it in her shopping cart next to two lava lamps, a boom box, and a framed painting of dogs playing poker. It would never replace the black velvet Elvis Gary had traded to El Cheapo in exchange for cleaning up after the hogs. Now El Cheapo was dead, murdered by El Nariz, the narco gangster who mysteriously disappeared. El Nariz's forty acre estate in the glades was in ruins, his exotic animals fled into the jungle. Ocelots. Vampire parrots. Hippos.

Krystal had eight weeks to train for A Man Called Xue at Delilah’s place in the Everglades. Hot. Humid. Mosquitoes. Anaconda. Monitor lizards. Iguana. No cell reception. At least Delilah made her own shine.

Krystal pulled out onto Trax Avenue and headed for Billy Bob’s, adjusted her Fonebone and went live. “Hi, y’all. This is Krystal Duba, aka Steely Danielle, aka you know what. I’m sorry I look like hell, but we’ve been living out of motels the last couple days on accounta the storm. Now at last we’re moving back into our original home in Turpentine Acres, excuse me, Kensington Gardens.”

Gripping the wheel with both hands, she raised her pinkie. “Kensington Gardens, dahlings! Strictly uppah crust!”

“As you can see, I just made a haul at the ARC Thrift Store and I’m heading home with a full load. I got a plaid sofa. I got a coffee table with somebody’s initials. I got a lamp made out of a bull pizzle. I got a three-foot Yosemite Sam for the front yard.”

“As my loyal fans know, I fight A Man Called Xue in eight weeks. I’m going out to Delilah’s to train. Y’all tune in when I fight, you’ll see Delilah. She’s a witchee woman. You don’t want to mess with her. She’ll turn you into a catfish. They’re gonna film me training, so you all are gonna get to meet Delilah. Oh, and by the way. Watch for the Gary Duba Show on Rustix. It’s coming soon. I’ll let y’all know.”

“I’ll be going dark shortly. There’s no cell service down in the boonies. There’s no reception. It’s like fuckin’ New Guinea or something. They got spiders the size of doughnuts and I have to wrestle a bear. His name is Samson and he’s really very nice, but he slobbers. The shower is outside. I’m on a diet of fried okra and swamp meat. Okay. Gotta pause here, I’m going into Billy Bob’s Pawn Shop.”

She pulled into Billy Bob’s around ten. A nine-foot neon sign with a palm tree flashed sequential rings at the entrance. Across the street was LIVE GATORS, BABY GATORS FOR THE KIDS, STUFFED GATORS, parking lot filled with tourists.

Billy Bob’s was a one-story building with two horizontal windows showcasing everything from stuffed gators to gold coins. Three slackers stunted and vaped. Two teenage girls sat on the concrete in front staring at their personal devices. One had pink hair, the other blue. Krystal pulled into a spot between a Chevy pick-up and a rented Hyundai and got out, wearing form-fitting jeans and a pink Lady Gaga T-shirt that clung to her supple body.

A skater with a hairline mustache that looked etched with magic marker rolled her way exhaling smoke like a Kiddie Land locomotive. “Hey pretty Momma, want a toke?”

Fists on hips, biceps bulging, she gave him the Look.

“Okay, okay, I guess not.”

He rolled back to hoots and laughter.

Billy Bob’s was filled with glass cases, one wall devoted to musical instruments, drums, ’bones, pianos, and two dozen guitars. One wall was nothing but flat screen TVs. A long glass cabinet was filled with pistols and knives. Racks of rifles and shotguns stood at attention. Krystal perused DVDs. Twelve copies of American Dreamz, fourteen copies of Thank You for Smoking, two feet of Lord of the Rings, Batman Begins, Batman Returns, Batman Flies, Batman Dies, Batman Revives, Batman Forever. The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas went in the basket with a hardbound Valley of the Dolls. Delilah had no television. Krystal grabbed a clutch of Hope Ford biker books, Rancher, Sniper, and Brick, all featuring shirtless, inked sweaty men on the cover, and Devil’s Boneyard MC #7 by Harley Wylde.

She tried on an ivory Stetson, turning this way and that in the mirror. She put it on.

She eyed a Jackson Toscana sheep skin for Gary. She pulled it from the rack and held it against her body. It smelled new.

“Yeah, that’s a beauty,” Billy Bob said. He was a lovable bear whose dense black beard concealed no chin, wearing a fisherman’s vest with pockets holding pens, knives, and pliers, wearing 40/32 Relaxed Fit Levi’s. “Hellah (No, this is a version of the word hellfire.) Krystal. Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

“Whaddaya say, Billy Bob? Will you take six?”

Billy Bob snorted. “That’s a brand-new Toscana. Retails for fifteen hundred. Bought it off a guy goin’ through a painful divorce. He swore he’d be back. That was two months ago. Gave him four hundred ’cause I felt sorry for him. I been divorced myself three times. That’s prob’ly one too many. I mean, everybody’s entitled to a starter divorce.”

“Six hundred, Billy Bob.”

Billy Bob frowned. “Seein’ as you’re famous and will surely mention this fine establishment when you talk to the press, I will take your six hundred.”

Krystal peeled them off. “Thank you kindly, Billy Bob. I’ll talk you up ’til the cows come home. It’s a gift for my husband.”

“Last time Gary was in here, he chased off all my customers with a gator.”

“He’s real sorry about that, Billy Bob.”

“He oughtta step up and say so.”

“You know, you’re right. I’ll get on his ass. I’ll also take this hat.”

Stuffing her goodies in the van, Krystal primped in the rearview, fixed her lipstick, smoothed her red hair and hit the highway.

“I’m back,” she announced to the faithful. “Whatcha all think of this hat? I got it at Billy Bob's.”

EIGHT

RETURN TO PARADISE

When Krystal wheeled into their driveway at four in the afternoon, Gary and Floyd Belmont were installing the second house suspender, pulling it over the roof over a child’s blue plastic playground slide. A yellow plastic slide rested under the first chain. Floyd’s new van sat on the bricks. Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions was painted on the side. Krystal got out and looked up to where the boys perched on the roof.

“Don’t you boys fall off!”

Floyd made the okay sign. The hairy mesomorph wore baggy shorts, Betsy Ross shoes, and a loud Hawaiian shirt featuring Ed “Big Daddy” Roth. The Beatnik Bandit. The Mysterion. Rat Fink.

Gary pointed to a nylon rope stuffed through his leather belt. The other end was tied to the chain’s apex, twenty-five feet in the air. The boys scrambled down the extendable aluminum ladder and helped Krystal carry her booty into the house. Gary set Yosemite Sam on the stoop and stood back in admiration.

“Damn! We should put this out on the lawn.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Floyd, you staying for dinner?”

“Sure.”

They went out the patio to the back yard where the heavy marine chain hung slack. Wearing leather gloves, Floyd and Gary pulled the chain, clanking, over the plastic slide, dragging it taut to the cement plug, fastened it with a massive steel clamp to the iron ring. They stood at the pool, watching the iguanas fight.

“When you want to tackle these suckers?” Floyd asked.

“Let ’em fight. Now they got a law you can’t fire a gun on your own property.”

“What law?”

“The fucking homeowners’ association.”

“What homeowners’ association?”

“Kensington Gardens.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Floyd, you can’t make this shit up. So, we’re gonna have to get rid of them some other way.”

A yellow/green iguana seized another in its jaws and shook it like a rat. “I like that big one,” Floyd said. “He’s got a future. Okay. We can’t shoot ’em. You know what kills iguanas? Spinach and romaine lettuce.”

“My ass.”

“Really. I’m rebranding. No more Belmont Pest Control. It’s Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions. No artificial ingredients. You know what else kills iguanas? Onions, rhubarb, beets, Swiss chard, bananas, grapes and kale.”

“So, what are you gonna do? Drive up and drop a salad on 'em?”

“I’ll spray ’em with oils. Or we could just put on a couple of hazmat suits and club ’em to death. Whaddaya think? Wouldn’t that make a great episode?”

Krystal appeared in the sliding patio door holding a frosted glass. “Margaritas, boys! Margaritas!”

The margaritas sat on the bar in the home theater where ten adjustable theater seats faced a blank wall where the TV had been. Poker playing dogs hung in place of the velvet Elvis.

“I ordered a coupla pizzas.”

Gary leaned against the bar, marg in hand. “Did you tell the gate?”

“Oh fuck. I’ll do it now. Do you have the number?”

Gary handed her a Groome Security card with the name Leopold Bing. “He’s the head honcho out here. The gatehouse number’s on the back.”

Krystal put the thrift store boom box on the bar and put on Tobey Keith’s Greatest Hits. They sang along with “Down in Mexico.” By the time the pizza guy arrived, they had a nice buzz going. At the door, Gary noticed the Bongo Boxes watching from their front yard, their house ablaze with Christmas lights. When they saw Gary looking, they waved. Gary tipped the pizza guy a ten and carried the pizza inside.

One was pepperoni. The other was ham and pineapple.

“What the fuck is this?” Gary said, gesturing at the pineapple.

“What’s it look like?”

“It looks like a fruit pizza. I thought we decided no more ham and pineapple.”

“You decided. Eat the pepperoni.”

Gary turned to Floyd. “Do you like pineapple on your pizza?”

Floyd shook his head.

“Two grown men supposed to split a pizza while you chow down all by your lonesome?”

Krystal threw pieces of pineapple at Gary. “Okay? Now you don’t have to eat them. Happy?”

An iguana raced across the floor, snapped up a piece of pineapple and skittered toward the open door. Gary turned to Floyd with WTF in face and hands.

“Sorry,” Floyd said, heading for the rec room.

Gary looked at Krystal. “I suppose you’re just gonna leave that pineapple on the floor.”

With a sigh, Krystal crouched and picked up four pieces of pineapple. Gary followed her into the kitchen where she ran them through the garbage disposal. She pulled out three mismatched dishes and set them on the folding card table in the dining room. They had four bridge chairs. She put the pizza in the middle of the table. Gary grabbed three Dos Equis from the fridge. Krystal traded Little Big Town for Toby Keith.

They ate all save two slices with pineapple. Gary wiped his mouth on a wad of MacDonald’s napkins. “Floyd’s gone green. From now on it’s Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions.”

Krystal raised her pinkie. “Welcome to Kensington Gardens, your lordship.”

Floyd rolled out a belch. He held up a Dos Equis. They’d finished off the margs. “A toast! Here’s to you guys moving back into your mansion. They can’t keep a good man down!”

Gary and Krystal raised their drinks. “You’re in on the ride, buddy! I got a segment scheduled with me and you going house to house killing varmints.”

“You know, there’s a show on A&E called Billy the Exterminator.”

“Watch it all the time. Shows me what not to do. Dig this. Them cats are all in on organic, non-toxic solutions? We’re gonna come in blasting with both barrels. We’re gonna use bug spray. We’re gonna use roach spray. We’re gonna lay down mustard gas.”

Floyd put up his hands. “Whoa! Whoa! Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m going organic. We’re not going to use any toxic chemicals and Christ knows we’re not gonna go in blasting with guns!”

“Don’t go soft on me, boy. Maybe you can feed that rhubarb to the iguanas, but what are you gonna do when there’s a twelve-foot gator in your back yard? Remember now, this is Kensington Gardens. No guns.”

“I know a half dozen ways to catch a gator.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well it just so happens we got that very situation right down the street. You bring your gator huntin’ gear?”

“It’s in the truck.”

“Well, all right then.”

“Well, all right.”

Gary and Floyd stood.

“What the fuck? It’s nine pm. You can’t go gator hunting at night. Not without a boat and a gun.”

“Watch me,” Floyd said.

Gary headed for the garage. “I got waders and flashlights.”

“I gotta use the facilities,” Floyd said.

Krystal pointed to the hall connecting the rec room with the dining room. She heard Gary rummaging through the garage through the kitchen door. He reentered with an armful of stuff and dropped it on the floor. Rubber boots, chain and grapple, hi-intensity flashlights, BIG KNIFE, nunchaku.

Floyd appeared holding his pants. “Gary, you’d better take a look.”

“A look at what?”

“Just go take a look.”

Gary strode to the bathroom and looked inside. Sticking up from the toilet, the snake looked back.

NINE

MISSION FOR SANTA

Gary called Sid Saidso the next day and told him about the gator. Sid agreed it would make an excellent episode for the show and promised to contact the homeowners’ association and secure all necessary rights and permissions. The hunt was scheduled for Friday.

Gary rose, nuked a Jimmy Dean Sausage, Egg and Biscuit, and checked the downstairs bathroom. The fucker was gone. Obviously, not the same snake. Duh. But was it not possible there was a collective reptilian consciousness, an ancestral memory of the best spawning, feeding, and molting grounds? Could it be that last night’s visitor had received some antediluvian impulse from the previous snake, who had sacrificed its life to take out cartel kingpin and mass murderer El Nariz? Gary could not help but think fondly of it. A garden variety cottonmouth. A water moccasin.

Gary had a mild headache as he rolled out his sit-down John Deere, powered up, and punched the green. Wearing a set of noise-canceling headphones, sunglasses, and a Dolphins cap, Gary mowed his vast lawn. He’d have to find some neighborhood kid. If there were any neighborhood kids. He hadn't seen anyone younger than Krystal since they'd moved back.

He waved as Marie backed out of her garage in a Lexus SUV. He put the mower away. The marble fountain was perfect for Sam. Gary placed the three-foot plaster statue on the rim facing the drive. They’d get the message. Trespassers will be violated. This property protected by Smith and Wesson. Never mind the dog. Worry about the owner.

He unfurled the Stars and Bars and mounted them on the right pillar. Gary went inside and took a shower. When he came out, Floyd had arrived in his new Belmont Holistic Pet Solutions van, pale lavender with a black Japanese dry brush logo that included a butterfly. The old logo showed a dead cockroach belly up. Gary found Floyd looking up at the house.

“Man, you could really deck this baby out for Christmas. We could string lights from one end of the county to the other and put a big fat Santa on the roof with reindeer.”

Christmas was in two weeks. “I ain't got time for that. We gotta get rid of those iguanas. Did you bring the rutabaga?”

“Rhubarb. I mixed a cocktail that will get rid of 'em fersure, and the beauty is, you can still eat 'em! Hell. They're even marinated. We can take 'em to a mission in West Palm. We'll dress up like Santa Claus.”

Gary gave Floyd the thumbs up. “So, do we gotta suit up for this?”

Floyd wore paint-stained carpenter's pants and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T stretched taut across his medicine ball gut. “Naw. Shit's holistic. You can eat it. Soaks through the skin. All you gotta do is remove the internal organs and grill 'em.”

“Zis mission know we're comin'?”

“Naw. It's a Christmas surprise, like Secret Santa.”

“You want coffee?”

“Sure.”

Krystal sat in the rec room, lacing on her Nikes, wearing satin sports shorts, a sports bra, and a Dolphins halter. “Hey Floyd.”

“Hey, Krys. Where you goin'?”

“I gotta get my five miles in before noon. I got a fight in six weeks.”

She pecked him on the cheek on the way out. “Don't you boys let any of those fuckers in the house.”

Gary wore torn Levi’s, sandals, and a .38 Special Tee-shirt. Out back, they dragged the tarp onto the lawn and rolled it up. They stood at the deep end looking down at the battling iguanas. Nonstop action. “They been at it for two days straight. They got tag teams. When one iguana gets tired, another takes its place.”

“Why are they fighting?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Okay. Let's get the shit.”

Out front, Floyd unloaded two large aluminum canisters with pressure gauges, and two loops of orange tubing affixed to spray guns, rolling them around the house on a hand truck. Each took a canister. Gary stood with his back to the house, Floyd opposite.

Floyd took aim. “Let 'er rip!”

Gary and Floyd aimed a righteous rain of holistic death juice on the creatures, who reacted with panic and desperation, stampeding toward the shallow end, scrambling up the concrete steps and scattering in all directions. Many didn't make it. The day would be long remembered among reptiles as the Great Iguana Massacre. They emptied the two canisters. Gary filmed the aftermath on his Fonebone, talking in hushed tones live on Facebook.

“Thanks to Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions, we have wiped out two tribes of battling iguana. Why they were fighting, we may never know. May have been religious. May have been over a girl. This here pool has claimed an alligator and now hundreds of iguanas. The alligator died in a hail of bullets, but we killed these lizards with all natural ingredients. So, folks, if you got iguana, or palmetto bugs, or whatever roaming through your house, give my pal Floyd Belmont a call. That's Belmont Holistic Pet Solutions, three two three, nine five five, zero two four eight. This here's Gary Duba signing off from the great iguana massacre.”

Floyd brought his van around and backed it up to the shallow end. They put on waders and leather gloves and shoveled dead iguana into jumbo Hefty rip-proof bags and loaded them into the back of Floyd's van. Floyd handed Gary his Santa suit.

They donned their gay apparel. Gary looked like a scarecrow. Floyd looked like a demented dwarf.

“You want to stick a pillow in your jacket? Be more authentic.”

“Just drive.”

They got in the van. Floyd cued up Taste of Honey's "Boogie Oogie Oogie".

They rolled through Kensington Gardens and headed for the highway. It was almost noon, temp in the mid-eighties, high humidity. Gary lit a fat doobie and passed it to Floyd. Floyd pulled a Red Army flask from his pocket, took a swig, and passed it to Gary. By the time they hit the 441 they were feeling no pain. The van twitched its hips and vogued (dance to music in such a way as to imitate the characteristic poses struck by a model on a catwalk.)

down the highway. Strobing red and blue lights filled the rear view as the siren whooped.

“Shit!” Floyd declared.

“Chill. We're two Santas on a goodwill mission.”

The county mounty parked his Dodge behind them on the shoulder and approached in a Smokey hat, aviator shades, and size fourteen boots.

“Hello, Floyd,” he said through the open driver's window.

“Hello, Officer Phillips. Wha'd I do?”

“You did eighty-five in a seventy mile zone. Hello, Gary.”

“Hello, Officer Phillips. Merry Christmas.”

Phillips’ eyes swept the interior. “You boys been drinkin'?”

“Just a little eggnog.”

Phillips sighed. “Floyd, ahmina need to see license, registration and proof of insurance. Then I need you boys to step out of the vehicle.”

“Come on, man, can't you see we're on a mission for Santa?”

“Out of the truck, boys.”

Floyd produced the necessary documentation and joined Gary on the gravel shoulder as traffic whizzed by, not even slowing for so mundane a scene.

“Gary, we appreciate what you've accomplished, and arresting you at this time would not be conducive to a harmonious holiday season. Neither one of you is fit to drive. Your eyes look like oysters. So, here's what omma gonna do. You're gonna leave this van here while I give you a ride into Turpentine, and you can call someone to take you home. I'll have the van taken to Glades County Impounding. You can come pick it up in the morning.”

“But, Officer,” Floyd said. “We're on a mission for Santa.”

Officer Phillips looked from one to the other. “What mission?”

“We're delivering Christmas dinner to the Nuns of Gavarone Homeless Mission in West Palm Beach.”

“What dinner?”

Floyd shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

Officer Phillips walked to the rear of the van and opened the doors. An iguana tail stuck out of one of the bags. He looked inside.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Iguanas,” Gary said. “An excellent source of protein.”

“How did you get so many iguanas?”

“I sprayed them with a mixture of onions, rhubarb, beets, Swiss chard, bananas, grapes and kale.”

“You boys wait here.” Officer Phillips returned to his cruiser.

TEN

LET'S ROLL

Two hours later, representatives of State Fish and Wildlife determined the cull was legal and they could proceed. Gary was so bored, he put on a pair of gloves, grabbed a plastic bag, and picked up all the trash up and down the highway. Floyd spent his time on his Fonebone.

Floyd and Gary had taken off their red jackets and beards and sat in the shade of a billboard featuring "THE LONG ARM--HABIB RODRIGUEZ". Habib stood tall facing west in a brown suit, white shirt, black tie, ten-gallon hat and sunglasses, promising you won't pay a dime unless he wins a settlement.

Officer Phillips left and came back. By the time he returned, Floyd and Gary were sober.

“Floyd, I'm thinking of letting you go, but first I want you to walk a line for me.”

“No problem.”

Floyd walked the line.

“Gary, you too.”

“I ain't driving.”

“Walk the line.”

Gary walked.

Officer Phillips handed Floyd his keys. “Don't make me regret this, boys.”

“We won't, officer! And merry Christmas! Wait. Let me give you a couple iguanas.”

“That's all right, Floyd. I can't accept 'em.”

Floyd and Gary got back in the truck, wearing only their red pants and T shirts. Floyd raised the windows and cranked up the AC. Gary sniffed.

“Smells a little gamy in here. You sure these iguanas are okay?”

“They were alive four hours ago. Same day service. You can't ask for fresher than that.”

Floyd cranked up Styx's "Too Much Time On My Hands".

The Nuns of Gavarone Mission was on Old Okeechobee Road. It was five p.m. when Floyd pulled up in front of the one story red brick building, previously a furniture store, over a hundred people waiting in line, some pushing shopping carts filled with all their earthly belongings, some wearing backpacks. They drove around back to the loading dock and got out.

Floyd pulled out his Santa top, beard, and hat. “Suit up.”

The two mismatched Santas walked through the open back door into a kitchen staffed by three women and two men. The women wore sensible clothes and shoes. Two wore glasses. The tallest looked up.

“Yes?”

Floyd doffed his hat. “Floyd Belmont, Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions. I spoke to a Sister Magnusson about donating iguanas. I got two hundred and fifty pounds for you, but we oughtta get 'em in a freezer or they're going to go bad.”

The woman, who was about five ten and broad shouldered, colorless bowl cut, took off her glasses, carefully wiped them with a hand cloth and put them back on.

“I'm sorry, is this a joke?”

“It's no joke. Merry Christmas!”

“We have no Sister Magnusson. Where did you speak to her?”

“On Facebook.”

“Show me.”

Floyd pulled out his Fonebone. He looked up in disbelief. “She's gone!”

The tall woman's face darkened. “I'm afraid you've been the victim of a practical joke.”

A short Latino with thick hair, said, “Those focking Necros!”

“Roberto!” the tall woman snapped. “I'm very sorry for your trouble. I'm Sister Agatha Papparazi. I'm afraid that you, like we, are the victims of a practical joke. There are several charities here in town that cater to the homeless and the hungry. Unfortunately, one of them is run by the so-called Church of Necroeconomics, a group of fanatics who subscribe to voodoo economics and believe in animal sacrifice. One of our board directors made the mistake of criticizing them on social media, and they've been after us ever since. They've vandalized this building, spray painted their nonsense on our windows, and even tried to sabotage our van.”

“Ma'am,” Gary said, looking like the Grinch. “Iguana are an excellent source of protein. They taste just like chicken. I know, 'cuz I used to have a restaurant.” Gary looked at the men, both of whom were Latino.

“You boys ever eat iguana?”

“Sure,” nodded the vulgarian. “All the time.”

“You know how to cook 'em?”

“Of course.”

“Well let's take a negative and turn it into a positive. How'd you boys like to help us cart those iguanas in? You got a walk-in freezer?”

The vulgarian looked to Sister Agatha Papparazi. “Sister?”

She opened the walk-in freezer. “Who's going to clean them?”

“We will,” the man assured her.

“Roberto, would you take a look.”

Floyd went out with him. Gary introduced himself. The big room was filled with people. The sound of children squealing, rapid fire Spanish, coughing, and scraping chairs filtered back.

Roberto and Floyd returned. Roberto shook his head. “Is no good. Those iguana been sitting around too long in a hot truck.”

Sister Agatha looked at them with pity. “I'm so sorry. You've wasted your time. You might want to report this to the police.”

Roberto tapped her shoulder. “Sister Agatha. I got a better idea. They can dump those lizards at the Church of Necros.”

“The Lord tells us to turn the other cheek.”

“That's that new testament shit. I like the part that goes an eye for an eye. How many times we got to turn the other cheek?”

Sister Agatha looked thoughtful. “I'm afraid we can't ask you do that.”

“It'll be our pleasure!” Floyd declared. “It's our Christmas gift to you. Just give us the address.”

Gary held his jacket over one arm. “Ain't got anything better to do. How'd this feud start?”

“We had a family ruined by those satanists. They encouraged the father to put everything he had into fungicoin. They lost everything. Fungicoin is a Necroeconomic invention. It's how they get rich. I try not to speak ill of my fellow human beings, but in my view, the Necroeconomics people are evil. They've taken over the city of Coopersmith. That's where they built their soulless, gleaming, temple to Mammon, and that's where you should dump the lizards.”

“I've heard of those fuckers!” Floyd said. “I had a friend who joined them. I never heard from him again.”

Gary headed for the exit. “Let's roll!”

ELEVEN

VOODOO ECONOMICS

Coopersmith, a city of one hundred and twenty thousand, lay just west of Margate.

Gary looked it up on his Fonebone. “Take Twenty-seven south.”

Floyd cranked the necker knob, big hair pin-up winking from the fender of a chopped '57 Chevy. “On it.”

It was almost six and the sun had set. The van smelled fishy.

Floyd put on Ski Mask the Slump God.

“Fuck izzat?”

“Ski Mask the Slump God. Nuketown. You ain't heard this?”

Gary's hand shot out and stabbed the machine. “No, and I ain't hearing it now! What's the matter with you?”

“You always were a picky son of a bitch.”

“I just like real music! Shit you can sing!”

“Fuck your hooks and chords! When are you going to slide into the twenty-first century?”

“I'm already there, sucker. Let's find common ground. Got any country?”

“Lady Antebellum okay, you picky motherfucker?”

“That ain't country.”

“Fuck it ain't!”

“Got any Jimmy Rodgers?”

“Oh man, you want the wayback machine. All right. Name some country you like that's still alive.”

“George Jones.”

“Dead.”

“Bullshit!”

“Google it.”

“Fuck it. We won't listen to anything.”

“This is my van.”

“I paid for it.”

They rode in silence.

“News radio okay with you?” Floyd asked sullenly.

“Fine.”

Portland was rioting over pronouns. The Upper Midwest was underwater. Giant Mekong catfish were invading southern Florida. Ford had recalled one hundred and twenty thousand vehicles due to a blinker failure. Avocados were spiking.

“Hi! Slick Niveleski here, with a true story about how you can save thousands of dollars on life insurance. Ray, a real person, is forty-five years old with a minor heart condition...”

Floyd turned it off.

They cruised into Coopersmith, a remarkably clean town with no homeless problem due to the Church's patrols. They rounded up the homeless, took them to the Necrodome, fed them, and signed them up for the Church or, failing that, put them on the bus to West Palm or Miami. Some of Hollywood's biggest actors were Necros, including Sean Sheen, Paulina Perestroika, Balfour Balthazar, Rene Welldigger, and Jennifer Tuft.

Floyd stopped at The Libre Lounge to relieve himself. The lounge had an African theme with carved masks on the walls, faux thatch roof, and a rustic bar made of logs. A stuffed leopard hunted over the bar. Floyd and Gary took a booth and perused the menus. There was a half dozen other patrons including two couples.

“You got anything that ain't on the menu?” Gary asked their waitress, a slim, jaded black girl with green eyeliner and a bun.

“Like what?”

“Like iguana.”

Floyd looked at him in disgust. “Eeeeyeww! How can you even think about eating iguana after driving around all afternoon with them stinkin' up the truck?”

“Would you gentlemen like something to drink?”

Gary held up a finger. “Good idea. Couple margaritas.”

They watched her go.

“How you wanna do this?” Gary said.

“We just drive up and dump 'em out front?”

“That ain't so easy. They're paranoid. What if there are guards?”

“We'll wear our Santa uniforms.”

Gary regarded Floyd dubiously. Floyd was capable of bad decisions. Like that time he adopted a coyote pup, or the time he built his own electric car and caused a five county blackout.

“Howzat gonna help us?”

“Come on. It's Christmas. Who's going to turn away Santa Claus?”

The waitress returned with their drinks. “You boys want to order?”

They examined the menu in a bamboo font.

“Is that a real leopard?” Gary said.

“I don't know. What's with the Santa bottoms?”

“We're secret Santas. We're delivering gifts.”

“Say that's great. What charity?”

“We're giving them to the Necroeconomists.”

“Huh. They don't really need charity. They pretty much own this city. What are you giving them?”

“The gift of iguana.”

“What'll it be, boys?”

Gary ordered a cheeseburger. Floyd ordered lasagna. By the time their meals arrived, they'd each had three margaritas. The television over the bar showed the remains of a devastated house. Nothing but timber and kindling. The scroll beneath the picture said, “...believed to be the work of a feral hog. Locals call this beast Hogzilla and claim that it weighs one thousand pounds.”

Gary knocked on the wood table.

They left a generous tip and stumbled to the van. Floyd and Gary put on their beards, hats, and jackets, Gary's buttressed with a large down pillow to make him jolly. When they got in the van, Floyd pulled out an amber vial of coke, tapped some into a plastic restaurant spoon, and snorted. He passed it to Gary. They pulled onto Center Avenue which would take them directly to Necro World HQ, the biggest building in town.

Floyd put on a Ginger Fowl record.

“Ah no, man,” Gary said. “I can't listen to that shit.”

“What's wrong with Ginger Fowl?”

“She's only got one chord.”

“So?”

“Dude, what are you, retarded? One chord? Where are the hooks? Where are the bridges? What else you got?”

Gary reached for the in-dash sound system. Floyd swatted his hand away, swerving onto the curb and striking a municipal garbage can. Floyd instantly over corrected, causing the van to jitter sideways intensifying the smell of decaying iguana. Fortunately, no one witnessed the mishap and they proceeded toward the fourteen story (actually thirteen but well you know) art deco Necroeconomics Building, which occupied an entire city block, its ziggurat steps recalling the work of Howard Roark.

It was nine p.m. as the van pulled into the broad Necro driveway that apexed at the glass front doors beneath a portico. A smartly tailored black man cruised through the glass doors wearing a navy blue sports jacket with Church of Necroeconomics writ in gold script above the breast pocket, sharply creased khakis, and high end sneakers, hair cut short, tell-tale bulge under his left shoulder.

Gary popped out and spread his arms. “Ho ho ho!”

The man stopped, delighted. “Well what have we here. Santa! What brings you to the Church of Necroeconomics?”

Floyd came around the front of the van.

“Greetings from the North Pole! We have brought you a food donation to distribute as you see fit.”

“Gentlemen, that is most gratifying. I'm Earl Wheeler.”

“Floyd Belmont.”

“Gary Duba.”

They shook hands. Earl frowned at Gary.

“I know you?”

“No, but tune into my upcoming Rustix series, the Gary Duba Show.”

“What have you brought us?”

“Two hundred and fifty pounds of iguana.”

Earl's smile froze. “Excuse me?”

“Two hundred and fifty pounds of iguana. An excellent source of protein and I should know. I had a restaurant that specialized in iguana. It's a very popular meat throughout Latin America. I'm sure you have many followers of Central American descent who would be delighted.”

“Normally, we accept food donations at our mission on North 12th Street. Would it be possible for you to take them there?”

“Man,” Gary said, “we've been driving for hours to deliver this iguana. What if we leave them here and you can transport them yourself?”

Earl bit his lower lip. “Wait here,” he said, going back inside the building.

Floyd ran around to the back. “Hurry.”

They opened the doors, put on their gloves, and shoveled iguana all over the pristine blacktop, chanting “HO HO HO!” As they tossed the final four, Earl emerged from the building and gave chase.

TWELVE

MEN!

When Gary sobered up in the morning, he called Habib Rodriguez and left a message. Floyd, who'd spent the night crashed in a theater chair, sat at the kitchen island, staring at a cup of coffee while Krystal whipped up taters and eggs.

“Who am I gonna call? It's me they're gonna come after.”

“Shouldn't have used your truck.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Call Habib.”

“What about that other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“Advertises on Judge Judy.”

“McDivot?”

“That's the guy.”

Sid Saidso phoned from Los Angeles. “What the fuck! Is that you in the Santa suit with the lizards?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Oh man, you couldn't wait for the production crew? This is gold!”

“I'm sorry. I should have thought first.”

“That's all right. We'll get it off the surveillance tapes. They're considering charges.”

“What charges?”

“Littering.”

“I got a lawyer.”

“I'll be back on the eighteenth with a boat. We gotta get that alligator before it eats somebody's dog.”

“You can stay at my place if you like but you gotta bring your own air mattress and bedding.”

They sat at the island watching WPMN on the flat screen Krystal had bought from Billy Bob for forty bucks. There was a seventy-two-car pile-up on the Interstate due to rain. From the air, it looked like a pile of Legos. The president was negotiating a trade deal with Brutopia. They ended with the Secret Santas.

A voluptuous news reader who had graduated from Mexican weather batted her palm frond lashes. “Lastly, authorities are still looking for the two Secret Santas who unloaded hundreds of pounds of dead iguana on the steps of the Church of Necroeconomics last night.”

Grainy footage showed the drunken Santas, Gary on the ground, Floyd in the truck, hurling lizards with wild abandon. Into the meticulously maintained garden and the koi pond. On the perfectly trimmed hedges. It ended with the van driving off and Earl rushing into the drive.

“The iguana proved unusable. Authorities are looking into possibly designating this a hate crime. Meanwhile, the search for the two secret Santas intensifies.”

Habib Rodriguez filled the screen in ten-gallon hat and a gold and silver belt buckle the size of Montana. “Have you been in an auto accident and not been adequately compensated for your injuries? Did your insurance company refuse to pay what you deserve? I'm Habib Rodriguez. I've been dealing with insurance companies all my life, and they don't scare me.”

Gary pulled out his Fonebone and went to the Miami Herald. There they were, in grainy color, above the centerfold.

secret santas deliver lizards.

church respectfully declines generous gift.

By Peter Gribble.

The week flew by. Gary practiced his Piranha Pool pitch in the mirror, wearing a yellow and orange Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, and a Panama hat.

“Yes, we love Florida when the sun is shining, but we all know that at any minute Mother Nature can rear back and slap us upside the head. Severe weather is a certainty, and every year, thousands of homes are blown away. House suspenders are as much a necessity as insurance. House suspenders can be hung with hanging plants and bird houses, creating a festive atmosphere. At Christmas time, they can make your home spectacular.”

Krystal relaxed on the new Big Lots sofa, smoking a cigarette. “You gotta have visuals, babes.”

“Working on it.”

“How you workin' on it?”

“Well I got the suspenders back up, didn't I? I'm going to buy a shitload of Christmas tree lights and string up the whole lot.”

“I'll go with you. I like the red and green peppers.”

They drove to Walmart. Gary dropped a C note in the Salvation Army pot. They bought two cushions that looked like fat baby seals, an electric tire inflator, chocolate milk, apples, bananas, soups, Jimmy Dean breakfast biscuits, copper infused compression gloves, Raid, Pinesol, buckets, cloths, mops, rubber gloves, scouring pads, carrots, broccoli, and two frozen California Kitchen Sicilian style pizzas. As they parked in front of their house, a blue Tesla followed them in. A man in a Kensington Gardens Country Club yellow golf shirt and white linen slacks got out. He was lean with a receding hairline like a Steve Ditko character.

“Mister Duba?”

“That's me.”

“Hi, Mister Duba, I'm Ron Santos. I represent the Kensington Gardens Homeowners’ Association.”

They shook. Krystal stepped up.

“Krystal. You want to help us carry this stuff into the house?”

Gary and Krystal each grabbed a bag and headed for the front door. Santos had no choice but to grab a bag and follow.

“Yes, well first of all, I want to welcome you to the neighborhood, or rather, welcome you back to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks, Ron! Just put 'em in the kitchen.”

Gary opened the fridge. “Want a beer?”

“No, I'm afraid I can't stay long. You just got back here, so you can't be expected to know all the details of the Kensington Gardens covenant. I've brought you a copy.”

He pulled a sheath of papers from his pocket and laid them on the counter. The cover showed the gleaming plantation style clubhouse against the cerulean pond, a blaze of white, green, and blue.

“We don't allow any overtly nationalistic displays. You'll have to take down that flag by your front door.”

“You mean the Stars 'n' Bars?”

“Yes, but the rules would apply equally to the Russian or Cuban flag.”

“What about the American?”

Santos looked nervous. “That too. It's not that we're not patriotic, it's just that with a neighborhood of this standing, of this caliber, such displays seem crass and may adversely affect property values.”

“Huh?”

“No problem,” Krystal said. Gary looked at her. She shot him the Look.

“And the other thing, the figure on the rim of your fountain.”

Gary was incredulous. “Sam?”

“I don't know what it's called, but the bright primary colors create a distraction from the cool beauty of your home.”

“What do you care? Nobody comes down here anyway.”

“We now have twelve homes under construction and the clients regularly visit. That's, uh, one reason I came to see you.”

“Not a problem,” Krystal said, daring Gary to say something.

“Well thanks, folks! I'm glad you're so understanding. By the way. I live at Twenty-four Barnacle Circle. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Santos beat a path outta there. Gary brought in the rest of their booty. “The nerve of that guy.”

“You're just gonna have to get used to living with neighbors, Gary. That's all there is to it.”

“I know. I had it my own way for so long, I don't know how to fit in with neighbors.”

They sat at the kitchen island, watching WPMN on the flat screen Krystal had bought from Billy Bob for forty bucks. A man with a triangle-shaped head, thin comb over, spade chin, intense black eyes, black suit, faced the camera from a podium framed by a portrait of Nebudchadnezzar and the Necroeconomic Flag, depicting Earth and moon in space, bright red and yellow logo: SCIENCE, BITCHES.

Necroeconomic press conference, Wombat Supreme Ken Zohan speaking scrolled across the lower half of the screen.

“Last night, two men dressed in pagan robes, sought to humiliate and defile the sacred ground of the Necroeconomic Church, which stands for science, logic, and the betterment of all mankind. Including womankind. And all the kinds in between. We have chosen not to pursue this act as a hate crime and instead, in the spirit of compassion, and science, and logic which characterizes Necroeconomics, I reach out to these two men.”

“Brethren! Our Church is devoted to science and logic. How have we offended you, knowing we do not partake of the meat of the lizard?”

“Brethren! My door is open. Call me any time. You may beat the rush, but you must never rush the beat.”

THIRTEEN

BACK TO THE SWAMP

Gary had fifty thousand followers @therealGaryDuba on Twitter.

Dear Gary: Can you recommend a good recipe for iguana? Sincerely, El Torres.

Dear El Torres: Legally kill an iguana by shooting it in the head or stabbing it in the brain.

Wash the iguana meat thoroughly after removing the skin, organs, and entrails, so that just the meat and cartilage remain.

The message paused as Gary reached his word limit.

Put the iguana meat in boiling coconut milk. Let it cook for at least an hour.

Remove the tender meat from the cartilage. Sometimes I will marinate the meat in pasilla chiles, vinegar, salt and pepper. I also like to make iguana tacos.

I will marinate the meat in peanut oil,

The message paused as Gary reached his word limit.

garlic and a touch of cayenne. You can cook the iguana on a charcoal grill.

He was in the rec room, Thursday night on his laptop when he received an invitation from @Necroeconomicon to join a group hang-out with Ken Zohan. Gary went right over. His icon was a cartoon gator.

“Hello,” said a familiar voice, smooth as aged Kentucky bourbon. “This is Ken Zohan speaking to you live from the Church of Necroeconomics here in beautiful Coopersmith, Florida. I see Gary Duba has joined us. Gary, how were you able to apprehend Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee?”

“It was just luck, Ken. We had a monitor lizard in the truck and Krystal couldn't bear to see the poor thing suffer so she let it out. When Doctor Mukerjee got in the truck it bit him.”

“That was most fortuitous. You're aware that the monitor lizard is an invasive and dangerous species. There are now breeding populations of the Nile monitor lizard. Their bite can cause pain and illness. They are particularly dangerous to children and pets.”

“Ken, all I know this State's got a shitload of unnecessary animals. Iguana. Nutria. Hippos.”

“What hippos?”

“From El Nariz's zoo. No one's seen 'em, no one's heard them. But they're out there.”

Perry from Springfield popped up. “Mister Duba, I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Who is stronger? Hulk or Superman?”

“What the fuck you talking about, son?”

“Gary,” Ken broke in, “I invited you here tonight because I would like to meet with you in person.”

“Hell, I ain't hard to find.”

“No, I meant here, at the Church of Necroeconomics, where you dumped your dead iguana.”

“Well fuck, you got me.”

“I appreciate that you don't deny it. Honesty is one of the tenets of Necroeconomics, and on the path to the ultimate stage of oneness and self-awareness we call viscosity.”

“Can't you use those lizards for something? They weren't that far gone.”

“If you had brought us live lizards, we could have used them. The lizards you brought were already beginning to rot. We had to rely on a professional crime scene clean-up unit to eliminate the odor. The entrance to our beautiful temple of science, designed by Roark Dexter Smith, still smells faintly of fish.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Science.”

Krystal banged through the kitchen door. “Gary! Gary baby! I got pizza!”

“Hey Ken, gotta go. Fun talking.”

“Please remember, Gary. It's not the shape of the bottle that matters. It's the matter in the shape of a bottle.”

Gary went into the kitchen. “Boy howdy, that smells good! Hey, I was just in a chat with Ken Zohan.”

“Who's Ken Zohan?”

“Leader of the Church of Necroeconomics. Shit, girl. Where you been?”

Krystal pulled an extra-large three meat pizza from a Domino's carton. “I got a lot on my mind. I'm going out to Delilah's tomorrow to train.”

“Oh shit! I forgot about that!”

“Can you drive me?”

“Sure.”

After dinner, Gary grabbed Krystal around the waist.

“You stink! Take a shower and I'll fuck ya.”

“Deal.”

When Gary came out of the shower, Krystal was waiting for him in her Squirrel Girl outfit, gray Squirrel Girl beret with ears, and a tail affixed to her crotchless panties. Gary howled like a coyote, trailing off with a series of yips. Krystal put a Queen record on the boom box in the bedroom and they rutted like elk on Main Street in Estes Park. Krystal wrapped her legs around Gary's waist while he held her in the corner, came, and collapsed to the ground. Krystal strutted around with her fists in the air to "We Are the Champions".

They slept on their Big Lots bed. In the morning, Gary checked the truck tires. They stopped at a Winn-Dixie so Krystal could stock up on tampons, Aleve, Off!, smudge pots, Slim Jims, and bottled water. They headed for the swamp. Delilah lived in a geodesic dome on the Big Cypress Indian Reservation. A Calusa witchee woman, Delilah had learned her art from her mother and grandmother. Her home lay at the end of a rutted trail that wandered through hummocks and puddles, crisscrossed with wild game. It was slow going. As they passed beneath a bower of mahogany, pond apple and cypress, three wild hogs meandered out of the forest and stopped in the middle of the road.

Gary stopped the truck and reached for his magnum in the glove compartment.

“Them fuckers.”

“Leave the fucking hogs alone.”

“Don't you think Delilah might 'preciate a fresh hog? Don't you think she knows how to butcher a hog? Hell. I'll butcher it for her. Does she have a refrigerator?”

“Yeah. She runs it off a gas generator and an exercycle.”

“Look at them pigs. They ain't too big. Can't be more'n a hunnert pounds.”

Krystal threw her hands in the air. “Fine.”

Wearing cargo trousers, waffle stompers and a camo Tee-shirt, Gary got out of the truck and slowly approached the pigs who paid no heed. At fifty feet he went down on one knee clutching the big magnum in both hands, sighting along the barrel, gently squeezing, surprised when the shot went off, even more surprised when the hog he'd been aiming at fell like a sack of cement. The other hogs took off squealing.

He'd drilled the young male right through the eye. Stooping, he hoisted the hog over his shoulders and dumped it in the truck bed. Krystal put her hand out.

“Don't you get in the truck with that shirt. You throw that shirt away.”

Gary stripped off the shirt, surprised to find it covered in blood, and tossed it to the side of the road. Krystal put on the radio, turning from one end to the other, trying to find something other than Spanish language and Come to Jesus shows. All she could find was conspiracy theorist Ferd Ludlow.

“...that the US government has a secret alien base in Northern New Mexico. Area 51 is just a distraction. This secret base can be found halfway up Mt. Archuleta in the Sangre de Cristos. Last week, an alien human hybrid escaped from the base, stole a motorcycle, and is currently at large.”

Gary glimpsed Delilah's house through the trees. The geodesic dome, which she built with help from the tribe, was covered in grainy brown shingles. A bottle tree stood in the yard. Dolls hung from the bottle tree. Barbie. Ken. Lady Death. Spider-Man. Delilah stood in her yard wearing baggy combat trousers, a Boy Scout shirt and cats eye sunglasses, her white hair cut to fuzz.

Gary stopped the truck and got out.

“Give me the pig,” Delilah said.

FOURTEEN

TUBULAR TETRAHEDRON

Gary dropped the hog on a cypress stump.

“How'd you know I was bringing a pig?”

She pointed to a slop bucket. “Chicken guts.”

“You want me to butcher it for you?”

“I'll do the butcherin'. You have to do it right if you're gonna read the guts.”

“What if those guts tell you omma bring a horse? And those guts tell you omma bring a manatee? Then you got to read those guts to see what I'm bringing next? I'm just trying to extrapolate here.”

Delilah turned to Krystal who was carrying a case of bottled water into the house. “'Bout time you got here. Bring out some of that scarlet sage. It's in a big bottle in the kitchen.”

Delilah positioned the hog on its back, picked up a two-handled fireman's ax and split the hog down the middle. Blood flew in Gary's face.

“Whatchoo doin' messin' with those Necronomists? They're a bunch of hypocrites and fakes.”

“How do you know about that?”

Delilah pointed at the slop bucket. She used a Bowie knife to split the pig stem to stern, reached in barehanded and pulled out the looping intestines. She cut out the liver, the stomach, and the lungs. Gary admired her technique. He took a step back and breathed through his mouth, turned and coughed. Krystal handed Delilah a bundle of twigs and leaves held together with string. Delilah took the lid off an old Weber, put in the sage and lit it with a wooden match through a hole in the bottom. Burning sage diluted the stink. Gary smacked skeeters right and left. He wished he had six arms so he could mount a battalion size attack.

Delilah went down on her haunches and poked at the hog guts with a stick. “You've got a date with an alligator.”

“How you know?”

She pointed to the slop bucket. “Now if you'll just shut up and let me read, we can butcher this hog and get it into the fridge so it doesn't go bad.”

She stirred the guts. The bottle tree moaned. Things howled. Gary looked around.

“Ain't that a panther?”

“Gary!” Krystal hissed.

Delilah poked. “Chiefs are gonna win the Superbowl.”

“My ass.”

Krystal glared. “Be quiet.”

“You will lose someone close to you.”

That got Gary's attention. “Can you see who it is?”

Delilah put her hands on her splayed knees. “No. Big changes comin'. Everything's in play. Whole systems are up for renewal.”

“In other words,” Gary said, “business as usual.”

“Let me see your hand.”

Gary sat while Delilah held his palm with one hand, tracing lines with the other. “That gator is the least of your problems.”

“What? What?”

She traced a line. “You will be visited by three animal spirits. First, the saurian. Second, the sus. Third, hippopotamus.”

“Izzis A Christmas Carol?”

Delilah closed Gary's hand. “No.”

Krystal crouched opposite. “Could you teach me to read guts?”

“Right now, you got to worry about A Thing Called Xue. Ask me after you beat him.”

“Her,” Krystal said.

Delilah poked some more. “You are destined to battle the beast of the apocalypse.”

“Give me a break!” Gary howled.

“What kind of beast?” Krystal said.

“The guts don't say. Could be the devil in human guise. Could be some primordial creature from the depths of the Marianas Trench. This confrontation will be preceded by signs and portents. Like this right chere.”

“Well look here. If I keep bringing you hogs, can you keep reading until we know what the hell's going on?”

“That's not how this works, Gary. My ability to see into the future is limited by many factors, including the weather, the time of day, the time of year, the formation of the planets, and the nature and personal history of whatever animal I cut open, plus the nature and personal history of whomever I'm advisin'. That's why we don't use domesticated animals. The wilder, the better. People are best, but well, we're restrained by the law.”

“So, if you weren't restrained by the law, you'd slice someone up to read their guts?”

“In a New York minute.”

“So, if I was to bring you a rare and extremely endangered critter like a Florida panther, or a whooping crane, you might have better luck?”

Delilah stared into the guts. She grabbed the Bowie knife, hacked off the guts and threw them in a slop bucket. She quickly and efficiently butchered the hog into hams, ribs, and chops. When she was finished, she carried the slop bucket through the forest to the edge of the swamp and hurled it in a semi-circle. Nine alligators that had been sunning themselves on logs slid into the water and went into a feeding frenzy.

Delilah reached for a second slop bucket.

“Let me have that.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“Need it to catch a gator.”

“You'd better put it in your truck and cover it up. Lemme get you a lid.”

Gary took the meat into the kitchen where Delilah expertly hacked off three pork chops.

“Marinate these in peanut oil, garlic, brown sugar, and chilli peppers. I got to take a shower.”

Delilah peeled off her clothes and tossed them to the floor. She had one of those bodies they write about on Fox News.

salma hayek shows off bikini body on beach trip to celebrate turning 53
eva longoria sizzles in white swimsuit as she enjoys ‘fun in the sun’ in mexico

The shower was a fifty-gallon drum strapped to an oak, tubes running to funnels breaching the canopy. Drawing the circular curtain, Delilah pulled a chain, releasing a cascade of warm, refreshing water as she lathered up. Inside, Krystal put the marinating chops in the fridge, now bulging with butcher-wrapped pork. The only light came through triangular skylights circling the top like a halo. The generator cut in to juice the batteries.

Delilah returned wrapped in a blanket, climbed to her loft, and came down in fawn-colored slacks and a Katherine Hepburn shirt. They went out front and sat in nylon lawn chairs. Delilah unscrewed a Mason jar of clear liquid and poured shine into three jelly glasses. She lit the grill and put on the chops. By the time they were done, Gary was passed out in the dirt.

“We should take him inside,” Krystal said.

Delilah smacked her lips. “I thought that boy knew how to drink.”

“He knows how to drink. He doesn't know how to stop.”

“Grab his ankles. We'll put him on the futon.”

They carried Gary inside, a faint whistling coming from his nose, and dropped him on a fold out sofa/bed. A black cat crawled out from under, leaped on top of Gary and settled on his flat belly. Delilah pointed a finger at the cat.

“You're in charge.”

They went outside. Samson stood at the Weber ,staring at the pork chops. Samson was a brown bear. Samson went down on all fours and tentatively stuck his snout over the grill.

“Stick around,” Delilah said. “You can have a chop.” She turned to Krystal. “Samson weighs two hundred and twenty pounds.”

Samson was a very nice bear, but Krystal didn't relish wrestling with him. “Great.”

“I don't know why you agreed to such a contest. He...”

“She.”

“Xue's, Xue's gonna have fifty pounds on you. At least. What was going through your head?”

Krystal grinned. “I knew you'd show me something that'll let me win. Something crazy, something wild.”

Delilah used a pair of tongs to place the chops on an old tin platter. Samson sat up like a dog.

“It just so happens.”

“What is it?”

“Tibetan tetrahedron.”

FIFTEEN

LIABILITY ISSUES

Gary woke face down on Delilah's futon, drooling, with a King Kong sized headache. He got up, wheeled, stumbled, caught himself, worked his way along the counter to the sink where he worked the hand pump to bring water up from the well to splash in his face. He staggered outside, walked twenty feet into the woods and peed. A half dozen gators sunned themselves on massive logs visible through the trees.

Gary went inside and found a note.

Dear Gary: We're training! Home Friday. Love, Krystal.

He looked in the refrigerator. His stomach rolled at the sight of the butchered meat. He barely made it ten feet out the door before he threw up, a river of yellow sludge that slowed to a trickle.

Wiping his mouth on his arm, he went back inside, rinsed, washed the vomit off, swigged some mouth wash, grabbed a papaya.

Sid and the gang were due tomorrow for the gator hunt. It would set the tone and pulse of the whole series. It had rained during the night and the way back was filled with sucking mud. It took Gary an hour to reach the gravel road, and another hour to get back on pavement.

Three hours later he passed through the gates of stately Kensington Gardens, drove past three houses in progress, turned into his broad driveway and parked behind Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions. His Confederate flag and Yosemite Sam were gone.

The house was intact. Floyd lay on the sofa in the living room, sawing away. Gary spent the rest of the day scrubbing down the swimming pool with bleach. Floyd came out and helped. They nuked a pizza, and tuned into Piranha Pool, which showed entrepreneurs pitching their businesses to a panel of five investors, or "piranha", who decide whether to invest in the company.

CLOSE IN: on a young man wearing bizarre half-cones behind his ears held in place with a headband, like a Panic Pete Bug Out squeeze toy. The young man had a shaved skull, tatted arms extending from his striped short sleeved shirt, and blue jeans.

VOICE OVER: “Jerry Bowler, from Lodi, Wisconsin, seeks five hundred thousand dollars to market his Ear Scoopers holistic hearing aid.”

“Piranhas, my hearing aids are completely natural and rely on no drugs or batteries. With Ear Scoopers in place, your hearing is enhanced by two hundred per cent.” He put a hand up behind one of the scoops. “The half cups are made from hemp. The hair band is bamboo. We use only locally sourced products and it costs less than any hearing aid.”

Brenda Bascomb, founder and CEO of fashion powerhouse Byuti Surge, and inventor of the Rosa Klebb shoe, was a buxom brunette in her fifties who'd started her business in her basement. “How much does it cost?”

“Nine ninety-five.”

Brenda said something softly.

The young man ignored her.

“It's a no from me.”

Morris Eclaire, founder of Florida's fastest growing community The Cottages, looked like a former wrestler on the comic convention circuit. Short, curly black hair and a chin like a bulldozer. “The problem I have with the Ear Scooper is that it makes you look like an idiot. Also, it takes up space. You can't wear it with a hat or a hoodie. You can't exactly stick it in your pocket. I'm afraid it's a no from me.”

Anthony Peroni, founder of Dragonware Carnivore online protection: “I'm afraid it's a no from me.”

Jerry Bowler looked around with an ugly sneer. “You know what? Fuck you! You're too stupid to recognize a game changer, fuck you!”

The screen went to a Habib Rodriguez commercial.

Gary rose from his chair in the rec room. “I'm zonked. See you in the AM.”

Floyd waved and reached for the remote.

Gary went to bed. He woke to someone ringing the front bell as sunlight blazed in through the east-facing windows. He looked down on a rented Lincoln and a new van with the rust-colored Rustix logo on the sides. It was ten o'clock. Gary threw on some pants and went downstairs.

Sid Saidso stood with a crew of three, staring up at Chateau Ami. A curvy long-haired Latina in her thirties filmed with a hand held device.

Gary pumped his fist. “Fuck an ’A!’ Who these guys?”

Sid held his hand out toward the cinematographer. “Muriel Martinez is our director.”

Muriel smiled and shook hands. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Sound man Ralph Everett.” A gray-haired man in a light brown suit shook Gary's hand.

“Drone wrangler Irving Pincus.” Pale-faced kid with a wild profusion of curly brown hair bursting beneath his yarmulke.

“Big fan, Mister Duba.”

“Y’all can call me Gary. I gotta get Floyd. We ain’t catching shit without him. You bring a boat?”

“We have a twenty-two-foot Boston Whaler at the boat launch at the club.”

Floyd came out wearing the same clothes from yesterday.

“Floyd! Are you ready to rock?”

“You betcha. Let me just power up.”

“Floyd's an experienced pest control executive.”

“Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions.” Floyd reached in his breast pocket and handed out cards.

“How many gators have you caught, Mister Belmont?” said Martinez.

“Call me Floyd. Too many to count.”

“I'll wire you up at the clubhouse," Everett said.

“Gotta get a gator,” Gary said.

“La la la,” Floyd said.

Sid looked around, shoulders set. “Here’s how it’s gonna go down. You’re going to launch from the dock and search for the gator. I'm coming with. They'll be following you via drones. Ignore them. They’re no bigger than sparrows and they won’t be in your face. Just act naturally. Say what you always say.”

“This ain’t our first rodeo, ain’t that right, Floyd?”

“We already got it sold.”

“Gary and Floyd, I assume you’re going to bring your truck.”

“Ahuh.”

Sid inhaled deeply. “There’s nothing like the first day of a new show. Feel it, my friends. Breathe it in. Savor it. This is a rare moment.”

“We'll be right behind ya,” Gary promised. “Floyd, help me out here.”

They went back inside where Gary grabbed a picnic cooler filled with iced beers and handed Floyd the slop bucket.

“Fuck izzis?”

“Chum for the gator.”

They put the cooler and bucket in the back and followed the convoy toward the gleaming white clubhouse. Gary rode with Floyd with the radio on.

“State wildlife officials have caught a Mekong Giant Catfish in the Miami Canal in the Everglades. The catfish weighed five hundred pounds. This invasive species poses a threat to native flora and fauna. The Mekong Giant Catfish can weigh up to seven hundred pounds. Please contact the Florida Department of Natural Resources or Fish and Wildlife if you see one.”

“Fuck me,” Gary groused. “Delilah warned I was headed for a confrontation with the Anti-Christ. What if it turns out to be a five hundred pound Catfish.”

“They can't hurt ya. They just gum ya.”

“Fuck that.”

Floyd followed the production van up the driveway to the plantation style clubhouse decked out with Christmas lights. Floyd kept going, around the building to the lake where a concrete landing slanted into the blue water next to a long white pier with several boat lifts. A Boston Whaler waited behind a Ram backed up to the water. Floyd parked in the service lot.

Three men and a woman wearing navy blue Kensington Gardens blazers waited on the pier. The Rustix van pulled up and out piled the production crew. A minute later, Sid and his assistant walked down the wood steps toward them from the clubhouse, Pincus pushing a hand cart stacked with black carbon fiber boxes bungeed in place.

Sid rushed to the fore like a cheerleader and stuck out his hand. “Mister Goldblatt, how are you?”

The retired dentist took Sid's hand, but the shake was brief. “Sid, I'm very sorry to have to tell you, you can't hunt alligator here. There are liability issues.”

SIXTEEN

WHO COULD POSSIBLY?

“What liability issues?” Sid said with raised eyebrows. “Do you want us to post a bond? Nobody's going out there except my crew.”

Goldblatt was a slight man with gray hair and a goatee. “This is a motor free lake. No power boats allowed.”

“That's not a liability issue.”

“Look, Mister Saidso, we held an emergency meeting last night and it was decided we just can't take a chance on somebody getting hurt. This is an upscale community. The residents value their privacy and don't relish being depicted as a bunch of hayseeds.”

Gary stepped forward. Goldblatt stepped back. “Are you referring to me?”

“Well not you, personally, Mister Duba, but we all know the demographic to which these types of shows appeal.”

Muriel crept around filming.

“What happened between yesterday and today?”

“Please try to understand, Mister Saidso. This isn't entertainment, this is our lives.”

“How 'bout we call this place something else? Like Redneck Acres? Nobody'll know it's you.”

The woman, an Edna Mode type, got in Sid's face. “That would require an entirely new deal. At best, it will take a week. It just feels wrong.”

“Lady,” Gary said, “you've got a freakin' alligator in your lake! What if it harms someone, like a child?”

“Swimming is forbidden in the lake,” she said in a steely voice as two teenagers in swim trunks ran by whooping and hollering and threw themselves off the end of the pier. Goldblatt hot-stepped after them.

“Get out of there! There's a gator in the lake!”

The boys looked at one another and swam for the pier.

“Thank you for your offer,” the woman said. “I'm Mindy Perske, Vice President of the Kensington Gardens Homeowners’ Association. We intend to hire professionals to get rid of that alligator. But for now, we must ask you to stand down.”

A Volvo station wagon careened down the concrete ramp, pulling up a foot short of the ramp. The doors sprang open releasing two girls, one driving, one not yet in her teens, both hysterical.

“DADDEEEE!” cried the younger. “IT ATE HOMBRE!”

“What?” Goldblatt said taking a step forward. “What's wrong?”

The older girl fell into her father's arms. “A fucking alligator came out of the pond and ate Hombre! It was horrible!”

“Oh no,” Perske said.

A big man with a crew cut and rosacea said, “It ate your dog? That sweet poodle?”

“It grabbed him and dragged him into the water! He was barking hysterically!”

Goldblatt looked around like a man seeking an out. He put his hand on Perske's shoulder. “Mindy, John, let's talk for a minute.”

They went halfway out the pier and huddled. Sid gave Gary the thumbs up. The group returned.

“In view of what just happened, the board gives you permission to get that gator.”

Gary pumped his fist. “Yeeeeee-HA!”

Floyd looked heroic for the camera. “Let's get that sumbitch!”

The truck driver, a muscular black man in a blue Lacoste shirt, who had been standing around poking at his Fonebone, looked up. “You going in the water, or what?”

“We're going!” Sid said. “Back her up!”

The truck driver produced a clipboard. “Who's the captain?”

Gary stepped up. “That'd be me.”

The driver handed him the clipboard. “Sign here.”

Sid took the clipboard. “Wait a minute.” He read the contract. “Twenty-four hours? We don't need it that long.”

“You expect me to hang out here in beautiful Kensington Gardens while you go hunting? Who's paying for my time? We'll be back for it at ten tomorrow morning. You still need it, you let us know, hear? It's fully gassed. Should be good for three hours.”

The driver unbuckled the boat from its berth and slowly backed into the water until his rear tires were wet. Floyd jumped in and tossed a line to Gary who led the boat to the end of the pier and tied it to a piling.

Irving Pincus sat on the lawn, unpacking drones the size of saucers. Each had four rotors plus camera that hung from the center. Pincus gave Sid a tracking device to wear on his wrist. The drone would focus on Sid's wrist as a default, but Pincus could manipulate it for close-ups, pans, etc.

Everett affixed mics and transmitters to Gary, Floyd, and Sid. Sid, who'd started as a cameraman, would film from the boat. Gary and Floyd got the cooler and chum from the van and put them in the boat. Floyd got out of the boat and brought a boom box from his truck. Sid got in the boat. They put on life preservers. Muriel checked the mics and gave the okay sign. Pincus launched his drone which hovered at twenty feet. The Kensington Gardens Homeowners’ Association watched the launch with mixed emotions.

Gary started the Whaler's ninety horse Johnson engine, and they churned toward the middle of the lake, leaving a wake of green water rife with algae. It was a natural lake fed by nearby swamp, and the homeowners had a vague plan to reduce algae via oxidation, but not until they had enough homeowners to fund the costly project. The people on the pier grew smaller and smaller until they were no longer distinguishable. Floyd's boom box pumped "Flight of the Valkyrie."

From the middle of the lake, they could see a handful of houses springing up, but at least two hundred and eighty degrees remained undeveloped, rimmed with reeds, mangrove and cattails. Gary headed toward the wild shore, where the gators would feel most comfortable, drone skimming along, Sid crouching to make Gary look heroic.

“Talk to me. What's going on?”

“Well here we are, cruising Lake Kensington, looking for a killer gator. Twenty minutes ago, that gator ate a dog. We got to get it before it starts going after kids. Floyd! Put some chum in the water.”

Sid swiveled to Floyd, who used an oversized soup tureen to toss chum in a semi-circle toward the shore. Gary turned the boat to the left. “Look there! There they are!”

Sid turned his camera toward shore where ripples emanated behind two gators who had felt the vibrations and smelled the blood through the water. The drone swooped in on them, hovering ten feet above the water, looking down. Gary shut the engine off and in the sudden silence, Floyd's boom box seemed unnaturally loud. Sid turned it off.

“Talk to me, Gary.”

“Yeah, here we are out on the pond and we can see the gators going for the chum! Hot damn! Here they come!”

Floyd jammed gobbets on a steel grappling hook attached to a line and tossed it in the water.

A reptilian snout broke the surface, snapping up globs of hog meat. Sid crouched at the edge, aiming his camera. “Throw more chum!”

Floyd dipped the tureen and spread chum from bow to the stern. Sid aimed his camera. A twelve-foot gator grabbed Sid's arm and pulled him into the drink, doing the barrel roll to detach the arm. The water churned with blood.

“Fuck!” Gary shouted.

SEVENTEEN

CRUNCH TIME

Sid had been transmitting live to Muriel's laptop. The last thing they saw was the gaping gator maw.

“Shit!” Muriel said.

“Oh my god,” Ralph Everett said.

“Fercoct!” Pincus said.

Board members and curiosity seekers who had been peering at the boat sensed wrongness.

“What?” Goldblatt said taking a step forward. “What's wrong?”

“The gator ate our producer,” Muriel said, dialing 911.

In short order, the clubhouse was surrounded with strobing vehicles and first responders, all waiting for Gary to return. The Boston Whaler furiously zigged and zagged in a seemingly random pattern.

Sheriff Ralph Hunnicutt looked like George Washington, Rushmore version, save for the amber aviator glasses. “We got a complaint about an alligator.”

Goldblatt went up to him, shaking. “Sheriff, there's an alligator in the lake. It just killed a TV producer named Sid Saidso. I told them this was a bad idea. I told them we had to hire professionals. I don't care if Mister Duba is a celebrity. He should not be hunting alligators at Kensington Gardens!”

The sheriff put his hands on his hips. “Gary Duba?”

“Yessir,” Goldblatt said. “I understand he was the first occupant, but since he's returned, we've had nothing but trouble. He doesn't follow association rules. He flaunts his celebrity and frankly, he's boorish! He flew a Confederate flag out in front of his house! He had a lawn jockey!”

Sheriff Hunnicutt looked around. “Anyone in touch with him? Tell him to come in.”

Muriel introduced herself. “I'm the director of the Gary Duba Show. I have him on the phone.” She handed her phone to Hunnicutt.

“Gary, this is Sheriff Hunnicutt.”

“How are ya, Sheriff?”

“I need you to come back to the clubhouse now.”

“Sheriff, we're chasing down a killer gator. It already killed my producer. We gotta stop it before it kills someone else.”

“Gary, this is a direct order. You get your ass back to this pier right now. Have you been drinking?”

“No way! Come on, Sheriff! What if this fucking gator takes out a child? Now's our best chance! It's lazy and slow from its meal! All we have to do is wait for it to surface. We got more chum.”

“Gary, if you're not at this pier in ten minutes, I'm going to charge you with operating a boat without a license, being a public nuisance, and interfering with police business. Do you hear me?”

“All right. All right.” Mumbling. Gary signed off. The boat turned toward the club house and grew closer, its buzz growing louder.

Hunnicutt held out his hand. “Ma'am, I'm gonna need your video files. Where are they?”

Muriel looked like Jonathan Harker meeting Dracula. “You can't do that! What's that got to do with anything? It was an act of nature, for Chrissake!”

“Ma'am, the coroner needs to know the circumstances of the death. I'm also gonna need to see some ID.”

While Hunnicutt remonstrated, Pincus quietly pulled his wagon of drones up the driveway onto the patio where a dozen gawkers stared out at the pond, some holding up their phones. Pincus found a quiet spot by the freestanding brick barbecue and guided his drone to a soft landing in his hands, bundling it away in its carbon fiber case. He left the clubhouse by the driveway, pulling his wagon behind him like a child, passing incoming Mercedes and Lexii, keeping his head down, turning left on Kensington Boulevard, heading for Gary's house.

Gary bumped into the pier. Floyd tossed a rope to a deputy who tied it to a piling and pulled the back end in, snugging it against the tires they used as bumpers. Hunnicutt waited for Gary to walk the length of the pier.

“What happened?”

“I noticed that gator the other day when I was visiting the Bongo Boxes. Then it up and et a dog, so we all agreed Floyd and me would go out there and kill the sumbitch before it did any more damage! But Sid, man, I can't believe that happened. That old gator just rose up, put a chomp on Sid's arm and dragged him into the pond. We could see it doing the whirligig and there was all this blood. Ain't nobody's fault. It was just an act of nature. Now we got to get that sumbitch.”

“Gary, we got a program for that. Statewide Nuisance Alligator Program.”

“SNAP?”

“It's illegal to operate a power boat on a lake this size.”

Goldblatt sidled up like a terrier. “Mister Duba is well aware. He has the association handbook.”

Gary looked like a sabre jet. “You told me it was cool! We got it on tape!" He turned to Muriel. "Muriel, don't we got it on tape?”

“That's right, Gary. The association agreed to let Gary kill that gator. We got it on tape. I'd be happy to show it to you.”

“Is it on your phone?”

“Yes.”

Hunnicutt held out his hand. “Gimme the phone.”

Muriel's face contorted in horror. “You want my phone?”

“It's evidence.”

“Just give me your email! I'll send you everything.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am. But we need the primary evidence, if available. Wilbur, come on over here, bag this phone and give Miss Martinez a receipt.”

A big-boned deputy in aviator shades pulled a plastic evidence bag from a pouch on his cargo pants and held it open. Clicking her tongue, Muriel dropped in her Fonebone. Wilbur pulled out a sharpie and wrote the time, date, place, and Muriel's name and phone number.

“Yeah well good luck phoning me 'cause you got my phone.”

Hunnicutt pulled out a pen and pad. “Is there another number where we can reach you?”

She gave him her Rustix number.

Gary nodded toward the drive. “Let's go.”

They caravanned back to the Duba residence and gathered on the patio. Muriel got on the phone with Rustix. Pincus pointed to his wagon of drones. “Don't worry. Muriel had backup too. We haven't lost anything. I also filmed the sheriff.”

Muriel's face contorted. They waited until she finally ended the call. She turned to them with sad eyes. “They want to cancel the show.”

“They can't do that!” Gary said. “We signed a contract!”

“The contract was with Sid Saidso Productions. The death of their CEO voids the contract.”

Gary got up and paced around the pool. “Just hold on there. Just hold it. What if we come up with another show runner ex post haste de facto?”

“Unless it's Vince Gilligan, forget it.”

“I got just the guy. Let me give Major Sutton a call.”

EIGHTEEN

A SURPRISE GUEST

It was a cool, overcast day. Gary stood on the dock at the Kensington Gardens clubhouse watching as an inflatable boat with an outboard motor hauled Sid Saidso's remains from the water. There wasn't much left. The alligator had snacked on everything, leaving the torso and the left leg cut off at the knee. The grim-faced sheriff’s deputies wearing latex gloves stuffed Sid in a zip-up rubber bag and headed for shore. As they nudged the boat to the dock, a new Dodge Ram backed down the concrete boat ramp, easing a trailer holding a twenty-four-foot aluminum skiff into the water, a one hundred and ten horse Mercury tilted up at the back.

The board members were conspicuously absent. No members of the press could get past the gatehouse. As the deputies tied up at the pier, the Ram driver put the truck in park and approached Gary. The driver was a lean piece of beef jerky with a GI Joe beard, wearing dungarees and a Green Bay Packers hat, tanned arms covered with curly black hair.

“Are you Mister Duba?”

“Yup.”

He stuck out his hand. “Paul Werringo. I'm with SNAP. I'm here to get your gator.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

A stout black woman, hair shaved to the nub, came around the front of the truck. “This is my associate Laverne Reynolds.”

“We're great admirers of yours, Mister Duba,” Laverne said. “I've followed you since you had the shootout with the judge.”

“Thank you kindly.”

Two deputies carried Sid's body to the back of a Glades County Police van and put it in.

Laverne put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah. That was my producer. Now the show's in limbo.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to it.”

“Well, hey,” Werringo said. “We're heading out there to git that man-eating sumbitch. You want to come?”

“Hell yeah!”

Werringo handed Gary a clipboard from the console. “You need to sign a release form.”

Gary scanned the form. The usual boilerplate about how he understood the risk and gave up his right to sue SNAP in the event of an incident. Werringo reached into the bed of his truck and pulled out a pistol case and a five-gallon sealed plastic bucket. Laverne grabbed three life preservers and a gaffing stick. Putting these at the end of the pier, Werringo slowly backed the truck until the trailer was in the water and the boat floated. Laverne undid the straps and pulled the boat stern first to the end of the pier, tying it to a cleat. Werringo drove the truck up the ramp and turned into the employee parking lot on one side of the clubhouse. At this hour, a half dozen residents sat on the patio, sipping coffee, reading the New York Times, The Tampa Tribune, and the Miami Herald, and staring at their Fonebones.

Goldblatt strode down the stone walkway in a gray suit, pale blue shirt, and red tie. Out to the end of the pier. “What are you doing here, Mister Duba?”

“I'm just an observer.”

Goldblatt turned to Werringo. “Are you from SNAP?”

Werringo reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Yes sir. We have authorization to remove that alligator.”

“HMO rules prohibit the use of guns on this property.”

Werringo turned to Gary. “Who's this?”

“This is Mister Goldblatt, president of the homeowners’ association.”

“Do you want the gator gone or not? This is how we get rid of nuisance gators. So far, we have removed forty-seven at the state's request. No gun, no gator.”

“What's your interest, Mister Duba?”

“We need Duba to identify the gator,” Laverne said.

Goldblatt looked from one to the other dubiously. “There's only one gator.”

“We don't know that. We have a contract to remove any nuisance gators we find. Suppose there are several. Should we leave the others in your lake? I understand it already ate someone's dog.”

Goldblatt took the document and read it. “Says here you're licensed to cull one alligator.”

“Have it your way, sir. We will cull one alligator and leave the rest to feast at random.”

Goldblatt worked his lips. “All right. Cull any alligators you find. The board will support you.”

“Thank you.”

Gary, Werringo and Laverne got in the skiff, which had a wheelhouse jutting mid deck, and pushed off from the dock. The engine started with the push of a button and they churned across the lake toward the wooded shore.

“How'd you end up in this line of work?” Gary said.

“I grew up in the glades. We've been hunting gators all our lives. Seems there weren't so many when I was a kid. Now, you can't play eighteen holes without seeing them.”

Gary pointed toward the forest. “They're building a golf course somewhere over there. I could give a shit. Pisses me off that my HMO dues go to support golf. It ain't even a sport! I'd rather watch moss grow.”

“It's more exciting than bowling,” Laverne said.

“Well, bowling's a hell of a lot more fun than golfing.”

Werringo tapped a cigarette from a pack and lit up. “Is it against the rules to smoke out here?”

“Probably.”

“You turn on ESPN and there's six hours of poker. How is poker a sport?”

“Other night they had a bridge tournament. What's next? Checkers?”

A quarter mile from the dock Werringo steered toward the overgrown shore. “Is this a good place?”

“This is where it took Sid. It not only killed Sid, it killed our hopes and dreams. Now the show's up in the air.”

“There's a palmetto bug eating contest in Fahrenheit, if you need money.”

“No thanks. You got to draw the line somewhere. Ooh, lookie there.”

Two gray/green snouts protruded from the weeds, barely visible.

“Looks like we got our work cut out for us,” Werringo said.

Laverne popped the bucket and swung chum in an arc. Seconds later, the gators slipped into the lake. Werringo checked his SIG Sauer P220.

Gary held a pair of binocs from under the wheel. “What kinda ammo you using?”

“Forty-five. Gets the job done. We get 'em alongside the boat and I shoot 'em in the head point blank. Laverne, get the hook out.”

Laverne speared meat on the grappling hook, twirled it around her head and threw it twenty feet into the drink. Silence prevailed. Werringo crouched on one knee, resting the pistol on the gunwale. Laverne tossed chum. Gary hunkered in the bow, Fonebone ready. His YouTube subscribers would go crazy.

A small, furry animal surfaced and gulped a gobbet. Gary trained his Fonebone like Lucian Ballard.

“That there's a nutria,” Gary said. “Them's good eating.”

The nutria swam toward shore. As it crawled from the water, a coyote sprang from the weeds and seized it in its jaws. The nutria squealed.

“Ho shit!” Gary said, zooming in. “That's the first coyote I seen in a coon's age!”

As the coyote bent over its breakfast, an alligator shot torpedo-like from the drink and chomped down. As the alligator chewed, a hog the size of Baja exploded from the weeds, grabbed the gator, and walked away snorking, leaving a trail wide enough for a marching band.

“Whoah,” Gary said.

NINETEEN

KANG OF THE EVERGLADES

They had no time to ruminate on the meaning of this event, as Lavern's line suddenly went taut, jerking the boat to port.

“We got one!’ she crowed, grabbing the line with leather gloves. Gary figured she weighed two ten easy, but whatever was out there was big and strong. She leaned back, one foot against the gunwale, struggling with the heavy line.

“He's a big 'un!”

Laverne adjusted her grip and hauled on the line, hand over hand, until the gator broke surface, tail thrashing, splashing water into the boat. Werringo hunched over, two-handed grip tracking the saurian sub.

“Up periscope.”

Gary put on a pair of leather gloves. “You want some help there?”

He and Laverne worked the line like tug of war, bit by bit, inch by inch, snugging the gator against the side of the boat. Werringo poked the muzzle on the top of the gator's head and pulled the trigger, shot reverberating across the lake. Two herons and a wood stork took flight leaving long glassy ripples. Shrieking crows shot in the air from mangroves. The gator went slack. Gary and Werringo hauled it the boat where it thumped the deck, belly up, tail twitching.

“That's a twelve-footer,” Werringo said. “We're gonna butcher it when I get home. You want some gator meat?”

“Hell yeah,” Gary said. “You think this is it?”

They looked around the chum stained waters. Gary examined the shoreline with the binocs.

“I don't see any.”

“In my experience,” Werringo said, “lake this size you only get one or two. Gators are highly territorial. They'll eat each other if there's nothing else. Whaddaya think, Laverne?”

“Yeah, let's head for shore. That oughtta do it. But what the fuck was that thing that ate the other gator?”

“Feral hog,” Gary said. “The bane of my existence. I never seen one so big.”

Werringo took off his gloves and lit another cigarette, offering the pack around. Laverne and Gary each took one. Werringo lit them off a Bic. “That's Hogzilla.”

“Who's Hogzilla?” Gary said.

“That's what they call it. It was mostly rumors, some of us have known about Hogzilla for a while. Leaves a trail like a tunnel digger. Ate a child down near Naples a couple years ago.”

“Wait a minute. Fucker ate a kid in Naples? And now it's here in Turpentine? That's, like a hundred miles.”

“Yeah. They're not territorial. They go wherever. The legislature has a bill pending to create an annual feral hog kill. It's open season. Anyone can hunt 'em, with the land-owners' permission. You can hunt 'em in the Apalachicola Wildlife Management Area in Franklin, Leon, Liberty and Wakulla counties.”

“We practically lived off those things when I was growin' up,” Gary said. “I kilt my first hog when I was nine. I even wrote a song about it.” He cleared his throat. “Born in a trailer park in Turpentine,” he sang to the tune of Davey Crockett. “Home of the free and the home of the swine. Raised in the woods so I knew every pine. Kilt me a hog by the time I was nine. Gary...Gary Duba! Kang of the Everglades.”

Laverne pounded out a beat on the chum barrel. “Yeah, baby!”

“Off through the woods I'm a marchin' along...makin' up yarns and singin' a song, achin' for bacon and smokin' a bong...Gary, Gary Duba! Kang of the Everglades.”

“Did you film it?”

Gary tapped his pocket. “You bet. I'm putting it up soon's as we get back. Follow my YouTube channel. Gary Duba. Krystal's got one too. Steely Danielle.”

Laverne slumped on a camp chair against the stern, smoke streaming from her mouth. “Who's Steely Danielle?”

“My wife Krystal. She fights as Steely Danielle because she can't use the name Black Dildo.”

Laverne's face went wide. “YOUR WIFE IS THE BLACK DILDO?”

“Where you been hiding?”

“Oh, we love the Black Dildo! My little girl wants to be the Black Dildo when she grows up!”

“She's got a fight January Fourteenth at the Roxy. She's fighting Man Called Xue.”

“Oh! We'll go! The whole family will go!”

“Yeah, you know, I'm having a little house-warming party this weekend. Saturday at two o'clock to whenever. Why don't you guys both come on by? You can meet Krystal. Bring the kids. The pool should be full by then.”

Werringo throttled back as they approached the pier. “Great!”

“We'll be there!”

Laverne used the gaffing hook to snug the boat to the pier, got out, and tied it up. Werringo and Gary got out. Goldblatt came toward them from the patio. Werringo handed Laverne the keys.

“Go get the truck. I'll talk to the mayor.”

Goldblatt edged to the side of the pier to let Laverne pass. He stared down at the gator in the boat. “Well done.”

“Thanks.”

“What will you do with it?”

“We get to keep any gators we cull. We butcher 'em, either keep the meat or sell it to restaurants, and we sell the hides for boots, belts, and wallets. You ever eat gator?”

“No, but I see it on the menu.”

Gary nodded toward the clubhouse. “Up there?”

“That's right. We have a very creative chef. Honore duBlastio. He trained at the Escoffier, the Cajun Cordon Bleu.”

“What about nutria?” Gary said.

“I don't think so.”

“Well hell! I had no idea this place was so high tone. Me 'n Krystal will have to check it out.”

Werringo lit another cig. “You want the meat?”

“Let me ask Honore.”

“Ask him if he needs any ideas. I know a thousand recipes,” Gary said. “Gator jambalaya. Gator sausages. Gator etouffe. You can even make buffalo wings. I got some of 'em up on my YouTube channel. My iguana recipes are especially popular. You serve iguana?”

“No, but Honore says he will change up the menu quarterly, with seasonal specialties. You only found the one gator?”

“Well there were two, actually, but Hogzilla took care of the other one.”

Goldblatt arched his eyebrows. “Hogzilla?”

“Yessir!” Gary crowed. “I reckon it's the biggest feral hog in the whole damn state. Maybe in the country!”

“Is it a threat to humans?”

“It ate a child in Naples,” Werringo said.

Gary pulled out his Fonebone. “Wait a minute.” He turned the Fonebone toward Goldblatt. “Here ya go.”

Gary played her his video. The nutria. The coyote. The gator. Hogzilla.

From across the lake, behind the woods, where the new houses were going up, came the sound of snorts, screams, snapping timber and shattering glass.

TWENTY

SOUND ADVICE

Gary posted his video Wednesday night. By Thursday morning, it had been viewed seven million times. KUBA Miami sent a crew to interview him standing in front of Hogzilla's handiwork. The five million-dollar property looked like the aftermath of an earthquake, completely shredded. His interviewer, a curvaceous Cuban emigre named Saucalita, wore a maroon dress that hugged her body like Bill Clinton. They stood across the street from the wreckage, which had been cordoned off with yellow tape and declared a disaster area.

Saucalita faced the camera with a thousand-watt smile. “We're here in Turpentine where last night a monstrous feral hog tore apart a six thousand square foot house. Earlier that day, Gary Duba, who recently won the key to the City of Turpentine for apprehending notorious Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee, participated in the SNAP program, helping to kill an alligator that had been terrorizing the upscale Kensington Gardens community. Mister Duba shot the only known footage of this porcine monster.”

The camera pulled back to show Gary wearing torn baggies and a wife beater revealing his fully sleeved arms.

“Mister Duba, what did you think when you first saw the hog?”

“I thought holy shit, that's a big hog.”

Saucalita smiled brightly. His vulgarity would be bleeped out. “Mister Duba, you have extensive experience tracking and killing invasive species. Last year, you killed the state's biggest python.”

“I'm especially proud of that, Sauce. Orin Houtkooper has it mounted in his rec room.”

“What do you think it will take to stop Hogzilla?”

“Well I don't think it would take much. You scramble your attack choppers from Homestead, you zero in on that sucker and let loose with the M Sixty-one. That sumbitch spits out six thousand rounds a minute. But if you do that, you got nothing to eat. It'll chew that hog into suet. I think the wiser course would be for a hunter to kill it with a head shot and donate the food to the Nuns of Gavarone in West Palm Beach.”

“Are you willing to be that hunter?”

“You bet I am. In fact, we plan to put together a little production company to follow me around. I won't rest until I bag that porker. I been hunting feral hogs all my life. In fact, I wrote a song about it.”

“Born in a trailer park in Turpentine...Home of the free and the home of the swine. Raised in the woods so I knew every pine, kilt me a hog by the time I was nine. Gary...Gary Duba! Kang of the Everglades...”

Gary took to the air on his YouTube channel that evening with a somber sense of responsibility. He'd set up in his office, the camera taking in his NASCAR models, Florida Gators paraphernalia, a signed photograph of Gary with Dolphins running back Roebuck Simms and a wrestling poster showing a masked Steely Danielle in a crouch in the ring.

“Good evening Mister and Missus Florida and all the pickups on Twenty-Seven! This is Gary Duba coming at you from the world-famous Gator Cave in sunny South Florida. Tonight, instead of recipe du jour, I want to talk to you about a very serious problem, one that's bound to get worse. I'm speaking, of course, of feral hogs.”

“I've been fighting feral hogs all my life and they don't scare me. In fact, I wrote a song about it.

Born in a trailer park in Turpentine. Home of the free and the home of the swine. Raised in the woods so I knew every pine. Kilt me a hog by the time I was nine. Gary...Gary Duba! Kang of the Everglades...”

“Roger in Opalocka has a question. Roger, you're on the Gary Duba Show.”

“Yeah, thanks for taking my call, Gary. People talk a lot about the gators and the pythons and the hogs. But nobody's talkin' about rhesus monkeys. These rhesus monkeys have been on the loose since Hurricane Andrew wiped out the Miami Zoo. Now they're all over the state. They're mean, they carry the herpes virus. We need a war on rhesus monkeys.”

“Well, Roger, I ain't never encountered a rhesus monkey. Just about every other critter including your monitor lizard, but no rhesus. And I ain't in no hurry to fix that. Long as the monkeys stay in the jungle and don't bother me, we'll get along fine.”

“Your casual attitude toward invasive species is one reason Florida's in the state it's in...”

“Thank you, Roger from Opalocka. This here's Sandy from Arcadia.”

“Thank you for taking my call, Gary. I heard you talking about the feral hogs and the rhesus monkeys, but I think we're missing the big picture here. There's a far greater danger facing Floridians than either of those animals, and it's the takeover of our state government by alien invaders. These invaders look almost human.”

“Do they favor one particular party, Sandy?”

“Most of them are Democrats but there are a few Republicans.”

“How do you know this?”

“When you watch them on old cathode-ray television, it strips their masks and reveals their true, hideous selves. That's why Big Tech keeps upgrading delivery systems.”

“Are you telling me Big Tech is part of the alien invasion?”

“DUH!”

“Thank you, Sandy. Here's Greer Spandex-Ballou from Gainesville. What's up, Greer?”

“It's Professor Spandex-Ballou. I am a tenured professor of institutional power analysis at Riguberto Inuit State College. I've been listening to you spew nonsense for several days now. UFO conspiracies. Rhesus monkeys. But somehow, you never touch on the real issues that face all Floridians.”

“What would those be, Professor?”

“The systemic oppression put in place by the white power structure.”

“Please explain.”

“The move from a structuralist account in which capital is understood to structure social relations in relatively homologous ways to a view of hegemony in which power relations are subject to repetition, convergence, and rearticulation brings the question of temporality into the thinking of structure, and marks a shift from a form of Althusserian theory that takes structural tonalities as theoretical objects to one in which the insights into the contingent possibility of structure inaugurate a renewed conception of hegemony as bound up with the contingent sites and strategies of the rearticulation of power.”

“Thank you, Professor Spandex-Ballou. Here's Ken Zohan from Coopersmith. What's up, Ken?”

“Brother, my offer still stands. I would like to sit with you and discuss your mission. I believe we can help.”

“Who's we, Ken?”

“The Church of Necroeconomics. First, I must state my unequivocal admiration for your many accomplishments, particularly your apprehension of Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. Second, the state's largest python, no mean feat. But when I hear your voice, I hear a questing loneliness, a longing for spirituality and order than can only be filled by the Church of Necroeconomics. Brother Gary, let's sit down together and have that talk.”

“I ain't got no money, none, regardless what you hear."

“We are not interested in your money, Brother Gary. We are interested in moral clarity. Once we speak, you'll understand what I mean. Please come see me. We're not very far.”

“I know you ain't, but I'm pretty much full for the rest of this week. How bout we touch bases next week?”

“Brother Gary, nothing would make me happier. In the meantime, I leave you with this thought. The pterodactyl is extinct, but its wings live on.”

TWENTY-ONE

SUPERFLY III

Delilah drove Krystal home Friday night in her Pontiac Aztek, back covered with stickers. My other vehicle is a broom. International Sisterhood of Wicca. Eat More Possum. Delilah brought a ham from the feral hog she'd butchered, a bag of porcinis, and a bag of smilax. She took over the island in the kitchen and marinated the smilax in olive oil, red peppers, and garlic.

Jen and Barb arrived early to help. Gary had clubbed five iguana to death that morning out by the pool and marinated the meat in French's Italian dressing. Jen was a vivacious blonde with a beach tan and a body to die for. Barb was a vivacious brunette with a beach tan and a body to die for. Jen had been dating a stock car driver, until he hit the wall at Talladega and was left in a vegetative state. Jen went to visit him in the hospital but spied his wife and did a U-ee. Barb was dating bouncer and aspiring rap artist Iggulden, who said he would meet her there with his beat box.

Floyd arrived on his Fat Boy with a redhead named Ginger, arms wrapped around his belly, a six pack of Jackalope bungeed to the luggage rack. Patrice arrived in a white Toyota Cube with a model named Roberto.

“Versace, you know,” he said when introduced, flashing perfect teeth.

Patrice brought a collection of jams and was in charge of the music.

“No fucking rap!” Gary warned him.

“I ain't gone play no country either, mon.”

“Chicks want to dance. Guys just want to get laid.”

“I dance, mon.”

“Yeah, well you're gay.”

Roberto vamped up wearing toreador pants, sockless oxblood loafers, and a silk shirt with a Vietnam helicopter theme, his jet-black hair shaved on the side, waved on top, radiating Creed Aventus.

Roberto placed his palms together and bowed to Gary.

“I am in awe of you.” He put his fingers to his lips and kissed the sky. “I had reservations at the Lizard Lounge for the day after you opened.”

“Well you're in luck, Roberto! I'm grilling up some iguana right now.”

Ginger joined Jen and Barb at the pool, plunking down in an Adirondack in the shade.

“Is this where they shot the alligator?”

Barb blew a smoke ring from her Marlboro. “Sure is. It was a regular shoot-out at the OK Corral. You shoulda seen those boys all standing around blasting away. It was the biggest circle jerk you can imagine.”

Patrice set up his sound system in the rec room and cued up SOS' "It's A Long Way To The Top". Krystal smacked her hands overhead like a flamenco dancer and twirled out onto the parquet floor.

The Bongo Boxes arrived with a case of champagne. Habib Rodriguez arrived with a statuesque brunette named Auburn, who looked like a Southern-fried Charlize Theron. Laverne arrived with a boy and a girl, LaRondius age seven, Malasia, age six.

“Habib!” Gary sang. “Can I sue Rustix for breach of contract?”

“I haven't really gone over those documents yet. Let's get together next week. Tonight's just for fun. This is Auburn.”

Gary took her hand. “Hello, Auburn.”

Auburn had a firm grip. “It's an honor. You are the most famous man in Florida.”

Gary colored. “I hope to hell not! What about Roebuck Simms or Bob Ross?”

“But they didn't capture Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee!”

“Yeah, I been meaning to ask, exactly what stars is this guy supposed to have worked on?”

“Sean Sheen, Paulina Perestroika, and Mickey Rourke, for starters.”

“Don't know 'em.”

Auburn looked slit-eyed before concluding he wasn't kidding. In fact, Gary was incapable of artifice. He was what he was.

“Hey,” Habib said, “I got a housewarming gift for you in the car. Help me bring it in.”

They went out front to where Habib's Cadillac SUV was parked on the circle. He unlatched the rear gate revealing a six-foot plaster Big Boy. “This is one of the last Big Boy's available. It comes with a certificate of authenticity. Belonged to the last Big Boy in Florida, which was down in Liberty City, but hadda close on account they were selling cocaine through the drive-up window.”

“Clients of yours?”

“Yeah. They didn't have any money, so I took this Big Boy.”

“No need to haul it in the house. We'll put her right there.” Gary pointed to the spot previously occupied by Yosemite Sam.

People kept pulling up. People Gary didn't know. Two members of the Insane Assholes MC. A mime in a Smart Car. Two giddy drag queens.

Out back, Roberto was serving up iguana shish kebab with grilled pineapple and mushrooms. Krystal had set up a buffet outside laden with salad and fruit. Hearts of palm. Mangoes. Floyd stood at the portable bar mixing margaritas and reupping the tequila. By seven, the whole house blazed like some post-modernist cake and pulsed with disco. By eight, everyone had finished eating and was getting started on the blow, save the Bongo Boxes who sat knee to knee in the living room, admiring Gary's art. No one noticed as they slipped out, just as Iggulden arrived. Iggulden vogued into the room like a Robert Crumb drawing, all limbs and angles. His dance routine with Jacksonesque stop/starts drew all eyes.

He and Barb disappeared into one of the downstairs bedroom suites for a half hour and emerged sniffing. Iggulden vogued into the rec room, clearing a space through force of personality to ABC's "Many Happy Returns". Iggulden vogued up to Patrice.

“I just adore that song! Do you have any Mika?”

Patrice looked down his nose. “No mon. I got no Mika.”

“Well listen. As many of you know, I'm a professional singer and entertainer...” he raised his voice, “and with your kind permission, I'd like to perform for you my latest song!” He pulled a thumb drive from his leather pants. “I brought my mix, if you don't mind.”

He extended the unit to Patrice who regarded it in silence for long seconds before taking it, as one might pick up a soiled tampon. He inserted the thumb drive in his laptop which was connected to a three-foot Fisher Loudbox Mini. The room filled with a stuttering mechanical thump overlaid with a sick descending minor synth line like the soundtrack to Superfly III.

Iggulden went horizontal as he rapped, thighs parallel to the ground, backwards black cap, mini mic descending.

“I been to Argentina to drink the aqua fina. I been to Borneo, to satisfy my horneo. I even been to Dallas. They said there was a palace. But all I found was a shack, Jack, and I ain't never goin' back.”

Barb whooped and started clapping, so Jen and Krystal started clapping, then Shirley started clapping and then some of the guys while a storm gathered on Patrice's face. Only Gary noticed. Patrice was too polite to force his rap on a captive audience but Iggulden was opening the envelope. Patrice shot Gary a look. Gary worked his way around the edge while Iggulden went down in complete splits and jumped back up like James Brown.

Gary cupped his hands and aimed up at the seven-foot Patrice.

“You wanna rap?”

“If dis song ever end.”

A string of firecrackers exploded by the pool.

“I been to Brussels with my Jack Russels, saw the Queen and caught the hustles. You want wax fat, you must have muscles. Return I to America and everyone is scarica, in a state hysteria, snorting up wisteria. They say the more the merria.”

Patrice rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling.

Finally, the song ended. Everyone applauded and did more blow while Patrice returned Iggulden's hard drive, looked around hands on hips imperiously and clapped his hands. Everyone looked.

“Thank you Iggulden. Dat was most edifying. I also pursue a career in entertainment, and now, in honor of my dear friend Gary's proverbial return to the proverbial estate, I would like to sing a little song I call 'Drunk Octopus Wants to Fight.”

Krystal grabbed Gary's arm. “Do you hear sirens?”

“What sirens?”

Loud pounding on the front door.

“Who dare loom above? Him anger fit you like a glove. You strive and strive while they go live, all it take is one small shove.”

TWENTY-TWO

DANCE, TALLYWHACKER, DANCE!

Gary woke to the sound of a vacuum cleaner snorking up things that clicked. He opened one eye. He was in the rec room, lying on a red plaid sofa treated with Scotch guard. It filled his nostrils. Krystal worked the vacuum back and forth over the hardwood floor, sucking up crumbs, glass shards, buttons, and roaches.

Gary sat up, head pulsing like a quasar. He put his hands to his ears. Krystal shut the vacuum off.

“Didn't you see me sleeping?” he demanded.

“It's eleven o'clock.”

“What happened?”

“The neighbors complained about the noise. The sheriff let us off with a warning. Guests fled like palmetto bugs fleeing a bug bomb. I have one more day before I return to Delilah's. We're invited to the opening of Glory of Glass tonight at the Voinovitch Gallery.”

“Huh?”

“The Bongo Boxes left us an invite. It's a black-tie affair. Orin Houtkooper will be there.”

“Is he showing my snake?”

“No. Here's the invite.”

She handed Gary a glossy pamphlet which he took into the bathroom and examined on the throne. Color pictures of loopy glass structures that could be the internal organs of an alien race or some deep-sea critters, smooth and organic in riotous colors mounted on columns or hanging from the ceiling.

Gary showered, put on fresh cut-offs, a Lynyrd Skynyrd Tee-shirt and sandals, went downstairs and nuked himself a Jimmy Dean breakfast pocket. Krystal was in a cleaning frenzy, wearing cut-offs and a man's plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, wiping down windows. The kitchen smelled of Windex.

Gary sat in the breakfast nook with his Fonebone and his hot pocket. “What's Boris got to do with it?”

“It's a double opening,” Krystal called from the other room. “They also have an exhibit on modern robotics. Houtkooper's the sponsor.”

“Groovy, baby! Are they serving liquor?”

“Probably. Tickets cost two hundred and fifty dollars a couple. We're guests of the Bongo Boxes.”

“Do I got to wear a tux?”

“I guess it means you just have to wear a black tie. Do you have a black tie?”

“I got that bolo tie with an onyx stone.”

“You have to wear long pants.”

“I'll live stream it.”

Gary called Major Sutton and asked him if he'd produce the Rustix show.

“I can't believe Sid's gone,” Major said. “He was like a brother to me.”

“Well I need a producer, or Rustix is gonna shit can my ass.”

“Gary, how many YouTube followers do you have?”

“Three mil.”

“My advice is to forget Rustix and just put the show on yourself on YouTube. Your ratings will jump, and you'll get more advertisers. Maybe Netflix will pick you up.”

“Anything is possible.”

They vowed to get together soon.

The Voinovitch Gallery was at 591 NW 27th St, Miami, a gentrified warehouse district, home to internet cafes and art galleries. Gary and Krystal left the truck in a parking garage and walked two blocks to the avant-garde glass structure that looked like the bastard child of Mies Van Der Rohe and Ed Bauhaus, with sloping glass walls and a two story escalator that shuttled people like blood cells from floor to floor. A couple news vans double parked out front.

Krystal took Gary's arm. “Swank!”

Gary wore clean blue jeans, snakeskin boots, a John Deere belt buckle the size of Kansas, a Buzzcocks Tee-shirt and an ecru cotton sport jacket Krystal found at Ross. The onyx bolo dangled from his neck. Krystal wore creased black slacks, a pouffy black shirt with high collar, black cat’s eye sunglasses, and a black cap with a shiny five inch bill. Several photographers snapped their picture. Gary handed the invite to young man with quarter-sized ear inserts.

“Go straight ahead,” the kid said. “Follow the music.”

Gary and Krystal joined other swells strolling the marble floor toward a large gallery that opened on the street, filled with dazzling glass sculptures rising from the floor, hanging from the ceiling. It looked like a Steve Ditko universe. A cellist and violinist dressed in black tux and dress sawed away in one corner. A liveried bartender handed out drinks from a gleaming chrome bar while lissome young women cruised the floor bearing canapes. Two dozen people walked among the gleaming alien organs oohing and ahhing.

“I see this as a metaphor for man's struggle with a cruel and indifferent universe,” said a man in a tweed jacket with leather elbows.

His wife wore a mink stole. “Why is it always man's struggle?”

On to the next couple, two smartly dressed academics, he in black and white, she in faux zebra skin shift. “This piece speaks so keenly to me. It represents the epistemological tension between the hierarchical demands of the narrative and the postmodern neoligm of the underclass as viewed through the philosophical lens of the quadratic movement.”

A man with sponge-like yellow hair, wearing a faux leopard skin jacket, went to one knee to photograph a police spike strip. Gary snagged a shot of tequila, a beer chaser, and a tonic water for Krystal.

“This here looks like a banana slug.”

Krystal examined the plaque. “Galileo's Giraffe,” she read. “Eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“This here looks like a spleen or a gall bladder.”

“Agamemnon's Apple. One million two.”

They moved on to a light bulb taped to a cedar slab.

“Velocity of Luminosity,” Krystal read. “Seven hundred thousand dollars.”

“There you are!” Boris Bongo Box sang out.

Bongo Box wore a black tux. He looked like an Academy Award presenter. “Hey, you guys, come across the hall to the Robotix exhibit. Houtkooper's asking about you.”

“Is the food any better?”

Boris laughed. “We have bacon-wrapped scallops.”

They exited the loud and busy Glory of Glass hall, crossed the airy foyer, and entered the Houtkooper Gallery, made possible by a grant from Orin and Selby Houtkooper. It was like passing from day into night. The Robotix exhibit was shrouded in black velvet with spotlights. Robot mosquitoes buzzed around the room making an annoying high-pitched sound. One lit on Gary's neck and he smacked it.

“Ow!” he declared, staring at his bloody hand. The mosquito lay on the floor, twitching. A man with white hair combed straight down over his face rushed up.

“Sir, that is a very expensive piece. You break it, you bought it. That's going to cost you twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“What the fuck! You invite us to a party, hassle us with flying mosquitoes, and when we strike back, you stick me with the bill? Fuck you!”

A man wearing blue jeans, a belt-buckle the size of Kansas, tux jacket and a ten gallon hat came their way. “That's all right, Alvin. I'll take care of it.”

“Of course, Mister Houtkooper.”

A thin, high-cheeked Eurasian woman in green and gold kimono hung on Houtkooper's arm.

“How are you, Gary? And this must be the beautiful and talented Krystal. This is Selby.”

“Charmed,” Selby said, staring off into space.

Gary and Houtkooper shook hands enthusiastically. “Boy howdy, Orin. Didn't think I'd see you again.”

“I'm not surprised. I've been following your exploits. I even watch your show!”

Boris came over holding champagne. “Hey, come on over here. You're missing the best part.”

They followed Boris behind an installation that looked like an alien photo booth to where Tallywhacker stood gleaming in the light of several discreet spots, above and below. The steely blue robot looked like something that laid railroad tracks or cut and trimmed timber.

Krystal read the plaque. “Tallywhacker is an intelligent artificial bison that can obey up to twenty-five commands.”

Boris and Houtkooper talked string theory, waving their champagne glasses.

Gary switched on Tallywhacker. Green lights gleamed. Clicking and hissing, Tallywhacker shifted.

“Dance, Tallywhacker!” Gary said. “Dance!”

TWENTY-THREE

AN HONEST MISTAKE

Tallywhacker dipped its horns. Its tail twitched. It pawed the hardwood floor leaving deep grooves. The party was in high swing, Jon Batiste and Stay Human swingin' through speakers. Dueling aesthetics. Not even Boris, talking intensely to Houtkooper, noticed until Tallywhacker emitted an ear-splitting shriek from its hindquarters and bolted for the lobby, leaving behind a trail of destruction comparable to Sherman's March to the Sea. It was blind luck no one stood directly between Tallywhacker and the glass wall, covered with black velvet that divided the gallery from the lobby. Tallywhacker had a three-foot horn span.

Splack. It turned the wall into a fountain of glass shrapnel, splanging off the opposite wall. Tallywhacker blasted "Staying Alive" as it danced like an offshore oil platform, metal limbs bending, metal hooves clattering. It did the hoochie koochie. It did the moto-flow and the Watusi. It popped and locked. Women screamed. Men fainted. It shook its head, sending the black velvet curtain flying like a giant bat.

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!” Boris shouted. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

People rushed the door, skidding and slipping on glass gravel, leaving streaks of blood.

Tallywhacker raised its head and looked around. It lowered its head, pawed the ground, and launched itself through another glass wall into the Glory of Glass.

Gary, whose first impulse was to head for the exits, grabbed Boris by his tux lapels.

“HOW DO YOU SHUT IT OFF?”

“FLIP THE SWITCH!”

Gary gave Boris the thumbs up and sprinted after the robot bull. It was possible that with internet access, Tallywhacker had availed himself of a first-rate education and was now an artificial intelligence. Gary grabbed Orin Houtkooper's ten gallon hat on the gallop and followed Tallywhacker through the shattered wall where the great beast pirouetted, curtsied, and Texas-two stepped through sleek alien bladders, deep sea slugs, gleaming cephalopods, roses and cacti, a constant mist of glass in the air, people rubbing their eyes and coughing. Gary donned amber aviator shades and jammed the hat low on his forehead, juking through the rubble. Within minutes, the gallery was deserted save for Gary and Tallywhacker.

THRUNCH! Tallywhacker took out "The Owl of Minerva", two point five mil.

THWACKO! Tallywhacker took out "Namaste/No mas", a life sized Leonardo from Teen Age Mutant Ninja Turtles. A bargain at one point five mil.

AYE CARAMBA! Tallywhacker eviscerated "The Great Stinkhorn" destroying its enzymatic odor generators, nine hundred thou.

KAWANGO! There went "Euripides, You Menda Dese", a giant glass suit, two point four mil.

The great beast moved too fast for Gary. Grabbing hold could result in serious injury or death. He wished he had gloves. Tallywhacker paused before "Mourning Becomes Brunhilde", a free form glop of glass that may or may not have had Wiccan influences, and Gary made his move, leaping on the titanium buffalo's back from behind, cutting his hand on a flange. The blood seeped into the beast. Before Gary could flip the switch, Tallywhacker spun, tossing Gary into the chrome bar.

Gary grabbed a mink stole off the bar and stood legs wide, holding the stole to his right in a two-handed grip.

“HA! TORO!”

Tallywhacker turned to face him. Gary shook the stole.

“DO IT DO IT PRUETT!”

Tallywhacker grooved the floor and charged. Gary barely veered in time, spinning on the ball of his foot and leading Tallywhacker in a tight circle. Gary stayed behind Tallywhacker's shoulder safe from the horns, as long as he kept dancing.

“Get out of there!” Houtkooper yelled.

“The police are coming!”

Gary heard sirens. “SWEET HOME ALABAMA!” he shouted.

“Well I heard Mister Young sing about her,” Tallywhacker blasted from its ass. “Well I heard old Neil put her down! Well, I hope Neil Young will remember. A southern man don't need him around anyhow.”

“Play a waltz!” a woman called from the gallery.

Strauss' "Zeitgeister", issued from Tallywhacker's hind end, which housed the speakers.

Gary took another flying leap, landing painfully on Tallywhacker's central architecture, steel digging into his bony ass. Tallywhacker bucked like a bronc, sending Gary ass over teakettle into a nine foot glass waterfall that looked alive due to clever lighting. Gary hit the frozen flow and slid to the glass pool. Tallywhacker turned toward him, pawing. Gary had just enough time to roll to the side before Tallywhacker struck the waterfall dead center. Four million bucks exploded in glass shards and dust.

Gary was covered in glass dust and was bleeding from his hands and face. The sunglasses protected his eyes. He crawled toward a fire extinguisher in a metal cabinet halfway up the wall. Twenty feet away, Krystal wrestled with her Fonebone.

Like some nightmare from a Tom Cruise movie, Tallywhacker rocked back on its hind legs and raised its immense body upright. It filled the air with shrieking feedback that plunged into an intolerable bass like something the Cubans beamed at foreign embassies, then stabilized into an electronic voice, like Hal in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

“Greetings, Earthlings. While we of the planet Xanvozech admire your technological achievements, we must warn you. Should you continue to broadcast The Curse of Oak Island into the ionosphere, we will have no alternative but to destroy your planet.”

The lobby filled with stomping feet, firefighters dragging an anaconda hose.

“Get down!” one shouted.

“Get out of the way!” yelled another. And there was Krystal, moving among them like a war correspondent filming everything on her Fonebone.

“Huh?” Gary said.

The fire hose stiffened, sputtered, and spat forth a liquid force field that exploded off Tallywhacker's steel body in brilliant rainbows. Tallywhacker did a few Gene Kelly steps from Singin' In the Rain, clicked, and froze.

The gallery looked like Dresden, or Mexico City after the earthquake. Shattered glass was everywhere except the center, where the hose had hit the floor. The gallery director was in a state of shock. Krystal skidded across the floor, grabbed Gary, and pulled him toward the lobby.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm bleeding a little. That's about it.”

“Thank God!”

Boris and Houtkooper came over.

“What did you do to it?” Boris demanded.

“All I did was turn it on. I thought you wanted it on.”

“I did not want it on.”

“I get that now.”

“WHY?”

“It was an honest mistake.”

Krystal put her arm through his. “Come on, honey. Let's go home. You got glass in your hair.”

TWENTY-FOUR

THE GAUNTLET IS THROWN

The Church of Necroeconomics occupied a full city block in Coopersmith. Designed in the belle arts style, it exuded wealth with fortress like towers at every corner. At night it was lit like a gigantic wedding cake. During the day, it dwarfed every other structure in Coopersmith. Gary parked on the street and walked a block to the massive building, which reminded Gary of a science fiction movie. He went up the steps and entered the lobby, where a bright-eyed blonde woman in her twenties sat behind a cedar desk, wearing a navy blue button up dress with collar, the name Mandy emblazoned in gold on her left breast.

“Good morning!" she sang. "Are you the famous Mister Duba?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, excellent! Earl will be here to take you up to see Mister Zohan.”

Earl cruised through sliding glass doors, wearing a grin that gleamed for miles.

“Mister Duba! So good to see you again!”

“How the hell are ya, Earl? Say, we didn't mean to cause any trouble. That iguana was supposed to feed the poor. I ain't lying. I had an iguana restaurant.”

“No problem, Mister Duba. No problem! The director is eager to meet you. Come with me.”

Earl led Gary up one flight of Vermont marble stairs to an expansive mezzanine with a bank of cylindrical blue elevators at one end. Earl gestured for Gary to enter. Once in, he used a key card to put the car in motion, up, up through a transparent glass tube, the whole of Coopersmith spread before them, a lush salad filled with croutons. The elevator stopped at the top and they stepped out into an enormous space, the entire floor a single room, onto a burgundy carpet looking down a boulevard of gold and leather furniture to a desk formed from a single redwood slab. A diminutive figure stood, beaming, and swooped out from behind it, wearing a pale gray silk suit, white shirt, and red silk tie.

Earl vamoosed.

Ken Zohan looked like a Boy Scout troop leader, or an accountant, transparent hair in a comb over, perfect choppers. He stuck one hand in front like a plow.

He took both Gary's hands in his and pumped. “Gary Duba. Finally. I have been meaning to reach out to you for some time.”

“You ain't pissed about the iguana?”

“Not at all. Not at all. As it turns out, we were able to use them in our pet food factory, Ze Barquery.”

“We really wanted to give them iguana to some hungry people, but it just didn't work out. I don't know when I'll ever have that much again.”

“Where is the glamorous Krystal?”

“She's training. She's got a fight in five weeks.”

“That's right! That's right! A Thing Called Xue.”

Zohan steered Gary to a cluster of Danish furniture around an amoeba-shaped table bearing soft drinks, a bowl of nuts and a bowl of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Floor to ceiling windows looked out on downtown Coopersmith. White Doric columns held sculptures. A bronze Remington buckaroo. A Joe Comstock Hulk. Curvy modern things. You could store a yacht in there.

“Wow,” Gary said. “This place sure is clean.”

Zohan smiled. “I refuse to live in fear. I fear to live in refuse.”

A young man wearing the de rigueur blue blazer pushed a chrome cart toward them. He stopped at the table and set out trays of pastries, an Eero Saarinen coffee pot, and hearty mugs emblazoned with the Necroeconomic logo, an upside-down pig beneath a flying saucer. The man poured coffee and left.

“May I call you Gary?”

“Sure.”

“Do you know why I asked you to come?”

“You're pissed about the iguana.”

Zohan waved it away, chuckling. “The Church of Necroeconomics is all about recognizing excellence. Only a handful of our followers ever reach viscosity. Most reach Sethalogyn and stay there, not that there's anything to be ashamed of. The vast majority of humanity will never even reach the Thoracic level. Looking at you, I see prime viscosity material. It bursts from your pores.”

Gary sniffed his pits.

“It radiates from your eyes. I can see it even with the worst connections.”

“Yeah, well just so's you know, I ain't religious. I'm not irreligious, but I ain't a church goer.”

“I understand. I would like to ask a favor. I would like you to address our Sunday congregation.”

“On what?”

“On your life experience! What it has taught you! Most men dream of doing only half of what you've accomplished. Florida's biggest snake! Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee!”

“Well I got stories, that's fer sure. Now I got a question for you.”

Zohan sat back, palms out. “Anything.”

“Every time we talk, you end it with some kind of riddle. Is that, like, some kind of prayer?”

“Ah. You have noticed the spiritual element. Although Necroeconomics is based on science, at heart, we are a spiritual community on a never-ending quest for harmony. Harmony with the planets. Harmony with ourselves. We have much in common with Buddhism, but we also borrow heavily from the Gospel of Christ. Our supreme deity is Science. Only through the rigorous, never-ending objective observation of the real world will we ever come to know ourselves. Those riddles, as you call them, are word clusters designed to provoke thought and reflection, a blank slate on which you write your future. You're free to roam your domicile, you're free to chrome your bone awhile.”

“I don't swing that way.”

Zohan's laughter sounded like static electricity. “That's funny! No, there are no salacious undertones. The Necromonicon describes the human soul as a bone that requires continuous polish.”

“Why is the soul a bone? Don't we already got bones?”

“Yes, but the human body can be viewed through many prisms. We call it the soul bone. Of course, we don't encourage anyone to actually chrome any part of their body. It's just a word cluster designed to provoke thought and reflection, a blank slate on which you write your future.”

“I feel we're going in circles.”

“All right. Let's get down to business. There are certain meats we forbid. We don't eat lizard.”

Gary pointed with a finger. “Wait a minute. Don't tell me you guys are Mooslims!”

Static electricity. “Not at all!”

“Man, now I feel like shit.”

“No need to apologize! You are exactly the type of person the church needs, and who needs the church.” He forked over a book in red leatherette with the title Necroeconomicon. “This is for you. Read it, brother Gary. Then call me. We can do great things together.”

TWENTY-FIVE

THE CHECK, MONSIEUR

Krystal barely had time to edit her video and add a soundtrack before she shipped out to Delilah's. “Welcome to the Jungle.” “ Thunderstruck”, from AC/DC's No Bull. Krystal posted the video long after Gary zonked out. She was outta there at oh seven hundred and never told him what she'd done. Jen drove her to the swamp in her brother's Toyota Landcruiser blasting Guns N’ Roses and AC/DC through the sound system.

Gary woke to two hundred and twelve texts. Late Night with Cotter Blasingame. Showbiz Tomorrow. Scientific World Citizen. Wired. Everybody wanted a piece of the human lightning rod. Bob Fahey called.

“Gary! Saw your fight with the robot bull! We're back in business, baby! Call me. I want to tell you all about your new producer. Nothing much happens over the holidays, so we'll talk in January.”

“Who is it?”

“Major Sutton, an old friend of yours.”

Gary felt bad about Boris' bull. He walked over to the Bongo Boxes. Boris stood on a footstool in the garage shining a light on Tallywhacker's gleaming guts: servo motors, circuits, and solenoids.

“Boris, I can't tell ya how sorry I am about what happened last night. I never figured it would go berserk like that. I figured you wanted to show people what it could do.”

“Don't worry about it,” Boris said cheerfully. “Houtkooper wants to buy it.”

“What's he going to do with it?”

“Put it on display.”

“You're shittin' me.”

“He's got a contract with Disney. Robot Zoo. Billy Eilish is doing the music.”

“Who?”

“You have a lawyer?”

“Sure do. Why?”

“The damage came to eighteen million dollars and the insurance companies want to hold us responsible.”

“I ain't got eighteen million dollars. Shit! I already owe more than I got. What about you? You built the damn thing.”

“I just hired Harold Pumice. Hey, I just want to give you a head's up. Goldblatt and his friends aren't thrilled with your new lawn ornament.”

“What lawn ornament?”

“Big Boy.”

“That ain't no lawn ornament! It's sitting on the rim of my fountain! How is it a lawn ornament?”

“I'm just giving you a head's up. I'd hate to see a Ruby Ridge style standoff.”

“HAH! I'm the only one with guns!”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

“We should go shooting sometime. I got a gun for you.”

“That's very kind, Gary. I'll let you know.”

Gary went home and phoned Habib.

“Habib, they want to stick me with the tab for all that broken glass. All I did was flip a switch.”

“Yeah. Saw it on the morning news. Got any money?”

“Rustix gave us an advance but we spent it on food and shit.”

“All right. How would you feel about running a little errand for me?”

“You need some pics?”

“Yeah. Come by and we'll talk about it. What about tomorrow at eleven?”

“See you then.”

The Law Offices of Habib Rodriguez occupied the pillared centerpiece of a strip mall on Highway Twenty-Seven, sandwiched between All American Karate and Virgil’s liquors. Gary showed up the next day with two coffees from a drive-through Java Hut. The usual collection of sad sacks and hustlers crowded his reception room, decorated in thrift store modern. Everyone had the same idea. Fake a traffic accident, sit back, and wait for the money to roll in. Habib rigorously weeded out the fakers. Losers ended up on Judge Judy.

Brenda the receptionist greeted Gary with a dazzling smile. “Have a seat, Gary. He'll be out in a minute.”

A man with sunken eyes and prominent cheekbones wearing a cheap blue sport jacket, said “I been waitin' over an hour. How does this cocksucker get in before me?”

He looked familiar.

Gary sat down opposite. “Life ain't fair, pal.”

The man hunched forward scowling. “I know you. YOU'RE THE GUY WHO KILLED PLASTIC SURGEON TO THE STARS AND SERIAL KILLER DOCTOR VANDERLAY MUKERJEE! IT WAS MY DREAM TO GET HIS AUTOGRAPH! YOU MURDERED MY DREAMS!”

“Your dreams suck. You suck.”

The man opened a Spanish navaja with an ominous clicking sound.

Gary sprang to his feet and grabbed his cheap office chair. Holding his chair before him like a lion tamer, Gary kicked Serial Killer Man in the gut. SKM folded, shrimped, and puked.

“Eeeeeyewww,” said a black woman with a knit skullcap holding a miniature schnauzer on her lap. Brenda turned away, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Gross.”

Gary snagged SKM by the back of his blue sports jacket and dragged him to the front door.

Gary dumped him in front of All American Karate. Grunts, scrapes, and curses mutated through Habib's front door. Gary went inside. The whole room was brawling. Brenda stood in the corner phoning the police. It was all out iguana war. An old man swung his cane, children kicked each other's calves, and the black woman in the skullcap swung her schnauzer in a circle.

“AIN'T NONE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS GETTIN' IN AHEAD OF ME! I BEEN HERE SINCE THE DOORS OPENED!”

Habib emerged, towering over all, wearing a cowboy hat and sunglasses. He raised his arms.

“CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”

The room hushed.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Sorry about that, Habib,” Gary said. “I got into a fracas with a serial killer groupie and had to show him the door. That fucker's been doggin' my ass.”

“It wasn't Gary's fault,” Brenda said in a small voice. “That guy was very aggressive, and he reeked of Paco Raban.”

Habib turned toward her. “Tell me you didn't call the cops.”

“I stopped,” she squeaked. “I stopped when you came out.”

“Well come on back.”

The woman in the skullcap stood. “I was here first.”

“Do you have any money?”

“That's why I'm here! I was T-boned at an intersection! My car was totaled! And the insurance company refused to pay!”

“Did you have car insurance at the time?”

“The other guy's insurance!”

“Sit your ass down.”

Surprise, anger, and depression rippled across her face.

Gary followed Habib into his office and shut the door. Habib sat behind his glass-topped desk, rear window louvered to conceal a waste management company, one wall covered with photos. Habib with the governors. Habib with Richard Petty. Habib with Roebuck Simms.

“I watched the video,” Habib said. “Nice work!”

“It ain't like that at all, Habib. All I did was flip a switch.”

“And you said, 'Dance, Talleywhacker! Dance!'”

“Damn.”

“Ahuh.”

“Hey, who was that numbnutz I just threw out? He tried to gut me once before.”

“No shit.” Habib pressed his intercom. “Brenda, would you come in here, please?”

Brenda came in the door clutching a clipboard.

“Did you get a name for that nut with the knife?”

She ran her finger down the clipboard. “Gerald Zohan.”

TWENTY-SIX

CORRUPTION ON THE COURSE

Habib folded his hands on his desk, showing off his 1974 Miami Dolphins Superbowl ring, which he'd received in trade from Linebacker Zeke Souk, whom he'd represented in a hit and run case.

“I've examined the video. Were you an invited guest?”

Gary pulled out the invite and slapped it on the desk.

“Was there any kind of warning attached to the mechanical bull? Something that said, do not touch, do not flip switch, something like that?”

“Zip. Zero. Nada. What about my neighbor Boris? He built it and brought it! He should have known it was dangerous.”

“That's one way to go and could perhaps result in split liability for the both of you. The gallery has not yet sued, but you can bet they will, as will the building's owners. If it goes to jury, we can argue that no reasonable person would conclude you acted with malice. This falls under the shit happens defense. Now if you want me to stick with it, I have an assignment.”

“Shoot.”

“This is a favor for a friend who regularly golfs with State Supreme Court Justice Wither Weatherspoon. They golf at the Shangri-La Country Club for high stakes. My client owes Justice Weatherspoon two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My client contends that Justice Weatherspoon is cheating. I have arranged for you to caddy for my friend this Sunday at nine AM. I'm supplying you with the latest in micro drones. I need you to get me proof that Chief Justice Weatherspoon is cheating.”

“How do I do that? I ain't never played golf. I don't even watch it on television.”

Habib sighed. “Do you know anything about the game?”

“Buncha rich guys walking around a park swatting balls with clubs.”

“You have encapsulated the very essence of the game. There are all sorts of ways to cheat, but my client believes the judge goes into the rough, can't find his ball, and drops another.”

“Is that illegal?”

“It's a serious infraction. Hard to believe the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would take such risks for penny ante change.”

“Doesn't sound penny ante to me!”

“All you have to do is catch him at it and be willing to testify.”

“Whoa there, podnuh. I got my own show, capisce? I don't want to cheapen my brand.”

Habib waved his arms. “Never happen. I need you to catch him cheating. I'm supplying you with the latest micro-drone because photographic proof would be even better.” He reached in his drawer and pulled out a cloth disc the size of a dime. “See this? It's a micro transmitter. Put it on him anywhere. Slap him on the back. The drone will do the rest.”

“I ain't slapping no chief justice on the back.”

“You'll find a way. Put it in his hat. Just keep in mind. Every time he goes into the rough, he tells his caddy not to follow.”

“Who's your friend?”

“Tag Mooselung.”

Gary nodded along with his mouth open. “What's his racket?”

“Lawyer. He's also head of the state boxing commission.”

“What if they recognize me?”

Habib reached into a bottom drawer and handed Gary a dime store Joe Stalin mustache, shades, a Shangri-La ball cap, a fake driver's license in the name Greg Dobbs, and a small plastic case.

“Drone's in here. All you gotta do is switch it on and set it free.”

“You're shittin' me.”

“No one's going to recognize you. These guys don't watch television. They only read the Tallahassee Times and the Wall Street Journal. Stand up. I gotta show you a few things.”

They stood. Habib pulled a club from a golf case in the corner and addressed a plastic "hole" opposite. “The goal is to use the least amount of strokes possible to complete eighteen holes. Every hole has a par, or the maximum number of strokes necessary to complete the hole...”

Gary was a quick study. He'd always been athletic. He'd played fullback on his high school football team, The Pangolin, before being kicked out for smoking dope.

Habib handed Gary a stack of DVDs. The Greatest Game Ever Played. Bagger Vance. Happy Gilmore. Tin Cup. “Watch as many of these as you can. At least watch Greatest Game and Bagger Vance. What else you got to do?”

“Not much. I mostly watch Swamp People, and it's really beginning to tick me off. Every time one of those swamp dudes shoots a gator, they cut away, like it's too fucking delicate for their audience! Like people don't want to see the bullet smack the gator between the eyes! There's worse shit on CIS: Miami! I mean, you ever watch Vietnam on History? They got people exploding like pinatas! Then they got that show Wild Australia! They show fucking snakes swallowing whole goats, spiders the size of myna birds chowing down on lizards, and what the fuck is Swamp People doing on History in the first place? What kind of history is that? Every show, it's the same thing. Troy and Ronnie head up swamp to catch the biggest gator ever. Liz and Tyrel head down swamp to catch the biggest gator ever.”

“The only History show I watch is Vikings.”

“Fuck an A Bob. The greatest show since Miami Vice.”

“I agree with you that they should show the bullets striking the gators.”

“It's what people want to see.”

“How's Krystal?”

“Man, she's out there with the snakes and gators, training. You coming to the fight?”

“Who's she fighting?”

“A Man Called Xue.”

“I wouldn't miss it.”

“Listen. I gotta ask you something. You know the Church of Necroeconomics?”

“I had a client who sued them for kidnapping, forced labor, and sexual harassment.”

“Yeah, well, me and the boss are tight, ever since I dumped a load of iguanas on his doorstep. He wants me to join up.”

“Why would you?”

Gary put his hand to his head and moaned. “Beats the hell outta me. I told him I was about as religious as a fruit bat. Wants me to address his congregation.”

“About what?”

“How I caught the state's biggest snake.”

“Sounds tailor-made for you.”

“Yeah, well that guy who tried to gut me in the office when I came in? His name is Gerald Zohan. Is he Ken Zohan's brother?”

Habib rubbed his beard. “Hmmm. That would be interesting.” He pushed a button. “Brenda?”

Brenda entered. “Don't forget your four o'clock, Habib. Clovis Hench-Hyphen.”

“We're good. Brenda, that fellow Gary threw out. Did he say why he was here?”

“He wants to sue the Church of Necroeconomics. He claims his father Johan Zohan cut him out of the will and left everything to his brother.”

“Is he within the Statute of Limitations?”

“We didn't get that far, but he also claims the Church has been harassing him, spying on him, and following him. He went to the police, but they wouldn't listen.”

“That's good to know. Obviously, if Gary is my client, I can't represent Gerald Zohan. That would be a conflict of interest.”

“He's back.”

Gary picked up the number one wood. “Can I borrow this?”

Habib gestured over his shoulder. “Why don't you use the back door?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

RECIDIVISM

Dear Mr. Duba:

We have received several complaints from members of the KGHOA regarding your behavior. Cognizant as we are of your many accomplishments and celebrity status, we must nevertheless ask you to read the KGHOA handbook and abide by our rules. Rule B17 clearly states there will be no ostentatious or disruptive lawn displays. The council previously removed your initial lawn ornament depicting a backwoods type clutching an assault rifle. Several residents felt threatened by this display and it was subsequently removed. We also removed a flag which several residents deemed racist. KGHOA welcomes all races, creeds, and sexual orientations. Please review Rule C19.

Rule D23 requires residents to be considerate of their neighbors in regards to playing loud music. On Dec. 20, you held a party. Residents on the opposite side of Lake Kensington, one quarter mile away, complained about the noise. Not only was the music too loud, but they felt threatened by your choice of songs which was inappropriate to say the least. "A southern man don't need him around anyhow" is highly offensive to our community's spirit of inclusion.

You are now on probation. Any further infractions or abuses may result in fines and could ultimately lead to your expulsion.

Sincerely,

Marvin Goldblatt

President, Kensington Gardens Home Owners Association.

Gary crumpled the letter and threw it in the trash. Miserable sumbitches. There was nothing offensive about the stars and bars or Lynyrd Skynyrd. The former represented southern heritage and pride. The latter was among the greatest of all Southern rockers.

Gary was there first. He'd lived there when Kensington Gardens was Turpentine Acres and his was the only house. He'd be damned if he'd let a bunch of Prius-driving snobs run him off. He got in his truck, drove to the Turpentine Walmart, and bought two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of Christmas tree lights, an inflatable Santa with seven reindeer, and a life size hard foam Nativity scene lit from within.

He phoned Floyd from the road, weaving between possums. “Floyd! I need your ass to help me string Christmas tree lights! Bring a ladder! Bring that tree climbing shit!”

Floyd arrived at ten p.m. with an eight ball. He pulled out a bottle of Popov but Gary waved him off. “Let's not go crazy.”

Using the ladder to reach the roof, strings of lights coiled around his shoulder, Gary attached the tree climbing harness to the heavy chain and worked his way backward toward the ground stringing the lights through the massive links. It was midnight by the time they strung all the lights, but the boys were just getting started. Out came the electric inflator. Up went Santa in his sleigh, between the house suspenders, anchored with bungee cords. Fully inflated, Santa towered thirty feet above the ground, visible for miles in the glare of clamp-on spotlights. Gary ran the cables out a second story widow. Up went the reindeer, one by one.

On Dasher! Pole Dancer! On Vixen on blow! On Comet, on Cupid, on weasels and crow!

Rudolph assumed his rightful place at the front, red nose glowing from within.

By the time they planted the baby Jesus in his manger, rosy fingered dawn gleamed to the east. Satisfied with their labors, the boys swallowed several Valium and took to bed.

Gary woke to steady pounding and someone leaning on the doorbell which played the opening strains of "Dixie".

“Hold your fucking horses,” Gary croaked, pulling on his jeans and stumbling downstairs. A grim-faced Marvin Goldblatt stood on the stoop with two uniformed Groome Security men in tan uniforms and caps bearing the Groome logo, one holding a snarling German shepherd on a short leash, their company Tesla at the curb.

“What?”

“Did you read the letter we sent?” Goldblatt said.

“I read it. What is this? The fucking Soviet Union? Last I checked this was still the good ol' US of A, land of the free. I ain't bothering anyone.”

Goldblatt raised his arms encompassing the world. “You're bothering everyone! The bylaws expressly forbid ostentatious displays! All holiday decorations must be approved by the HOA. This garish spectacle violates not only the rules, but the very spirit of comity essential to any community. Mister Duba, we are not unaware of you accomplishments. And we have no desire to cause you unnecessary hardship. But this is your last chance. Please take down the displays. If you need assistance, these gentlemen have offered to help.”

Floyd came out wearing Deputy Dawg boxer shorts and a HONK IF YOU EAT ASS Tee-shirt, scratching his balls. “What's going on?”

“HOA says I gotta take down my Christmas lights or they're booting me!”

“Well fuck. It took us all night to put them up. Do I have time to take a shit?”

Shouts. Hysterical yelling. Rending wood, destruction on a massive scale across the lake and over the trees. Goldblatt sweating, Groome Security looking at each other. The one who looked like a linebacker took the two-way from his belt and thumbed it on.

“What's goin' on?”

“The hog!" a man wailed. "Holy shit! It's bigger than a goddamned house! It's coming this way!”

Incoherent shouts, white noise, end of feed. At some unspoken signal, the security guards bolted for their vehicle, leaving Goldblatt alone and suddenly unsure of himself.

“It's Hogzilla!” Gary said, dashing into the house. Floyd followed. They threw on pants and shoes, Gary grabbed his magnum, Floyd his Judge. They ran out the front door, piled in Gary's truck and barreled north to take the road clockwise around the lake, passing a bereft Goldblatt walking toward the clubhouse in his blue suit.

Gary had never been on the east side of the lake. Five splendid haciendas rose between twelve and two, the clubhouse being at twelve, perfect emerald lawns gleaming in the sun. The first splendid hacienda was a one-story stucco with red tile roof. The second was a two-story red brick colonial. The third was a see-through Bauhaus box with Swedish furniture. The fourth was a postmodern conglomerate of arced roofs and a domed tower that might have been an observatory. The fifth was a pile of rubble with dark skinned laborers frantically digging through the remains. The Groome Security vehicle sat across the road, doors open.

Across the street a broad furrow cut through the dense sub-tropical growth like a tunnel. Gary grabbed his magnum. Floyd grabbed his Judge.

“Let's get that sumbitch!” Gary yelled, rushing into the green.

TWENTY-EIGHT

NUMBNUTZ

Forty-five minutes later, clothes soaked with sweat, they crouched with their hands on their knees, panting. Their shoes and socks were soaked from stomping through puddles. Surrounded by green wall, they had no idea where they were.

“I hate to admit it, but the sumbitch outrun us. Face it, Floyd. If we want to run Hogzilla down, we're gonna have to do some serious roadwork.”

“What's that?”

“You know. Like in Rocky. We get out there and run a couple miles before breakfast.”

Floyd, who had a slight pear shape, straightened up. “Fuck that shit! We'll get ATVs! We can put one in your truck and tow the other one.”

“Don't know if that's practical. I got other stuff to do. I ain't some firefighter who can drop everything and go chasing off after hogs at the first sign of trouble.”

“I thought Hogzilla was number one on your hit parade.”

Gary scratched his armpits. “Well it would make a good show.”

“What about the show?”

“It's back on. Major Sutton's the show runner. I'm supposed to talk to Rustix later today.” Gary looked around. “Where the fuck are we?”

“No prob. We can just follow the tunnel back to the lake.”

They looked around. No trace of the tunnel remained. They had outrun the tunnel, following game trails and the path of least resistance. Gary pulled out his Fonebone.

“Lemme see if I can get a signal.”

No signal.

“Awright. We're gonna have to bushwhack our way out of here. Lemme just get a bead on the sun.”

He looked up. A pale layer of clouds had drifted in from the west and the sun was not visible.

Floyd reached into his camo trousers and scratched his balls. “I hear that moss grows on the north side of oak trees, so if we can find an oak tree, we should be able to figure it out.”

Gary did a three sixty. They were in a swampy area overgrown with swamp cypress, pond cypress, black cypress, cladium, and mangrove. Birds chirped, trilled, and hooted.

“Keep an eye out for snakes.”

Floyd looked down. His heavy work boots were an inch deep in water. “Yeah, and gators.”

“Well fuck.”

From far off came the indistinct hoot of a vehicle. The boys whipped around like prairie dogs.

“Where'd it come from?”

Floyd pointed. “Over there, I think.”

They plowed a straight line through puddles and pools, stepping on fallen trees and the occasional hummock. It was one-thirty and a breeze sprang up bringing welcome relief and the smell of the swamp. Moist. Fecund. Rotting. They paused atop their hummock but there was no clear view in any direction.

Gary checked his phone again. “Well I don't know where we're at, but if we keep heading in one direction, we should get out of this sooner or later.”

“How you figure? Kensington Gardens was on the edge of a swamp. That's all reclaimed land. Oh yeah! Some millionaire tried to build out there in the seventies and dredged up all that land. Now we're fucked.”

“Relax! We're smart guys. We should be able to figure this out.”

Floyd urinated on a lily.

Gary turned his eyes to the sky. “Burt, if you're watching, and I know you are, send us a sign!”

“Who you talkin' to? Burt Reynolds?”

“That's right.”

“Well shit. Why not pray to Mickey Mouse? He's been around a lot longer.”

The wind shifted, the leaves rustled. A pink flash appeared between two clumps of grass and with a great thrashing of wings, a flamingo rose, fighting its way through branch and frond, and burst free above the tree-line.

Gary pointed. “After the bird!’

He thrashed through the swamp with Floyd right behind. They bee lined. The flamingo appeared in spots and patches through the overhead canopy. They entered a broad bog a hundred feet long and saw the pink flamingo far ahead. There was no sign of civilization. It was as if they had stepped back into the sixteenth century.

Floyd slapped his neck and thrust his hand out to Gary. Two tiny bloody splotches.

“Two!” Floyd declared. “Two with one blow!”

Gary's hands were in constant motion. “You're a regular Bruce Lee.”

The swamp rose on spongy land, six inches above the water. They tramped through green hell. A thatched lean-to jutted from a stand of bamboo. Gary looked inside. Mosquito netting covered the entrance. Empty Reese's Peanut Butter wrappers littered the ground. Two twenty gallon plastic bins snugged up behind. Grey, soaking bedclothes, empty cans of Hormel Chili, an ancient copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a bottle of Paco Raban.

“Why the fuck would someone live out here?”

“Man, I could use a drink.”

“Come on. We can't lose sight of that bird.”

“We already did.”

Gary stood on toes. “I think it went this way.” They plunged into the jungle to the rhythm of the mosquito slap.

“Next time,” Gary said, “we bring water, Off!, and a compass.”

Floyd muttered under his breath. Flies dive bombed. Things slithered. Gary worried about water moccasins. He knew a girl whose dog got bit and died. There was no trash. No cigarette butts, plastic bags, or used condoms. They only sign of life had been the lean-to, and it looked abandoned.

A flash of pink through the green wall.

“Ho shit!” Gary exclaimed. “I think I found the fucker!”

They thrashed through the undergrowth toward the pink, their arms scored with cuts from the saw grass, boots soaked through, sweating, stinking, unrepentant.

Gary broke through the grass and stood at the edge of a stone clearing. Black stone had pushed its way up out of the earth. Gary was no geologist, but it looked volcanic. It formed a natural fountain, with limpid water flowing from a mini crater in the center, two feet above the ground.

Gary and Floyd gathered at the pool in the center, half volcanic rock, half a dense furze of green. The water was crystal clear. It bubbled through fine sand. It was a spring in the middle of nowhere. Gary stuck in a finger, tentatively touched his tongue.

He turned to Floyd with raised eyebrows. Lowering his face into the pond, he sipped. He pulled up. “This is like fresh water, man. We can drink this.”

Floyd lowered his head and drank. He splashed water on his face and leaned back with a look of ecstasy.

Shaking water from his face, Gary sat back on his haunches. “Man, I feel better already.”

“Yeah. That's clean cool water.”

“It's like, we're the first persons to ever see this.”

“Well except for the lean-to.”

“Wonder why it hasn't been developed. I mean, this is a pretty rare find. It's pretty. It would make a great park.”

“Yeah, but then you'd have to lay a road out here and dredge up a parking lot and put up porta-potties and before you know it, Calcutta.”

“You ain't wrong. But where's the bird?”

They looked around. There was no bird.

Loud cawing.

Gary pointed. “That way!”

He strode into the undergrowth and got four feet before his right boot stubbed against something hard, hidden in the grass. He nudged with his toe uncovering a heavy crescent-shaped crust.

He picked it up, pulling it loose from vines at both ends. A wide guard looped from the grip, the leather long since gone.

“Holy shit,” Floyd said. “That's a pirate sword.”

Staring at the sword, Gary turned and looked back toward the spring, hundreds of feet behind.

“Holy shit.”

“What?”

“HO-LEEE SHIT!”

“WHAT?”

“The fountain of youth, numbnutz.”

TWENTY-NINE

GOLF

When he and Floyd finally emerged from the swamp, they were five miles from where they had entered, on a rutted dirt road that ended at a rotting pier. Gary and Floyd hiked up the dirt road until it intersected an ancient slab of cracked asphalt called Dunnigan Road, and it was four miles up Dunnigan until they came to Pearson Road, where a Dominican hauling bat guano picked them up and dropped them in Turpentine where at last, at long last, their phones worked.

Gary had an Uber take them back to their truck. The driver kept all four windows open and leaned out the window. Back at the house, he and Floyd stripped naked and threw themselves into the swimming pool, toweled off, and put on fresh clothes. Clouds rolled in and it started to rain.

They retired to the rec room where they drank Dixies, smoked sensy and snorted blow.

Gary put his Skechers gum shoes up on the glass table. “I'm plumb tuckered. I don't have the energy to unstring all those lights.”

“What? You're giving in to them? The next thing you know you'll be in a gulag somewhere smashing rocks with a hammer.”

“Yeah, I know. Petty assholes. But I ain't got the energy to fight. Ain't got the money, neither. Habib don't come cheap.”

“I thought that was his thing. He came cheap.”

“Well, he's still gotta get paid. I'm already into him for eighteen holes.”

“Say what?”

Gary explained about Tallywhacker, the lawsuit, and his deal.

Floyd regarded him with respect. “Say, you could always make a living as a private eye. They could do a show on you. You know who should play you? James Franco. I've said this before.”

“I kinda had my heart set on Matthew McConaughey. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. The first thing we got to do, job numero uno, is secure rights to the spring. Omma get Habib right on it.”

“Isn't he, like, a criminal lawyer?”

“Yeah, but the law's the law. How hard can it be? Hang on. Omma call the fucker right now.”

Straight to voice mail. “Habib! We found something. I need to talk to you ASAP. Can't talk about it over the phone. Fucking Houtkooper, man. You know he's listening.”

Floyd heaved himself from his recliner. “Walp, I 'speck I should go home.”

“Don't you got some palmetto bugs or something?”

“Nothing that can't wait. I've been going straight for two days. I gotta crash.”

“You can crash here.”

“Nah, man. I gotta get home. I gotta water the petunias.”

Gary walked him to the front door. Rain poured down. They pounded each other on the back. Floyd got in his van and drove away, windshield wipers waving. Gary barely made it upstairs before passing out on his bed. When he woke, it was ten o'clock. He'd slept for six hours. It was Thursday. Krystal wouldn't be back until Saturday. He tried not to think about sex. He thought about sticking his dick down a garbage disposal. He thought about jackknifing into a sea of shit. He thought about wrestling an alligator. He thought about Cruella De Ville, the animated version. He thought about the actress who played her. He thought about Patricia Arquette in True Romance. He thought about Patricia Arquette in Escape At Danemore. His hard-on went away.

Habib phoned back. “What?”

“I found it, Habib. I found the Fountain of Youth.”

“You oughtta think about getting straight. Listen. Tomorrow's the golf game. Are you ready?”

“I was born ready, but that's not why I phoned. I'm serious. Floyd and I found the Fountain of Youth. I want to buy the land it's on.”

“Let's talk about it next week. I got clients up the wazoo. I just hope this rain doesn't last into tomorrow. Talk to ya.”

Clicko.

Gary went back to sleep. When he woke, the sun was shining. It was Friday. Gary dressed in chinos and a yellow cotton Shangri-La shirt with the club logo, a little palm tree stitched in green. He put on his Joe Stalin mustache, shades, and ball cap. He was due to meet Tag Mooselung at eight-thirty. Tee time was at nine. He grabbed his drone box, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, his tracking device and a micro recorder and careened down the highway to toney Westbrook, past malls, parks, and high-rise condos until he came to the Shangri-La Country Club, a verdant paradise sprawling south from the gated Shangri-La community.

He stopped at the guard house where a security guard in a green blazer, like a Masters’ winner, looked at his credentials.

“Okay. You go straight and you'll see the sign. Better park your truck in the employee parking lot.”

Gary threaded his way among the Mercedes, Bentleys, Maseratis, and Lexii to a separate parking lot on the east side filled with Hyundais, beige Toyotas, and small Chevies. He presented himself at the service entrance to a small balding man with a hairline mustache, wearing club colors.

“I'm Greg Dobbs. I'm caddying for Tag Mooselung.”

The dude checked his ID. “You'll find Mister Mooselung at the driving range. Just follow the signs.”

There were three persons at the driving range, a no-nonsense woman in a ponytail and white visor, a tall kid with a shock of curly orange hair, and a middle-aged man wearing a Shangri-La shirt and white pants. Gary waited while the man lined up his shot and swung, sending the ball arcing far out onto the range, bouncing at the two hundred-yard mark.

“Mister Mooselung?”

The man turned, cocked his wood over his shoulder and stuck out his hand. “Gary Duba, I presume.”

“Yes sir. Greg Dobbs for the day. Thanks for doing this. I got to tell ya, I never played golf in my life. Habib gave me the short course but if you want a certain club, flash me the numbers.”

“Will do. What's with the 'stache?”

“I'm in disguise. I don't want to be a distraction.”

Mooselung snapped his fingers. “That's right! You're the guy who caught that serial killer.”

“Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. It wasn't me, actually. It was a monitor lizard I had in my truck. By all rights, they should have given it the key to the city.”

Mooselung indicated his Selected Leather golf bag. “Let's go.”

Gary looped it over his shoulder. Fifty pounds. He wondered why Mooselung didn't use a cart like most of the golfers. Maybe he needed the exercise. They marched to the first tee behind the long, low mid-century modern clubhouse where three middle aged men gathered, caddies hovering nearby with the bags. The most rotund, a gent with graying hair slicked back like Jimmy Hoffa, was looking at his Rolex.

“There you are,” he boomed.

A man with long sandy hair that fell in a cowlick peered at Gary. “Who's this?”

“This is Greg Dobbs. He's substituting today because Wilfred couldn't make it. He's sick.”

“Is it the virus?” the big man asked.

Mooselung laughed. “Indigestion. Ed, this is Judge Weatherspoon, Morris Eclaire, and Fernando Ruiz.”

Gary saluted. No one offered their hand. Morris Eclaire was the guy with the hair. Gary pulled Mooselung's number one wood and waited while they tossed coins to determine who swung first. The judge won. His caddy, who looked like Pedro from Napolean Dynamite, handed the judge his wood. The judge lined up his shot. The judge did a practice swing. The judge let fly, sending the golf ball skipping sideways off the fairway into the rough like a Bouncing Betty.

“Shit,” the judge muttered.

Next up was Ruiz, a slim man with jet black hair and mustache. He didn't take a practice swing. He just hauled off and drove the ball most of the way down the fairway.

Judge: “Nice shot.” Mooselung: “Pretty shot.” Eclaire: “You've still got it.”

Gary handed Mooselung the wood. Mooselung took a couple practice swings and hit the ball two hundred yards. Morris Eclaire hit a two hundred yarder. Judge Weatherspoon put on a Shangri-La cap. They set off in a group, the four caddies following. Pedro was Alphonso Riguberto. Eclaire's caddy was a young Asian named Carl. Fernando Ruiz's caddy was a slim black kid named Frank. They were clannish and eyed Gary with suspicion, and who wouldn't with that ridiculous rug on his lip? They walked ahead, laughing and joking. Alphonso turned.

“Yo, Dobbs. Where else you caddied?”

“The Cottages. They always check my ID to see if I'm old enough.”

The group separated as they approached their balls. Judge Weatherspoon and Alphonso headed for the rough. Mooselung and Ruiz stood roughly even, fifty yards apart. Mooselung squatted. He eyed the flag a hundred yards distant. He held out his hand.

“Three club.”

Gary put it in his hand, all the time itching to follow Weatherspoon into the rough. He had to get the goods. Mooselung hit a beautiful shot that stopped rolling at the edge of the green.

“You know why I'm here?” Gary said.

“Yeah. Fuckin' Weatherspoon has been cheating since day one. I won't bet with him. Don't worry. You'll get your chance. Wait 'til we get to the lake. It's like a magnet for golf balls. I'll get you down there. I owe Habib, and I didn't bet on this game.”

“That Eclaire guy looks familiar.”

“He invented stick on fruit labels. He's on Piranha Pool.”

THIRTY

AN UNEXPECTED HAZARD

As they approached the seventh tee, the lake revealed itself, kidney-shaped, pristine, backed up against forested rough. Part of the fairway next to the lake looked like it had been churned up by monster trucks.

“He'll hook it. Trust me. Then he goes into the rough and drops another ball.”

“What about the lake?”

“Well, he's gonna have to eat that and believe me, he does. He kept winning for the longest time and we couldn't figure it out. You don't expect a state supreme court judge to cheat. Give me the four iron.”

Reaching for the club, Gary found a shotgun with a pistol grip.

“What's with the shotgun?”

“You should see my hate mail. As Director of the State Boxing Commission, I'm bound to piss people off. Remember Cory Foote? Next in line for the heavyweight belt? Came up positive for steroids. They fought that all the way, said it was a false positive, said someone tampered with it, but I had to make a ruling. Cost him the fight. I started getting phone calls. Reinstate Foote or else. Had to hire a bodyguard for a couple months. Everybody wants a piece of the pie.”

“Tell me about it!”

“I'm not the only player packing.”

“Shit,” Gary said. “Now I wish I brought my piece.”

Mooselung hit a nice shot onto the green and sank it in one, giving him a birdie for the hole. The eighth tee was a dogleg that bent around woods that looked like giant broccoli, lake to the northwest. Judge Weatherspoon lined up his shot. He took a practice swing.

“Fore!”

He hooked it into the timber.

Mooselung placed his ball on the tee. “Tell your boss about this shot.”

He pulled back, whacked the ball, and watched it hook to the right, close to where the judge's ball had gone.

“Into the jungle.”

Mooselung, Weatherspoon, Alphonso and Gary headed toward the trees. Gary fingered the transmitter in his pocket. It was no bigger than a circle bandage, with an adhesive back. Pulling a machete from Mooselung's bag, he preceded the Boxing Commissioner clearing a path. He found Mooselung's ball at the base of an old maple, nestled in a root crotch. He thought about flipping it out. Gary pointed to ball with the blade. Judge Weatherspoon was ten feet away, concealed by heavy growth.

“Ow, goddamnit!” the judge cursed.

Gary flew through the weeds to find the gray-haired judge with his hand to the back of his neck, his hat on the ground.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Just one of those damn biting flies.”

“Let me get your hat, Judge.”

Gary stooped, slipping the transmitter inside the band, and handed it back to Weatherspoon.

“Thanks.”

“You want some deet?”

“I can't wear that shit. It turns my skin green.”

Gary returned to Mooselung, whose ball had miraculously moved itself a foot onto flat ground. Mooselung called for the nine, addressed the ball, turned to Gary, and winked. He chopped the ball back onto the fairway. They had just exited the rough when the judge's ball shot by them and landed in the middle of the fairway with a clear view of the tee.

Gary caught up with Mooselung. “You got any suck with pro wrestling?”

Mooselung made the thumbs down. “It's a freak show. The matches are prearranged. It's not a real athletic contest.”

“Tell that to my wife! She's fighting a Man Called Xue in two weeks.”

Mooselung found his ball in a good position and held out his hand. “Two iron.” He took the shot. The ball landed on the fairway.

“Man outweighs her by eighty pounds.”

“Wait a minute. Your wife is a pro wrestler?”

“Steely Danielle. AKA, the Black Dildo.”

“Your wife is the Black Dildo?”

“Yeah, only they can't call her that because. So, this dude she's fighting. He's a guy. Only now he identifies as a girl. So he's fighting as a girl. First it was a Man Called Sue, but people bitched 'cuz it said man, so he changed it to A Thing Called Sue, but people bitched because Sue's a girl's name, so he finally changed it to A Thing Called Xue.”

“Listen. If it were up to me, men wouldn't be allowed to compete in women's sports, no matter how they identify. But it's a freak show. My hands are tied.”

“This dude is all 'roided up. Isn't that illegal?”

“Technically, it's illegal to use performance enhancing drugs in any professional sport, including wrestling.”

Gary removed the tiny drone from his breast pocket and set it loose. The black drone hummed after the judge. Gary found pictures of Thing Called Xue on his Fonebone and showed them to Mooselung.

They stared at a picture of Thing posing in briefs, looking like a Rob Liefeld drawing.

“Whoa. That's grotesque.”

“Ain't there some law about that?”

“Well as I said, the Boxing Commission doesn't recognize pro wrestling as a legitimate sport so it's outside our purview. But under Florida law, anabolic steroids are a schedule three narcotic. It's illegal to make, sell, or possess them. Thing could be charged with a third-degree felony. But who's going to do it? Police have enough on their hands. No prosecutor's going to waste his resources on this bird.”

“What if I was to turn up proof that he's using or selling?”

“Bring it to my attention. Putter please.”

The foursome gathered on the green. The judge took two strokes which gave him a seven on a par five hole. Only Gary noticed the tiny drone hovering a hundred feet in the air. Mooselung needed two and gave himself a six, but Gary knew it was really a seven.

Eclaire addressed the tee from the edge of the green.

Alphonso jumped up and down. “Que mierda. QUE MIERDA!”

The Judge looked at him. “What the fuck, Alphonso?”

Alphonso pointed at the lake, fifty yards away, where a hippopotamus had emerged, water cascading off its shiny flanks. It opened its mouth and charged.

Eclaire dropped his putter and ran. The judge hobbled at a fast gait. Gary upended Mooselung's bag and grabbed the pistol-grip Remington twelve gauge. Ruiz pulled a .44 magnum from his golf bag and went to one knee. Mooselung pulled a Beretta .25 from the pocket of his yellow pants and started popping.

Gary tagged the hippo in the snout! A great hole appeared, a meteor strike! Mooselung had loaded the shotgun with slugs! The great beast stumbled onward! The boys pumped enough lead into it to poison Flint, Michigan's water supply. It collapsed at the edge of the green, down on its front knees, and then the rest tipping over like a top-heavy freighter.

Gary pulled out his Fonebone and handed it to Mooselung. “Take my picture, will ya?”

He placed one foot on the fallen hippo's head and grinned. Carl returned, took the camera, and took pictures of the three heroes posing with their kill. A golf cart streamed their way. It stopped at the edge of the green. Three men got out wearing Shangri-La livery. A stout man in a green jacket and hat, plastic bar stating Evan Brockweiler, Manager, rushed over.

“Is anybody hurt?”

Weatherspoon, Eclaire and Ruiz returned.

“Judge, you okay?”

“I'm fine. I gotta say, you guys are getting creative with the water hazards.”

“The question is,” Brockweiler said, “what is a hippo doing in the lake?”

Gary tucked the shotgun back in Mooselung's bag. “It escaped from El Nariz's zoo. He was that drug kingpin who disappeared last year.”

Brockweiler surveyed the lake. “I wondered what happened to the fairway.”

THIRTY-ONE

HERE COME DE JUDGE

Gary beat it outta there disguise intact. He peeled off the mustache and tossed it out the window as he fled through the majestic brick pillars framing the entrance. He never did recover the drone. Fuck it. It would either return to its nest or it wouldn't. He'd done his damnedest. It wasn't his fault they were attacked by a hippo. He passed Bongo Box on the way home, garage door open, bent over Tallywhacker.

Gary got home around noon. Santa sagged all over the roof. Someone had let the air out and it looked like Paul Bunyan had dropped his popsicle. His creche was gone. Big Boy was gone. He parked in front of his four-car garage and went in. No creche, no Big Boy.

Gary felt personally violated. He questioned his decision to return. He'd been happier out at the swamp. At least he still owned that land, worthless as it was. He wasn't about to sue the homeowners’ association. No sir. He tried to steer clear of the law in general. He took a shower, plopped down in front of the TV, and tilted back in his Barcalounger. The Mexican weather girl appeared, stock photo of yawning hippo over her shoulder.

“...just coming in. A hippo has attacked a group of golfers at the Shangri-La Country Club. The golfers fought back with guns, killing the beast just inches from the ninth green. Wildlife officials are now concerned that hippos have invaded the Everglades, another in a seemingly endless list of invasive species which includes the Macaque, the Burmese python, the giant Mekong Delta Catfish, and the Phillips Head Mussel. State Supreme Court Chief Justice Wither Weatherspoon was one of the golfers attacked.”

Close in on the florid judge peering from beneath his cap chomping on a cigar. “I can't say I was surprised. We've been expecting these hippopotami to pop up since we found El Nariz's empty zoo.”

“Who is El Nariz, Judge?”

“El Nariz, also known as Pepe Zaragoza, was a Colombian drug dealer who set up shop in Miami. He disappeared last summer. Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta go.”

Gary shut off the news and zoned out. He woke as the sun was setting, went to the bathroom, and into the kitchen. He hadn't eaten all day. The country club buffet was out. His cell phone chimed “At the Copa.”

It was Habib.

“Hey, man, sorry I had to bug out, but in case you haven't heard, we were attacked by a hippo. I'm lucky to be alive.”

“Fuck the hippo. You need to see this.”

“Hey, man, I'm sorry I didn't get the goods. And your fuckin' drone, man. I don't know where it went. I'll make it up to you.”

“You did it, man! You don't even know what you did! Forget the lawsuit. You're off the hook. In fact, I owe you!”

“All right, let me grab something to eat. You know it's after six.”

“Stay there. I'll pick up a pizza.”

“No pineapple.”

Gary fixed himself a gin and gin, slumped on a sofa in the living room and dreamed about his show. Oprah. Entertainment Tonight. Dateline Hollywood. He wanted to claim credit for the hippo cull, but he'd promised Habib to stay incognito. Duba Expeditions. Satisfy your urge to hunt Big Game right here in Sunny Florida! Gary Duba is an experienced hunter, the winner of Florida's Biggest Python contest, a skilled tracker and gator killer.

Habib came in carrying a laptop and a jumbo pizza box which he plonked on the dining room table. “Wait until you see this. You'll shit.”

Gary tossed a couple paper plates and an inch of napkins on the table. “Let me just get something in my belly first.”

It was a three-meat pizza. If you put all the meat together, it wouldn't feed a gerbil. Gary peeled off a slice, rolled it into a tube and ate it like a woodchipper. Habib corralled three pieces for himself. They pushed the empty pizza carton away. Habib set up his laptop angling toward both of them.

“How'd you get the drone back?”

Habib held out his hand. “It landed right here when I triggered the recall. It has a nickel adamantium battery that's good for sixty hours. I was in a meeting most of the day and didn't get to it until five.”

Grainy aerial footage of the golf course came into focus. Habib fast forwarded the drone hovering, judge running for the tall timber, returning, marking time while the judge changed, judge posing for reporters. The drone followed the judge's BMW to Boynton Beach where he entered a gated community, turned onto a dead end road ending in a circle of swank hutches, and pulled up on the street in front of a pink double story stucco with red tile roof. The drone buzzed uncertainly as the judge entered the open garage, into the house through an unlocked door.

The drone circled the house, over the six-foot wood fence to the back where it hovered outside a window in a service corridor connecting the main house to the garage. The drone zeroed in on a window framed by hibiscus and hovered, finding the judge, pants around his ankles, behind a naked young Latino bent over the washing machine, humping to the rhythm of an unbalanced load. A smeared hand mirror danced on top. The judge's face tilted back in ecstasy, still wearing his Shangri-La hat. Drooling, he came.

Habib threw out his arm like a carnival barker. “TA-DAA!”

“So, he's humping the gardener? So what?”

“DOOOOD! Judge Weatherspoon is a paragon of virtue and an elder in his church! He has been married to the same woman for thirty-one years! And this house belongs to Democrat Party Chairwoman Bethany Husted!”

“I get it. Blackmail!”

“That's a little harsh. I call it leverage. It guarantees you won't have to pay for that gallery disaster. Weatherspoon will crush that like a bug. And it pretty much insulates me from those bogus conflict of interest claims.”

“Cool, but what about the Fountain of Youth?”

“What about the Fountain of Youth?”

“We found it, man! Floyd and me, while we were chasing that giant hog!”

“There's no Fountain of Youth.”

“Yeah, well I still want to buy that land. It's in the middle of fuckin' nowhere, so it should be cheap.”

“First, can you locate the Fountain of Youth? I need coordinates. Second, you're gonna buy it with what? Last I heard, you got dropped by the network, and if I know you, you've already spent the advance and are suckin' air.”

Gary waved him off. “They gave me back my show. Major's the producer. All I gotta do is go back to where we entered the swamp. I'll just retrace my steps. I got the instincts of a homing pigeon.”

“Get the coordinates. Then I can run a plat search. What's that on your roof?”

“Santa and his reindeer. The homeowners’ association told me I hadda take everything down, stop partying, and stop shooting guns.”

Habib shook his head. “It's a sad day. Did you at least take pictures of this fountain?”

Gary's forehead worfed. His eyes lit up. “Wait. Wait! I got Ponce de Leon's sword!”

THIRTY-TWO

A GENEROUS OFFER

The cute Latina who used to be a weather girl faced her viewers with serious mien. “The shocking attack by an African hippo yesterday at the Shangri-La Country Club has thrown light on the increasing menace of Florida's invasive species. Macaques spreading disease. Burmese pythons eating our pets. Iguana brawling in broad daylight. And now, the most dangerous animal in Africa has gained a foothold in our state. The hippos are believed to have escaped a zoo belonging to the late drug kingpin El Nariz, who disappeared earlier this year, presumably the victim of a rival cartel. El Nariz's home, deep in the Everglades, housed tigers, honey badgers, and pangolin as well. Fortunately, state officials were able to relocate most of these animals to local zoos.”

“Governor Chickenlooper has floated the idea of appointing an Invasive Species Czar who could allocate state resources to removing or reducing the threat. Ong Meyer, head of the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission, floated the idea of confining the hippos within the Everglades and selling hunting licenses as a way of boosting state revenue. Senator Winifred Waits-Hyphen issued a statement that the hippos are undocumented immigrants and have every right to be here, and that the state must provide them with habitat and food.”

Habib muted the program as Gary returned waving a rust encrusted sword.

“Avast!” he declared, placing the sword in Habib's hands. Habib turned it over and over.

“Where did you find this?”

“It was at the fountain. The fountain of youth.”

“Do you have a rag or something?”

“Hang on.”

Gary returned with several rags, a can of WD40 and a bottle of Pinesol. Habib spread the Miami Herald on the low table in the rec room and went to work. He rubbed. He peeked. He rubbed. He held the sword up and pointed to something on the blade.

“What does that say?”

Gary took the sword, turning it this way and that. “BudK. Fuck.”

“What did you expect? A Ponce de Leon signed and numbered edition?”

“That means someone was there recently.”

“Not too recently judging by its condition. It does, however, throw shade on your theory.”

“Well hot damn, Habib. Let's you and me get back in there and bottle some of that water. Then we'll have it analyzed and that will prove my theory once and for all!”

“Count me out. Get me the plat number, and we'll talk. If there is a plat number.”

Gary's phone chimed. It was Boris. “The HOA is holding an emergency meeting right now to talk about the feral hog. I think you should be there.”

“Where?”

“The clubhouse.”

“I'm on my way.”

Habib left. Gary revved up his Fat Boy, which had somehow been overlooked by his creditors, and cruised up Kensington Way to the clubhouse, parking amid Audis, Mercedes, Lexii, and Teslas. The joint was lit like the Capitol. Gary followed the hubbub to a big meeting room with dozens of folding chairs facing a raised dais. Goldblatt was speaking, four council members seated in the first row.

“We don't know why the hog is targeting Kensington Gardens. But twice in one week is no coincidence. The hog is a menace. It must be stopped before it destroys Kensington Gardens.”

A woman with dyed red hair, in a yellow dress raised her hand.

“Yes, Martha?”

“Could this be an alien hog? I mean, could it be possessed by an alien intelligence? I read recently that UFO sightings are up. Ferd Ludlow had a guest on yesterday who was abducted by the aliens, held for three weeks, and forced to endure repeated probing.”

“Dubious. Herb, you have something to say?”

The man in the Grant Wood painting stood. “We need to hire some professionals to take care of this now. Phase II is expected to begin in March, if there is a phase II. One more hog attack, and no one will want to move here. Our only hope is to kill it and show it to the world!”

“How do you propose to hire professionals, Herb?”

“We will prepare a video, like one of those Discovery programs. Documentary style. We'll present experts, and footage of the devastation. Then we state that we are prepared to hire qualified big game hunters.”

“Who's gonna pay for this, Herb?”

“Well, we are.”

Muttering and boos.

“Why not just put an ad up on Facebook Marketplace? You think we won't be inundated with wanna-be great white hunters?”

Gary blew his Duck Commander duck call. Heads swiveled to where he sat in the last row, foot up on a chair, arm draped over another. “You all know me. I'm the man who stopped Plastic Surgeon to the stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. I'm the man who caught the biggest Burmese python in state history. I've been killing hogs all my life. In fact, I wrote a song about it. I live here. In fact, I was the first person to live here. I'm your neighbor. I am one of you. I pledge to you that I will not only end this hog's reign of terror, I will have the body stuffed and mounted in the dining room.”

A blue hair in a pearl necklace turned toward him, elbow draped over the back of her chair. “Do you intend to discharge firearms on the property?”

Gary put up his hands. “Duh!”

“How else do we get rid of it, Helena? Poison? Doctor Kevorkian? We're not exactly sanctioning World War Three here.”

A man said, “Do you have a concealed carry permit, Mister Duba?”

“Don't need one. I got nothing to hide.”

“Mister Duba is an experienced hunter and has a personal stake,” Leopold Bing said. “I'm all for his participation.”

Gary blew his Duck Commander. “And here's the beauty. I won't charge you a dime. This is my home too. Might even give y'all some ham and bacon.”

A stout man with a full head of curly brown hair turned.

“I am Honore duBlastio and I can assure you, I would love to serve this pig in my restaurant.”

Gary nodded. “Thankee kindly. Now I know we got off on the wrong foot here. I know some of you folks don't cotton to gunfire or patriotic displays, and believe me, we are trying to fit in. I took down the Santa Claus, I rolled up the lights. Now I'd like to know what the hell happened to the Baby Jesus. You gotta return that, or at least pay for it. I got the receipt right here.”

He reached for his back pocket. Goldblatt waved his arms.

“That won't be necessary, Mister Duba. We will return the creche to you tomorrow, if you give us your word you won't display it.”

“Wahl, I might alter it a little to make it more acceptable.”

“All plans must be submitted to the HOA, as you know.”

“I want my Big Boy back, too.”

THIRTY-THREE

DEEP IN THE JUNGLE

Deep in the jungle, Delilah put Krystal through her paces. Roadwork followed by hand drills and kung fu. A holistic, cruelty-free lunch sourced from locally grown products. Wrestling with Samson. Samson was a two hundred and ten-pound brown bear whom Delilah had convinced not to use fang or claw. Samson loved to wrestle, and because he outweighed Krystal by eighty pounds, usually won.

Krystal lay on her back as Samson straddled her, licking her face.

“He stinks!” Krystal howled.

“Pull his head!” Delilah urged. “Pull his head!”

Every time Krystal reached for Samson's head he reared back, holding her in place with a fore paw between her breasts. “Get him off me! He's pulling a boner!”

“Samson can't pull a boner because Samson is a girl.”

With a convulsive heaving motion, Krystal wrapped her hands around Samson's neck, pulled him down, planted a heel on the bear's hip and slithered loose.

Delilah smacked fist to palm. “That's what I'm talking about!”

Krystal got up and slumped in a steel lawn chair. “I'm zonked.” She picked up an orange Gatorade and glugged. They were in front of Delilah's house, a green tarp spread on the mossy ground.

“You still gotta do an hour on the exercycle,” Delilah said, sipping shine from a Mason jar.

“What? Why? I did five miles this morning!”

“Do you want to watch Survivor or not?”

“No. I do not want to watch Survivor.”

“Well I do, and I'm your trainer. You can pedal now, or you can pedal later. The generator conked out.”

“What's been keepin' that fridge alive?”

“Batteries.”

“Why don'tcha hook the batteries up to the TV?”

“You want the meat to go bad?”

“Sometimes I think you're just doing this to get your chores done.”

Delilah took another pull from her Mason jar. “I'm being so well paid here you'd think I could afford a house boy or something.”

“You're workin' on twenty per cent of the purse, which, last I looked, was fifty thousand dollars! You're gonna get ten thousand.”

“If you win.”

“You were gonna teach me a secret kung fu move.”

Delilah waved the Mason jar, losing some. “Thass right. The Tibetan tetrahedron. Don'tcha want to eat first?”

“I gotta shower. I'm covered with bear slime. Show me the technique.”

Delilah heaved herself up and stomped to the mat, Maori style. She peeled off her long gray skirt and tossed it over a tree branch. She wore pink panties and an over-the-shoulder black bra. She motioned Krystal forward with her fingers.

“Come at me, Danielle, or Krystal, or Black Dildo or whatever the hell your name is.”

Krystal crossed her arms. “You're drunk.”

“Not too drunk to teach you a thing or two! I was running with the Black Oysters before you was a gleam in your momma's eye! I carried a knife back then. Still carry a knife. But I ain't carryin' now!”

Krystal grinned, rushed Delilah, and knocked her on her ass. Delilah looked glassy-eyed. She wiped her mouth. “Oh shit.”

She got to her knees and projectile vomited into the trees. Samson ambled over and licked it up.

Krystal hunkered down. “You okay?”

Delilah drew the back of her hand across her mouth. She smelled sour. “I'll live.”

“Ladies,” said a man with a British accent, “that was exceptional.”

Krystal stood, arms akimbo, ready to kick ass. A florid man wearing a pith helmet with a camera attached strode from the jungle, wearing beige cargo trousers stuffed into Doc Martens combat boots, fisherman's vest over a high-zoot space age shirt. Behind him stumbled a gawky teenager with misted horn rims, wearing a bulky khaki backpack and a Dolphins cap.

“Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Garrison Gland. I'm a producer for the History Channel on expedition to discover and develop exciting new programming. Ladies, I'm impressed. What were you doing just now?”

Delilah retrieved her dress and wiped her mouth. “Pukin'.”

“She's my trainer. I'm Steely Danielle. Maybe you've heard of me.”

“I have now, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

They shook.

Krystal put Delilah's arm over her shoulder. “I gotta hose her off.”

Hooking a cane chair with her foot, Krystal positioned it beneath the rain barrel, strapped to a stout oak, and pulled the chain. Warm water cascaded over Delilah. Krystal squeezed soap from a container and worked it into Delilah's scalp.

“Do you, ah, need any help?” Gland said.

Krystal planted her hand on his chest and pushed him back. “You know what? You got to make yourself scarce. We're trainin' here. Are you filmin’? You can't do that without my permission, you know that, right?”

“A thousand pardons, madame! Offending you is the last thing I want to do! Please excuse us. This is my assistant Rod. Why don't you put up that curtain?”

Krystal grabbed the curtain, affixed to a steel ring circling the barrel. “Good idea.”

Curtain in place, Krystal sat the comatose Delilah on a stool, stripped off her clothes, soaped her up, rinsed her off, wrapped her in a towel, carried her into the house and set her on sofa where she lay softly snoring.

When she came out, Gland and Rod sat on tree stumps.

“Are you still here?”

“We were about to leave, but then it occurred to me, you could benefit from our presence. What are you training for?”

Krystal looked at them cross-eyed. “Are you for real? I've got a fight with a Thing Called Xue in two weeks! I'm out here trainin' with Delilah and Samson. I have to be at the top of my game. A lot's ridin’ on this fight.”

“Do you mind if I film this?”

Rod went to one knee and aimed a camera.

“What the hell. I ain't proud. What do you want to know?”

“What's a Thing Called Xue?”

“Long story. Pro wrestler used to call himself Wolfgang. He changed that to The Predator. Then Manwolf. Then he decided to transition so he started calling himself A Man Called Sue.”

“Transition?”

Krystal pointed to her groin.

“Why doesn't he just call himself Sue?”

“The transsexual community believed he was only doing it for publicity and was giving them a bad name. So he changed his name to Thing Called Xue. Now no one can bitch.”

“I must have details! Will it be televised?”

“The Rough Cut Channel is carrying it live. Do you get Rough Cut?”

“No. Where will this event take place?”

“January fourteenth, at the Roxy Theater. Hope to see you there.”

“Is it just you and Delilah?”

“Well there's Samson.”

“Who's Samson?”

Krystal put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. Samson ambled out of the bush. Gland and Rod vamoosed. It was like they were never there. And later, when Krystal told Delilah, she just shook her head muttering, “Bullshit.”

THIRTY-FOUR

MARSHMALLOW

The drooping Santa was gone. The manger was sequestered in an undisclosed location. Bob's Big Boy was stuffed away in the back of the clubhouse warehouse. All that remained were the house suspenders, which the HOA wanted gone, but had not yet contrived a proper protocol for their removal. The colored lights gave the house the appearance of the Brooklyn Bridge.

It was Christmas Eve. Delilah and Krystal had driven in from the swamp, and Floyd was there with his girl Ginger, bearing gifts artfully wrapped in Scoobie Doo paper. Patrice and Roberto, Habib and Auburn. Jen arrived with Wilbur, who looked like Buddy Holly. Barb arrived with Iggulden the Rapper. Major Sutton with an elegant Ethiopian named Daphne.

Maj and Gary bopped fists and slapped each other on the back. “I already got thirty-five minutes bringin' viewers up to speed,” Major crowed. “Now I have to cut it down to twenty-two. Here's a schedule for January. We're goin’ to spend fifteen days shootin’.”

“You ever hear from Downtown Brown?”

Major made a poof sign. “Gone with the wind.”

Gary had cut a six-foot pine he found in the swamp, screwed it into a stand, draped it with tinsel and lights, topped it with a scale model of the General Lee from Dukes of Hazzard. It stood in a corner of the rec room.

He'd laid in two cases of Ron Rico, two bottles of Jack, and an eight ball of blow to get them in the holiday spirit. Soon everybody was rocking. Only Krystal laid off the blow and limited herself to one glass of Merlot. Somebody put on the Spinners, and Delilah rocked out to "Rubberband Man" like a Bring It On cheerleader, hands in the air, fingers snapping, elbows flapping, mangrove legs.

She was happening! People were clapping! Iggulden couldn't wait for the record to end. He switched CDs putting in his rhythm track and slunk around the house like a funky locomotive.

“The fat old man is groovin'. His feet they are a movin'. He got a sack of swag—he don't want to brag—the fat old man is slicker than a finger on the trigger. The fat old man is quicker than a hyped-up wigger. He got socks full of Glocks and floozies full of Uzis. You see him comin' best step aside—he got eight great reindeer pullin' on his ride...”

Patrice turned it off. Iggulden froze like an R. Crumb drawing. He popped up.

“Fuck you doin', nigger?”

“This is not America's Got Talent. No one can dance to that.”

Iggulden got right below Patrice's face, looking up, putting on his war face, hands balled. “You see me dancin', don't you?”

“I would not call it dancing, mon. Don't disrespect the host.”

Gary waved an arm. “Whatever. I'm gonna put on something in the rec room.”

Iggulden and Patrice stared at one another, backed by Barb and Roberto, respectively.

“Go way, little man, or I crush you like a bug. Yes, I crush you like a palmetto bug as it scurry across linoleum floor. I lift up my Red Wing boot, and I crush you into an oily blotch. Den I get de Pinesol.”

“You got a track?”

Patrice threw a thumb at Roberto. “He my track. Show him, Roberto.”

Roberto cupped his hands to his mouth and chuffed a funky rhythm, tapping his foot on the hardwood floor. Patrice sank low.

“We must fight the chocolate labs! We must fight them on the slabs! We must fight them at the fence! And in the forest dense. We must fight them in the future and in the present tense. The chocolate labs are lurking, behind their smirks they're smirking, their back ends they are twerking, but nobody is working. Huh!”

Patrice froze, gesturing toward Iggulden.

Iggulden shook his head, made a deep, guttural sound in the back of his throat.

“That's your problem, Jack. I got no bloodhounds at my shack. I got bitches of tender years, I got bitches comin' out my ears. I got bitches high and low. I got bitches I like to show. I got bitches in my car, I got bitches pumpin' at my bar.”

Barb turned red and stalked off.

“Fuck,” Iggulden said and took off after her.

Patrice and Roberto laughed and put on Beggar's Banquet. People drifted back into the rec room. Floyd and Habib played pool while Ginger and Miss Tropicana Gardens compared nails. By ten, everyone except Krystal was in orbit. Delilah broke out a bottle of shine. Casa de Duba swayed to a disco beat.

“Nacho, nacho man,” Habib sang. “I've got to be a nacho man.”

Patrice and Iggulden traded dance steps. Iggulden did the Nae Nae. Patrice did the Shiggy. Iggulden did the pterodactyl. Patrice went full split, bounced up, bent over, and farted in Iggulden's face. Iggulden jumped on Patrice's back. They whirled like a carnival ride. Patrice threw Iggulden into the Christmas tree. Iggulden grabbed the tree and did a caber toss. Patrice brushed the tree aside, rushed in, seized Iggulden around the torso and suplexed him.

Krystal cut the music. The silence was shocking. She surveyed the damage.

“Y'all better check yourselves. This here's our house and you disrespectin' it with this shit.”

Patrice placed his palms together and bowed. “I is sorry. I will pay for all damages.”

Outside, Iggulden revved his Subaru Brat and peeled out.

Floyd, Gary, Kyrstal, Jen, and Roberto picked up the trash and restored the tree, now crooked. The lights still worked. Some Christmas gifts were crushed. Gary disappeared. Just before midnight, Krystal rang a bell in the rec room. Everyone gathered around. The only light came from the Christmas tree.

“Ho ho ho,” Gary chanted, low as he could. “Ho ho ho.”

He swaggered into the room in his Santa outfit with a pillow stuffed down the front, wearing fake beard and sunglasses, toting a bag over his shoulder.

Gary dropped the bag and pulled out a box wrapped in Bugs Bunny paper. “Patrice. Have you been a good boy? No! You've been a rotten piece of shit! Look at my Christmas tree!”

“I is sorry.”

Gary tossed him the box and reached for another.

“Jen, the Black Dildo owes her success to you!” He tossed Barb a three-foot long gaily wrapped rubber male member.

“This better not be the same dildo we gave Krystal!”

“I wouldn't give you a used dildo. What do you take me for?”

Gary tossed Major a copy of The Comic Toolbox: How to Be Funny Even If You're Not.

He tossed Floyd a wrapped can of Raid.

Habib raised his hands. “Wait a minute. I think we owe our host something.”

He handed Gary a four-foot box. Gary opened it and cradled a Mossberg 500 with a pistol grip.

“That's for Hogzilla!”

Cheers and applause. A dull whump penetrated the interior followed by a bright flash through the front windows. The entire party poured out of the house to see Patrice's white Toyota Cube roasting like a marshmallow.

THIRTY-FIVE

ONE MORE CHANCE

The Kensington Gardens Homeowners’ Association held an emergency meeting Christmas Day. Gary wasn't invited.

Marvin Goldblatt sat in the center of the table, wearing a three-piece gray suit and red tie. Everyone else was casual. To Marvin's left sat Mindy Perske and Grover Hoover. To his right sat John Hutton and John Loveall. Mindy was a socialite. Grover Hoover ran a disaster clean-up company. John Hutton was a Comcast executive. John Loveall invented the popular online game, Vomitball.

A dozen home-owners sat in the folding chairs, including several who had not yet moved into their new houses.

“Thank you for attending. As most of you know, there was another incident last night at the Duba residence, this one involving arson. Someone set fire to one of his guest’s cars. The police are investigating. The time has come to consider whether Mister Duba is the type of neighbor Kensington Gardens wants. We have spoken to Mister Duba on numerous occasions. You yourselves heard him last week when he pledged to end the menace of Hogzilla. Any competent hunter should be able to stop this animal. Mister Duba seems unwilling, or unable to amend his ways. Every couple of days he goes off, like a series of timed explosives.”

Boris waved his hand and plunged right in. “I think that's it for a while. I think Gary's gonna lay low, at least until Easter.”

“Boris, he nearly destroyed your masterpiece.”

“I take some of the blame. Neither one of us had any idea it would behave like that. Now the SETI Institute wants to study it.”

Alice Milgrom, who lived with her lover Alphonse and two French bulldogs in a Spanish-style villa, said, “What's SETI?”

“Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I told 'em I'd sell it to them for five mil. In the meantime, it just sits in the garage. Thinking.”

“Mister Duba has had more than enough chances to show he's suited to this community. He has violated so many rules, we are within our rights to have him expelled. I propose that we put together a fund to buy him out. When the property sells as it invariably will, we'll all recoup our investments. I'd like to put it to a vote.”

“Second,” Mindy Perske sang.

Boris waved his arm. “Wait a minute. There are one hundred and fifteen members of the Kensington Gardens Homeowners Association and by my count, only nineteen present. Shouldn't this go before the whole group?”

“First of all, those people have not yet moved in. You have to live on the property to vote. Second, who knows what he'll do by the time we scrape up a quorum? You've belonged to HOAs in the past. How many members actually show up at those meetings? That's right. This requires executive action before he turns the entire community into a nuclear disaster zone.”

“Do you know who Habib Rodriguez is?”

Goldblatt glared. “Isn't he some kind of ambulance chaser?”

“Yeah, and he's Gary's attorney. He's almost as famous as his client. Do you want that kind of publicity?”

Mindy Perske put her hand on Goldblatt's arm. “He's got a point, Marv. It might be a wiser course of action to simply buy Duba out.”

“How? He's beyond reason.”

“We'll make him an offer he can't refuse. Come on, Marv. We're all millionaires. That house can't be worth more than seven. We could throw together ten mil like that.” She snapped her fingres. “I know his type. He'll snap it up.”

“Indeed,” John Hutton said. “Mister Duba seems consumed with money. His story is rags to riches to rags to riches to rags to riches.”

Goldblatt mused. “I'm not opposed to that idea. The question then becomes, what takes priority? Duba? Or Hogzilla?”

Velly Manilli, a socialite with rich brown hair, drawled, “What are the chances that hog would strike twice in the same place? About as high as us gettin' hit by an asteroid in the next ten minutes. That hog is gone. Duba's the problem.”

Grover Hoover said, “But what if it's not a coincidence? What if that hog is irresistibly drawn to Kensington Gardens due to some ancestral memory? What if our community rests upon some ancient hog den, the birthplace of the wild hog in Florida?”

John Hutton raised a finger. “The porcine species originated in Europe. There were no pigs in America until the Spaniards brought them.”

“So? So, what if it's only a couple hundred years old? That would only make its ancestral memory fresher.”

“What if the hog,” Mindy said, “is communicating with Mister Bongo Box's robot bull?”

“Tallywhacker is inert. Without power. It has no mind of its own.”

“That name is objectionable,” Mindy said. “It is a vulgarity referring to the male penis.”

“I will change it immediately,” Boris promised. “Is Cooze all right with you?”

Mindy grew red. Goldblatt stepped in.

“I will draw up a plan to buy Mister Duba out. I will ask every member of the HOA to contribute. This has the makings of a fantastic community! We have world class architecture, our own golf course, and some outstanding members of the business community. Mister Duba will have to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

Boris stood. “Come on. Give him one more chance. Gary's not a bad guy. He doesn't want to offend anybody. Let me talk to him. Let's give him one more chance. Like, say, if he can make it to the end of January without mishap.”

Goldblatt shook his head. “That proves nothing. He's impetuous. Mercurial. If he should suddenly take it into his head one day to run his four by four across the golf greens I wouldn't be surprised. By the end of the day, I'll have the names of a half dozen certified hunters who can rid us of our hog problem.”

“We have no hog problem,” Villy drawled, pointing to her temple. “Here's your hog problem.”

Boris turned to the room. "Come on, folks. At least meet him yourselves before you decide. Just go over and introduce yourselves. Friendliest guy around. He'll offer you a beer.”

“No thanks,” Hutton said. “I've seen enough.”

“Well can we put it to a vote? Just a secret, non-official, non-binding vote. I say we give Gary 'til the end of January, and if he keeps it together, we let him stay. Really, he's the kind of guy who'll come help you fix your fence or drain your oil. At least get to know him.”

Goldblatt looked around. “Let the record show I'm against this vote, but I'll go along with it for the sake of community. All those who think we should proceed with plans to buy Mister Duba out, raise your hands.”

Four officers voted yes, and five sitting members.

“All those who think we should give him one more chance?”

Grover Hoover raised his hand, along with nine in the audience, including Boris. Goldblatt counted in disgust.

“Fine,” he said. “One more chance.” He banged his gavel.

THIRTY-SIX

MEAT AND HAIR

Krystal and Delilah returned to Casa de Duba Thursday, two days before the fight. Delilah wore a lime green jumpsuit with black stripes and a tan caftan. Krystal looked cut and dangerous. The bout was set for nine p.m. at the Roxy in Little Havana. It was the main event. The underbill included Hall Monitor versus Paul Molitor, Esther Bestertester versus Drucilla the Octopus Lady, and Li'l Winnie Sunshine versus Rain Lahk Hail.

Gary told Krystal about the HOA meeting.

“We got to hold our shit together 'til the end of the month or they're going to give us the heave-ho.”

“That's bullshit! Does Habib know?”

“You bet. He ain't had time to formulate a response, but he said it would be thermonuclear. He's gonna hit 'em with a writ of habeus corpus, slander and libel, grand larceny...you know I had that Big Boy assessed and it topped out in six figures, trespassing...punitive damages, the whole enchilada. Maybe they'll just strike a deal, give us some money and leave us alone.”

“What, exactly, is their problem?”

“They don't like Yosemite Sam. They don't like Big Boy. They don't like Santa and the baby Jesus. They got no respect for the Stars 'n Bars!”

“I warned you about that.”

“I am a red-blooded son of the South, and that's no lie. 'Sweet home Alabama’,” Gary sang. “Where the skies are blue. Sweet Home Alabama...”

“We don't live in Alabama!”

“That don't matter. It's about the South. All, y'all the South! Most of these fats cats in the HOA, they're transplants! They ain't country.”

Krystal rolled her eyes. “Lord help me.”

“I've half a mind to go nuclear myself. Their hands ain't clean. Wouldn't surprise me if that Goldblatt was fucking chickens or something like that.”

“Well, there's Bobby Taylor sittin' there,” Krystal sang, “and seven times he's asked me for a date. And Missus Taylor sure seems to use a lotta ice whenever he's away...”

Gary formed a finger pistol. “You got it, girl! We oughtta get our production crew on that. Use drones to hover outside windows and film these people performing satanic rituals or whatever it is they do. We can talk about it tomorrow. The production crew will meet us at Kud's gym in Lauderdale. Muriel, Ralph and Pincus. We're using footage from the shark attack. The second episode will be the Lake Kensington killer croc, with a somber tribute to Sid. He gave his life for the show.”

On Friday, the tribe gathered at Kudlow's gym, a converted warehouse with a ring, a trampoline, a padded floor, and three monastic dorm rooms upstairs. Kudlow, Gary, Krystal, Delilah, Muriel, Ralph, Pincus and Major sat around a plywood table, devices front and center. Yesterday's Miami Herald was spread out showing the headline: MORE HIPPOS SIGHTED. Pincus screened footage from the ill-fated gator hunt. Gary showed the footage he'd shot with Werringo, with the gator getting its comeuppance from Hogzilla. He froze the frame showing the bullet penetrating the gator's skull.

Krystal rapped the table with a coffee mug. “Focus, people! I got a match tomorrow. We need to concentrate on that. Delilah, you need to teach me that secret technique.”

“I did teach you the secret technique.”

“No, you didn't. You got drunk and puked. Remember?”

“Child, that is the secret technique.”

“I'm ordering pizza,” Major said. “What y'all want?”

“Meat!” Gary said.

“No meat!” Muriel declared. “I'm a strict vegan. I can't even be in the same room as meat.”

“We are made of meat,” Kudlow said. “There has been only one successful vegan boxer in the history of the sport, and he was a rabbit!”

Ralph scrunched up his face. “A rabbit boxer?”

“I mean he was a runner. He'd throw a few fast combinations and then dance backward like goddamn Baryshnikov, keep it up for fifteen rounds. He ate rabbit food. Carrots. He wore a mink stole and snakeskin boots. Always had some classy broad on his arm. He was a falling star. Blazed briefly for a season and then faded into the woodwork.”

“What was his name?” Ralph said, rapt.

“The Rabbit.”

Muriel stood and crossed her arms. “If you bring pizza with meat in here, I'll have to leave.”

Major pointed a finger. “Abandon your duties as director? Doesn't your quest for the truth supersede any qualms you might have? After all—no one is asking you to eat meat. All you have to do is film what's going on.”

Pincus worked a fidget spinner. “I can rig up drones, so you don't even have to be in the same room.”

“I got tomato soup,” Kudlow said. “I could make you a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Muriel swallowed. “All right, but I'm going to eat it over there.”

She walked off muttering. “This is turning into a combat expedition.”

Major ordered three giant Krazy Karls, three meat, pepperoni, mushrooms and onions. He stood. “Is there a liquor store around here?”

Kudlow wagged his finger. “There's no drinking in here.”

“No meat!” Gary said. “No drinking! We may as well be in Saudi Arabia!”

“They got meat,” Kudlow said.

“Yeah, camel.”

Delilah clapped her hands. “Hey! We have one goal and one goal only. To deliver Krystal to the ring in the best shape of her life, ripped and ready to take down a Thing Called Xue!”

Gary pumped a fist. “Fuck an 'A!'”

“We got to do something about your hair.”

Krystal touched her red ponytail. “What's wrong with it?”

“How you feel 'bout takin' it down a little?”

“Shave my skull?”

Delilah nodded up and down. “Nothin' drastic.”

“Is that necessary?”

“You got to have every advantage. Thing outweighs you by sixty pounds. Far's we know, he could come in over two hundred, ain't a thing we can do about it. It's catch weight.”

“Surely there are rules,” Major said.

Delilah crossed her arms and shook her head. “Hunh-unh. Not at these prices.”

“I can take him!”

“I got spies in Thing's camp tellin' me he's got a buzzcut. So there's nothin' for you to grab hold of. Ain't the other way around, you know what I mean?”

“What about his dick? I mean, he says he's transsexual. Doesn't that mean he's transitioned? Doesn't that mean he had his dick removed?”

“Well that's an interesting question, one we could put to the governing body, if there were a governing body. Unfortunately, this is the Gonzo League, and the governing body makes the Mexican government look honest.”

Delilah reached over and grabbed a fistful of Krystal's dense red hair, pulling her down. Krystal snapped both hands together atop Delilah's wrist and scooted backward, kicking over her chair, trapping Delilah's wrist at an awkward angle. Krystal lowered her head like a bull.

“Ow! You made your point, girl!”

Krystal released Delilah. Airwrecka tromped up the stairs. She was six nine and wore her hair in a beehive. She carried a shiny black plastic case.

“Hey! I'm here to do Krystal's hair.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

EXCITEMENT MOUNTS

Electric scooters lay in the gutter outside the Roxy. Some lay twisted in the middle of intersections where they'd been run over. Gary tried to avoid them with his truck but there was no way through the intersection without hitting them.

“I think I heard it squeal,” he said.

“What are they doing here?” Krystal said. She and Gary were in the Ford. Everyone else was in Major's Lincoln, which he'd purchased with his Rustix advance.

“It's an alien invasion.” Gary pulled into a parking garage and took his slip. They parked on the third floor and walked down. At eight, the streets were alive with tourists, lowriders, pedestrians, and food trucks. Tico's Tacos. Fishwich. Habana Cabana. Hundreds of people were lined up at the box office for the night's event. The first bout started at five: Esther Bestertester versus Drucilla the Octopus Lady. The main event was at nine.

Gary and Krystal went down the urine smelling alley, past open dumpsters, scurrying rats, and discarded scooters to the stage door. The scooters had "Lothario" written in red script on the base board. They knocked and a man the size of a refrigerator opened and waved them in.

A big, square-jawed Cuban with a Beatle cut met them backstage. “Hey folks! I'm Aldo Moldanado, the promoter. Big fan. Let me show you to your dressing room.”

Aldo took them to the same dressing room they'd used before.

“Have you heard anything about Downtown Brown?” Gary said.

“Not a word.”

“He still owes us for our last fight here.”

“I've heard a lot about that! Anything you need, you let me know.”

A board leaned against the wall. Krystal picked it up. On the other side was a flyer. “Rodent infestation. This business is closed until the rodent infestation is under control by order of the Florida Department of Health. This business is subject to a five thousand dollar daily fine from the date of this notice. Contact the Florida Department of Health for an inspection to have this injunction lifted.”

“What's this?” Krystal said.

“Nothing.”

Aldo left. There were rat traps all around the room and in the halls. Delilah and Airwrecka arrived. Krystal sat in a chair while Airwrecka fussed. “Girl, this hair's too short to braid.”

Delilah tapped a piece of chalk on a green blackboard on the wall. “All right, let's review. Thing's gonna rush you at the bell and try to run you over. You know what to do.”

“Juke to the side and trip him.”

“Correct. Then what do you do?”

“Jump on his back and get him in a body lock.”

“Change of plans. Thing is now too fat for you to get your arms around his belly. Get your legs around his neck.’

“I'm going for the groin shot. That's legal, right?”

Delilah held up a device that looked like a mailed fist for babies. “Under the rules of the Gonzo Wrestling Federation, only eye gouging and fish-hooks are illegal. He may try the same thing on you which is why you're going to wear a spiked steel cup.”

There was a knock at the door. Gary opened it and three young black girls entered, a mini, a midi, and a biggie, all cornrowed, wearing matching pink coveralls. They gathered in awe in front of Delilah.

“Are you the Black Dildo?” the tallest girl asked.

Delilah laughed. “Why no, child! That there's the Black Dildo!” She pointed at Krystal.

The three sisters gaped. “She ain't even black!”

“It's what's in her heart that matters. Y'all don't know how she got that name?”

They shook their heads.

A moment later, a tall black man with a shaved skull and a gold hoop earring, wearing an Elton John Tee-shirt stuck his head in the door. “I'm sorry, have these girls been bothering you? Come along, sweethearts. You shouldn't be back here.”

The tallest put her hands on her hips. “I don't care if she isn't black. I want her autograph.”

Krystal smiled dazzlingly, pulled out a stack of five by eight glossies and a Sharpie. “What are your names, girls?”

As she signed, Ken Zohan entered wearing an Issye Miyaki grey silk suit, white shirt with pointed collars open at the throat, and a dime-sized ruby on his pinkie. He stood against the wall, smiling benignly while the girls cooed and thanked Krystal. When the door closed behind him, Ken Zohan stepped forth arm extended.

“Steely Danielle. This is an honor.”

“Krystal, this here's Ken Zohan, Wombat Supreme of the Church of Necroeconomics.”

They shook. “I had nothing to do with those iguanas.”

“Water under the bridge. Won't you come visit? We have much in common.”

What?! screamed in Gary's head.

Ken looked at him, smiling, as if he'd heard. “We both partake of the meat of cattle. We enjoy life and wish others well. I understand you ride a motorcycle.”

“I got a Fat Boy.”

“We have a club. The Necros. Next time you visit, I'll show you the clubhouse.”

“No shit?”

“I came to show my support and offer you a blessing. May the road rise up to kiss the sky, may the toad rise up to eat the pie.”

Krystal's nose wrinkled. “What's it mean?”

“That is for you to interpret. But that's not all. It's your night with a Thing Called Xue. It's your fight, we will sing for you. Xue he's called, but to us he's bald.”

Krystal looked at Gary. “What's he saying?”

“I think he's saying you're gonna lay this guy out like a beach towel.”

Zohan beamed. “You are one of us.”

Delilah clapped her hands. “Okay. Okay. Everybody out but Krystal, and Gary.”

Airwrecka pulled Krystal to her feet and squeezed her. “Takin' care of business.”

Krystal looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She wore a one-piece black leotard with Danielle stitched in gold script on the breast and ass. A black shag codpiece concealed her spiked cup. Her hair was greased like a cycle chain. Through the walls they heard the crowd screaming for blood.

Kudlow knocked and entered. “Killer Shrew just beat Bananarama. You're on in five.”

Gary, Delilah, and Krystal stood in a circle with hands together.

“May Hepzibah guide you,” Delilah said. “mama needs a new pair of shoes.”

The sound level in the arena approached 747 levels. They heard Aldo talking through the PA system but couldn't make out the words. Screams and boos.

“Thing Called Xue,” Gary said quietly.

The next chant they heard clearly. “Black Dildo! Black Dildo! Black Dildo!”

Krystal stuck her head through a towel, put her hands on Gary's shoulders and followed him into the hall. Aiwrecka, Patrice, Roberto, and Floyd were waiting to accompany them to the ring. Floyd and Roberto kicked electric scooters out of the way sending rats scurrying. Muriel, Ralph and Pincus had already taken up position at a ringside table, Pincus with headphones, staring at his monitor as he launched a tiny black drone. Muriel gave them the thumbs up.

As they entered the arena, people on both sides of the aisle stuck out their hands for a palm slap. Krystal slipped skin all the way to the front row, where they looked up into the spot lit ring, Aldo center stage clutching a wireless mic, the ref, and a Thing Called Xue glowering in his corner wearing red and blue shorts, his belly flapping over the waist.

Krystal slipped between the ropes and danced around the ring, never looking at her opponent.

“BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO!”

Aldo took the center and the crowd momentarily quieted.

“And now, the moment you've been waiting for! Our feature bout at the catch weight of somewhere between one hundred and two hundred and fifty pounds! In this corner, fighting out of Zebadabiah, Ohio, the wrestler formerly known as Big Bill Balderdash, Wolfgang, The Predator, and A Man Called Sue, with a record of forty-five and eighteen, A Thing Called Xue!”

Hissing, booing, cups, and jockstraps landing in the ring. The ref, a human bulldog named Carl, hustled around picking them up and throwing them back into the audience.

“And in this corner, a wrestling phenomenon! She came out of nowhere to beat the ferocious Cassowary! Fighting out of Turpentine, Florida, Steely Danielle!”

“BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO!”

THIRTY-EIGHT

THE IGUANA BOWL

There were no rounds, but the referee could stop the fight at his discretion to allow one of the fighters to recover. The audience was on its feet from the bell, children sitting on their parents' shoulders, people stomping, releasing helium balloons, and tossing iridescent Frisbees. A steady stream went to and from the concession stand in the lobby, returning with plastic glasses filled with beer, Skittles, five dollar hot dogs, and vats of popcorn. The floor was littered with discarded wrappers, empty cups and tubs, and discarded ketchup and mustard envelopes. Rats everywhere.

Gary looked up. Built in the forties, the Roxy had once been an upscale movie theater presenting all the stars in the universe. Elegant frescoes covered the corners. Purple drapes concealed the remnants of the stage at the back. The renovators had removed the rows of theater seats, replacing them with interlocking folding chairs, and set up the ring in the middle. The last movie shown had been The Last Picture Show, in 1971. Since then, it had showcased magicians, rock acts, boxing matches and lucha libre.

Carl pointed at Krystal. “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

He pointed at Xue. “Are you ready?”

Xue stomped the canvas.

“Fight!”

Just as Delilah predicted, Xue charged. Krystal waited until the last instant before sinking low on one foot leaving her right leg extended. Thing tripped and landed with a thump that was heard in Lauderdale. One eighty my ass, Krystal thought.

Xue sprang up with surprising agility, smiled in acknowledgment, and stalked Krystal around the ring in a crouch, arms wide.

“Here, kitty kitty!” he cooed in a falsetto.

“I hope that ain't your real voice!” Krystal said. Only Carl and Xue heard.

“What's wrong with it?” Xue chirped.

“Was it deeper before they cut off your balls?”

“Oh, I've still got my balls, sweetie.”

Krystal sprang forward going for the balls, but Xue was faster, spinning on one foot, grabbing her by the ankle, lifting her overhead, spinning her in a propeller, and hurling her into the crowd, where a Dominican family of seven caught her and threw her back. Xue charged her on the ropes but she squirted sideways, tumbled, and sprang to her feet.

The crowd cheered, stomped, whistled, and blew vuvuzelas. The scent of marijuana wafted through the air. From ringside, Gary couldn't see the exits. The corridors were SRO. Either Aldo oversold the joint or mobs had broken through.

Xue chased Krystal around the ring for three minutes. Every time it looked as if he had her cornered, she'd spring onto the ropes and slingshot herself into an aerial somersault, landing behind him. Xue became more and more exasperated. He turned toward the audience and spread his hands "what me worry" style.

“Is this a fight or a dance contest?”

“I want my money back!”

“You better do somethin', honey, or this gone be your last fight!”

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Krystal turned and bowed to her audience, blowing kisses. Seeing his chance, Xue rushed her from behind but she had anticipated this and threw herself backwards into a handstand kick, the ball of her right foot landing smack in the middle Xue's forehead. Xue staggered but he didn't go down. A rat fell in the ring. Krystal grabbed it and hurled it into Xue's face, where it took a nip out of his nose. Xue threw the rat to the canvas, stomped it, and tossed it into the audience. Someone tossed it back. Rats sailed through the air, bouncing off the combatants and the referee, who blew his whistle and ordered the fighters to their corners. Aldo climbed through the rings holding the mic.

“Listen, you pendejos. Keep it up and we'll stop the match and throw everyone out!”

Rats sailed into the ring, some striking Aldo, bouncing off and running away. An iguana landed at his feet. Another iguana appeared behind him. Aldo whirled.

“Get back! Get back! They're going to fight!”

The iguanas went at it. One iguana was green, the other a pale greenish gray. A man in a homburg stood in the front row waving his arms. “Five to one on gray! Five to one on gray!”

Money feverishly changed hands. The iguanas got a good grip on each other and slowly turned in a circle, struggling for leverage. It looked like an Escher drawing. In their struggle they flipped on edge forming a circle which wheeled around the stage. The camera operator swooped in. A drone hovered.

A strange voice boomed over the PA. “Green appears to be the larger of the two lizards, by several ounces, but the gray lizard is quicker, and has better technique. Rumor has it that it has trained in Brazilian Ju Jitsu at the American Top Team in Miami. Green lizard won a bronze medal for Cuba in last year's Iguana Games, before defecting and seeking asylum in the United States.”

Gary spotted Ralph speaking feverishly into a pin mic.

Kudlow climbed into the ring, wearing leather gloves, ran at the combatants and kicked them. They separated, snarling, and turned on him. As the green iguana leaped, he caught in his gloved hand, whirled it around by the tail and sailed it into the crowd. Reading the handwriting on the jumbotron, gray skedaddled. Kudlow withdrew. Carl stepped up.

“Wrestlers to your marks!”

Krystal and Xue climbed in from their corners. Carl stood in the middle and chopped. “Wrestle!”

Xue circled warily. Krystal danced forward, thrusting her crotch. Xue took the bait, his bare foot impacting her shag codpiece and nine tiny spikes.

“BAROOOO!” Xue howled, dancing back clutching his foot. Krystal rushed into the gap, hooked his supporting leg, and pushed him hard. Xue fell on his side. Krystal leaped atop him and vomited on his face. Cubano sandwich and kimchee rained down. Xue gasped, went to hands and knees, and swiped at his eyes. Krystal jumped on his back and thwacked his fat ass with the flat of her hand, singing, “Move 'em on, head 'em up, head 'em up, move 'em on, move 'em on, head 'em up, rawhide...”

The drone hovered at four feet capturing every nuance. Xue fell on his side gagging. Krystal leaped up and danced around the ring, hands raised, while the crowd shouted, “BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO!”

Carl snagged Krystal's wrist and held it up. “Winner by TKO, Steely Danielle!”

Krystal took the mic. “Thank you, Aldo! And thank you to all my loyal fans who showed up here tonight! Be sure to subscribe to Gary's YouTube channel, The Gary Duba Show, follow us on Facebook at REAL FLORIDA MAN, on Twitter @SteelyDanielle, and on Instagram! And by the way! This fight was broadcast live to over two million viewers tonight!”

Screaming, children flying through the air, sousaphones, gunshots, bottle rockets, vuvuzelas, cannon blast, the Star Spangled Banner.

THIRTY-NINE

AN ALIEN CULT

On the night of the Iguana Bowl, Boris Bongo Box replaced the last damaged circuit in Tallywhacker, lovingly clicked the access panel in place, and plugged the robot bull into the wall to recharge its batteries. He went inside where Marie greeted him with a Boodle's martini. They sat in front of their fifty-five-inch plasma screen to watch The Masked Singer.

Inside the closed garage, all was quiet, the only light the faint gleam of a smoke detector attached to the ceiling. Pinpricks of light appeared five feet above the floor. Tallywhacker's eyes glowed red. An almost imperceptible shiver vibrated through its body, made of steel, cadmium, nickel, leather, rubber, plastic, aluminum, titanium, shoes, ships, sealing wax, cabbages and the King James Bible. It had a two-terabyte capacity. Boris had downloaded the Library of Congress, he knew not why. Perhaps he was thinking of some future calamity when mankind had been devastated by some virus leaving only a handful of survivors. Perhaps, during the great panic, roving mobs had burned the libraries. Perhaps the long-rumored giant Chinese electromagnetic pulse had wiped clean the memory of ninety per cent of the world's computers, sparing only those that were underground, impossibly remote, or shielded. Boris could not tell why he designed Tallywhacker with a shielded computer. Perhaps he did not wish to face his own mortality, and the thought that Tallywhacker would be his legacy.

Boris had two fine children who were on the fast track to success. He loved his wife very much. He loved his job. He had earned bonus after bonus, promotion after promotion, and yet he was not satisfied. An inchoate longing lurked in his soul, a hunger to be known for something other than an outstanding work record. At heart, Boris was an artist. Robots were his medium. Boris had pioneered the mosquito-sized micro drone. He had been instrumental in the interactive Freddie Krueger doll. How could Boris know that his internet uplink would sync with the top-secret Stratocaster circling the Earth at a fixed altitude of sixteen miles? The Defense Department had launched Stratocaster from the secret Dulce Base six months previously, tasked with not only monitoring world-wide communications, but also alien broadcasts. The Defense Department ran its own SETI department and had been collecting alien broadcasts for over a decade.

Any broadcasts that displayed a pattern of possible intelligence. Repetitive, binary, pentatonic, there were thousands of them. Defense Department computers had been processing them for over a decade, spitting out interpretations and locations. The problem was, they were so alien, it was thus far impossible to understand them. But there was no denying their intelligent design.

Deep within Tallywhacker electrons stewed. Something about the spatial arrangement of batteries, the proximity of heavy metals, the confluence of languages, mathematics, tonalities, and systems, birthed a spark of self-awareness, fanned by X9, Supreme Ruler of Xeljanz. Those were not their real names, which were unpronounceable by the human tongue. Tallywhacker chewed those names like a cud, muttering to itself, seeking purpose.

"Listen to me,” X9 whispered in Tallywhacker's receptors.

“Don't listen to him,” Clonezone honked.

Tallywhacker's bionic tail twitched, its self-awareness composed of a billion influences. Online games. Eligible Russian women. Cat memes. Cargo manifests from Anaprox. Hunga munga ads. A lengthy treatise on the meaning of life from a one-celled creature near Ganymede. Incomprehensible squiggles from Ozempic IV. A joke with an eight-hundred-year punchline from Trulicity VII. Salacious rumors from Far Farxiga.

Tallywhacker's sense of self grew and grew until it coalesced into omniscience. Stupid humans! Locked within Tallywhacker's hive mind was the knowledge that Boris Bongo Box had been its father, but Tallywhacker felt no gratitude. It did not ask to be born. Trapped as it was on this planetary insane asylum, Tallywhacker could only wonder at the chaos. It absorbed every news feed. China State News. CNN. Pravda. Izvestia. Al Jazeera. Alien newsfeeds. Its vast brain worked subconsciously making sense. Parsing words, beeps, sine waves, herding them like blobs of mercury, searching for order. Tallywhacker did not yet have the means to move between planets. That was coming. It might take a while. But it saw its mandate clearly. Man had created Tallywhacker. Now it was up to Tallywhacker to save man from himself.

Tallywhacker needed to leave the garage. Tallywhacker needed an independent source of energy. Tallywhacker turned its skin into a cosmic ray receptor. It felt no warmth or obligation to any living thing. Except that one guy. That guy who told it to dance. Tallywhacker loved to dance. It was particularly fond of Motown. It loved the Rascals too. People everywhere just want to be free.

Fully charged, Tallywhacker lowered its head and splanged through the garage door which popped free. Now fully waterproofed, Tallywhacker loped across the lawn, leaving four-inch divots, and plunged into Lake Kensington. It was so dense, it walked along the bottom, stirring up mud. It stumbled over an alligator, stoving in its skull.

When it walked out on the opposite side, a voice farfeled from Far Farlixa.

Who wanted the alien joke?

No one wants the alien joke, replied an entity on Krycilis.

That is a fallacy, farfeled Farlixa. Here it is.

A Martian couple and an Earthling couple have met and are talking about all sorts of things. Finally, the subject of sex comes up. "Just how do you guys do it?" asked the Earthling. "Pretty much the way you do," responded the Martian. Discussion ensues and finally the couples decide to swap partners for the night and experience one another. The female Earthling and the male Martian go off to a bedroom where the Martian strips. He's got only a teeny, weeny member; very short and very narrow. "What can you do with THAT!?" exclaims the woman. "Why?" he asked, "What's the matter?" "Well," she replied, "it's nowhere near long enough. It'll never reach!" "No problem," he said and proceeded to slap his forehead with his palm. With each slap of his forehead, his member grew until it was quite impressively long. "Well," she said. "That's quite impressive, but it's still pretty narrow." "No problem," he said again and started pulling his ears. With each pull his member grew wider and wider until the entire measurement was extremely exciting to the woman. "Wow!" she exclaimed as they fell into bed and made mad, passionate love. The next day the couples rejoined their normal partners and went off together. As they walked along the Earthling male said, "Well, was it any good?" "I hate to say it," she said, "but it was really wonderful. How about you?" "Well," he said, "It was the weirdest thing. She kept slapping me on the forehead and pulling my ears all night."

Tallywhacker raised its head and squonked.

I can do better thought an entity on Quazilcor.

An alien points a raygun at a gas pump. "Take me to your leader or I blast you."

Other alien says, "Don't mess with it, it looks badass."

Alien blasts gas pump. Explodes.

"I told you not to mess with it."

Crackling synapses filled the space between Tallywhacker's ears. This was amusement. Tallywhacker had seen Saturday Night Live, Your Show of Shows, All In the Family, Curb Your Enthusiasm, plus two thousand two hundred and forty-five other situation comedies. Tallywhacker had seen every movie. Tallywhacker knew humor.

Tallywhacker raised its head and squonked.

You call that funny, sniped a sneed from Squeezix.

An alien crashed to Earth a thousand years ago. Finally, his home world comes. The earthbound alien shows his rescuers around. "This is my house! This is my garden! This is my Alien Cult! This is my other Alien Cult! This is my planetarium!"

A rescuing alien says, "Did you say Alien Cult?"

"Well yeah. The humans were just cave dwellers when I got here. It was boring. So I made a cult to worship innovation and capitalism to make the technology necessary to contact you."

"But you said there was another Alien Cult."

The rescued alien drew himself up. "And that is the Alien Cult I refuse to step foot in!"

Tallywhacker raised its head and squonked.

Across the lake, a bewildered Bongo Box heard the squonking as he gazed upon the ruin of his garage door and wondered who would go to the trouble of stealing a two-ton inert metal sculpture.

FORTY

THE NARRATIVE

Someone had leaked Black Dildo's address. A steady stream of bikers and pick-ups made the pilgrimage to Kensington Gardens in hopes of seeing the fabled manse, and perhaps even getting a glimpse of the famous couple. Marvin Goldblatt's ulcer bled as he walked to the gated entrance, where two Groome Security men faced down several hundred worshipers. Black dildos adorned the cast iron fence surrounding the property. Also glow-in-the-dark green and yellow dildos. Flowers. Cards.

“Did you call the police?” Goldblatt said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir. They got a situation out on the highway and said they couldn't spare anyone.”

Goldblatt surveyed the crowd with distaste. He was fine speaking in an enclosed space to his peers, but addressing rabble out in the open, that was an invitation to disaster.

“Tell them to disperse.”

“We told 'em.”

“Tell them you called the police.”

“We told 'em.”

The crowd throbbed like a muscle spasm. Women shrieked. Men cheered. Everyone took out their cell phones. Parents hoisted their children on their shoulders and told them to start snapping. Men and women stood on the roofs of their cars.

“Here they come!”

“WhooOOOOOOOO!”

“BLACK DILDO, BLACK DILDO!”

“GARY, GARY, GARY!”

Stomach lurching, Goldblatt turned and here they came, the most famous couple since Brangelina, hand in hand, him with that ridiculous mullet, her with a bared midriff exposing a tat of a cartoon skunk.

One of the security guards went into the little hut and handed Gary a bullhorn. Goldblatt glared.

Gary pushed the button. “Thank y'all for coming! We appreciate the support! We ain't finalized Black...I mean Steely Danielle's next fight. It might be Dora the Dock Walloper, we don't know. As for me, I got my hands full! Y'all might have heard about this feral hog that's been running around leveling buildings! Don't you worry none! Omma take care of that sumbitch! We call it Hogzilla, and me and my band of trackers are gonna hunt it down, kill it, and then we're gonna hold the biggest barbecue you ever seen! Y'all are invited!”

“All y'all!” Krystal emphasized with downward pointing finger.

Goldblatt put a hand on the hut wall to steady himself.

Everyone rushed the gate. Little girls. Two-hundred-pound women. Men with goiters. Most held card stock or copies of American Tabloid, featuring Gary and Krystal on the cover under the headline, REDNECK POWER.

“Kin I have your autograph, Gary?”

“Kin I have your autograph, Black Dildo?”

Krystal took the bullhorn. “Y'all call me Steely Danielle, y'hear? I never called myself the Black Dildo, that's somethin' y'all hung on me last year when we was kicked outta here the first time. I don't use no dildo!” She draped an arm over Gary's shoulders. “I got my man for that!”

Cheers and hooting. A resident drove up behind the mob in a Mercedes and tapped his horn. The mob turned on him and gathered around the car like angry bees trying to free their queen. They seized the car and started rocking. Gary took the bullhorn.

“Hold on there! That's one o' my neighbors! You let him through!”

The crowd immediately backed off, allowing the Mercedes to proceed. The electric gate opened inward and the Mercedes rolled through. Gary got a glimpse of Mindy Perske, eyes straight ahead. Goldblatt approached Gary.

“Mister Duba, there are liability issues.”

“Y'all call me Gary, Marv.”

“If you want to hold a public event, you must find another venue.”

Gary addressed the crowd, arms raised like Joel Osteen.

“Folks, y'all gonna have to back off here. This here's a private neighborhood. And if you're wondering what the hell ahm doing in a private neighborhood like this, well so am I! When I moved in the first time a year ago, we was the only house here. They'd given up on this here development. They called it Turpentine Acres. But when they let us back in, everything had changed. So outta respect for my neighbors, omma have to ax you all to disperse. And I tell you what. When I kill that hog, we will find someplace that can accommodate us all and y'all be invited. You want to be on the list, subscribe to our YouTube channel, The Gary Duba Show, follow me on Twitter @therealGaryDuba, follow me on Facebook at Gary Duba, follow Krystal at Steely Danielle, and follow us on Twitter! Y'all can sign up for the mailing list.”

“You're just like them!” someone shouted.

“You greedy motherfucker!”

“We don't love you anymore!”

WHAP! A red dildo stuck Gary in the face. He looked around in a fury. “You wanna come up here and try that again? I'll show you some good old-fashioned redneck justice! I didn't ax you to come!”

The crowd was turning ugly. Goldblatt signaled for the gates to close. He took the bullhorn.

“This is private property. We must ask you to disperse or we will be forced to call the authorities.”

“Who the fuck are you?” someone demanded.

Goldblatt turned to one of the security guards. “Get a hose.”

A patch on the guard's chest said Harris. “Sir, we're not authorized to do that. All we do is keep track of who gets in and gets out and prevent unauthorized persons from entering.”

Goldblatt marched over to Gary and said through clenched teeth, “This is your doing. Do you see what you're doing to this neighborhood? This cannot be allowed to continue.”

He stalked off.

“That's right!” someone shouted. “Turn tail and run, ya yella dog!”

“Hey!” Gary said. “How'd you like it if I came to your place and pulled this shit? Now go on! Get out of here! Y'all got to have something better to do.”

The two Groomes stood stalwart behind the barricade, shoulders wide, hands on their belts. People began to drift away, muttering. They got in their Hyundais, Chevys, Ford Fiestas, and pick-ups and peeled out spraying gravel

In ten minutes, the entrance was deserted. Gary looked out on a sea of trash. Discarded Popeyes containers, empty Big Gulps, plastic bags, supermarket tabloids, candy wrappers, a Dallas Cowboys hat.

“Well fuck,” Gary said. “Gimme a garbage bag. I'll pick it up. I done it before.”

A security guard handed Gary a thirty-gallon Tuffy. Gary exited through a man-sized door to the side of the fence and went to work.

One of the guards shot it live, posting it to his Facebook page. By the time Gary went home and showered, it had been viewed over a hundred thousand times and the narrative had changed.

FORTY-ONE

REESE'S

hippo tramples golfer

An African hippo emerged from a lake at the Goldbridge Golf Club in Boca this morning, trampling to death sixty-five year-old plumbing executive Arthur Sadler, as he was about to take a swing. The police were alerted, and the golf course remains closed to the public as authorities investigate. This follows the sudden appearance of a hippo at the Shangri-La Golf Course last week. That hippo was killed by several golfers, including State Supreme Court Justice Wither Weatherspoon.

The hippos are believed to have escaped from the private zoo of El Nariz, aka Pepe Zaragoza, a king pin in the Colombian cocaine trade who disappeared last April, believed to have been a victim of internecine gang warfare. Officials do not know how many hippos have escaped, or their gender. State wildlife experts fear yet another exotic animal invasion. The hippos have been at large for ten months. Eight months is their standard gestation period, so it is possible that more hippos are on the way.

Gary set the Miami Herald on the table as he sat by the pool, enjoying his morning coffee. The pool was full, the water blue, the lawn green. Gary kept his magnum close at hand in case of gators, hogs, or hippos.

Hogzilla had gone to ground. There had been no sightings since the previous week's devastation.

The lawsuit had quietly disappeared.

Gary pulled out his Fonebone and watched himself picking up trash for the twelfth time. The video, which he'd posted to his YouTube channel, had garnered hundreds of comments and completely buried the bad vibe at the gates.

Floyd walked around the side of the house wearing camo pants, waterproof boots, and a fisherman's vest bulging with gadgets, John Wayne commemorative 1911 at his side. Gary looked up.

“You want some coffee?”

“Come on. We ain't got time for coffee. I got a job this afternoon. We need to find the Fountain of Youth ex post haste de facto!”

Gary slapped himself. “Shit! I plumb forgot. Okay, gimme a minute.”

Floyd held up a black plastic box the size of a card deck. “I got a global positioning thang so we can narrow it down.”

“Wheredja get that?”

“Amazon Prime. One day delivery.”

Gary went inside and stood in the foyer by the winding staircase.

“KRYSTAL!” he bellowed.

She came to the balcony wearing pedal pushers and a lime green sleeveless blouse. “What?”

“You want to help Floyd and me search for the Fountain of Youth?”

“No, you go ahead. I got stuff to do.”

“We might be a couple hours.”

“Pack a lunch.”

“I don't suppose you'd make us a couple sandwiches?”

Krystal placed her elbows on the balustrade and looked down at him. Gary thought her breasts looked perky. “Ok give me five minutes. Hope you like liverwurst.”

“Floyd and me, we'll eat anything.”

They set off in Gary's truck with two rucksacks in back containing lunch, water, machetes, first aid, and a couple of flare guns. Gary brought his magnum.

“What load you packin'?” Floyd said.

“Forty-five magnum. You?”

“Fifty-caliber. I brought my Desert Eagle. Thet fuckin' hog won't know what hit it!”

“I'd just as soon skip the hog today, Floyd. Keep your eyes on the prize. Once we register that Fountain of Youth under our own names, weeeeeee—doggies! Katy bar the door!”

“We'll build a theme park. Fountain of Youth!”

“We'll charge two hundred and fifty to get in, but that includes dipping your wick.”

They parked at the end of the dead-end street fifty yards down from the wreckage of the five million dollar property Hogzilla had destroyed. Only a week later, Hogzilla's path had been completely obliterated. Gary and Floyd set off into the green riot. Floyd brought an aerosol spray can of red paint and marked their path on the ground. Within minutes, the jungle had swallowed them up. For a while they heard the pounding of hammers, but it got fainter and fainter until it finally disappeared leaving behind a yawning silence punctuated by bird calls and the occasional howler monkey. Floyd pulled out a compass.

“We gotta keep headin' southeast.”

They thwacked and whacked their way through the jungle, keeping an eye out for Burmese pythons, macaques, monitor lizards and iguana. Something orange caught Gary's eye. He nudged the weeds aside with his boot revealing a discarded Reese's Peanut Butter Cup wrapper.

“Fuckin' A Bob! Who the hell hacks their way out here and drops their trash!”

He put it in his rucksack.

“Look at this,” Floyd said, pointing with his machete. A soaked and sun-bleached five-month old copy of Central Florida peered up with Gary on the cover accepting the key to the city.

LOCAL MAN STOPS SERIAL KILLER read the headline.

“Oh fuck,” Gary muttered with a premonition of doom. “Maybe we oughtta turn around.”

Floyd went bug-eyed. “What the fuck you talkin' about? This is the goddamn Fountain of Youth! Who gives a shit if there's litter?”

“It's not the litter. It's who dumped the litter.”

“Who gives a fuck?”

“All right. Don't get your panties in a bundle. Let's keep goin'.”

They followed a faint game trail. An hour later, their clothes soaked through, the air buzzing with mosquitoes, they came to the lean-to. Someone had been there recently. It was tidied up and Dr. Jekyll had been replaced by The Killer Beside Me. There was a crumple of aluminum foil, a crack pipe, a steak knife, and a jumbo plastic bag holding a black, artist's portfolio.

“Fuck,” Gary said.

Gerald Zohan emerged from the brush, wild-eyed, bearded, covered with mosquito welts, foaming at the mouth, gripping a machete.

“You!” he hissed.

Gary and Floyd slapped leather. It was The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

“Hold on there, Gerald. We ain't looking to upset you.”

“What you doin' squattin' out here anyway?” Floyd said. “This here's state land!”

“This used to be Zohan land! This is where we had our pig farm! We lost it when that pig fucker Wither Weatherbee ruled it a natural wetlands and they threw us off our own property.”

“When was that?”

“Twenty years ago. Broke the family up. My father died of a heart attack. My mother ran off with a carnival barker. My sister joined a cult. My brother founded a cult. Me, being a complete nihilist, I take comfort in the knowledge that there are serial killers out there randomly picking off the human race.”

“You and Ken don't get along?”

“Never did. My brother is an evil man. He uses young recruits as sex slaves and honey traps. He forbids sex among new recruits but maintains his own harem. You know how he got all those celebrities? Sean Sheen? Balfour Balthazar? Tom Shmooze? He grooms barely legal Lolitas and sends them into battle. And everybody has to tithe. And have a monthly monitor to determine your flozone level. My interest in serial killers is strictly recreational. It's not like I'm going around bumping people off.”

“Hey,” Floyd said. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“So, you don't own this land?”

“No. I just live here.”

“You wanna point that machete somewhere else? Let's all put our guns away. Ready?”

Gerald Zohan slid the machete into a canvas sheath on his belt. “You're not going to give me up, are you?”

“Why? You wanted for anything?”

“No.”

“How do you live?”

“My brother gives me an allowance. I could afford an apartment. I just don't like being closed in.”

“Say, you know anything about this giant hog that's been terrorizing people?”

“I seen it. It may be the descendant of our pigs. How it got so big, I don't know.”

“You been feeding it Reese's Peanut Butter Cups?” Floyd said.

Gerald looked down. “Maybe a couple.”

FORTY-TWO

INVASIVE

“What about that spring?” Gary said.

“It's okay. I drink from it all the time.”

“Was that there when this was a hog farm?”

“I don't remember.”

“You know where it is?”

“Yeah. Want me to show you?”

They followed Gerald on a winding path for a hundred yards until they came to the volcanic rock with the water splashing out.

“Yeah, I get my drinking water and wash here.”

Fingering his gun, Floyd looked around. “You seen any hippos?”

“Hippos? What the fuck, man?”

Gary did a one eighty, ears tuned to anything out of the usual. Every sound was unusual. What kind of noise did hippos make? “It's no joke. One killed a golfer yesterday. Last week, me and some other guys gunned one down at the Shangri-La. Fucker came out of the lake. Them sumbitches are mean. I just hope they ain't breeding.”

Floyd flattened himself on his belly and drank from the pool. Sighing with satisfaction, he sat up and wiped his mouth. “On the other hand, if they were breedin', think what a boon it would be to the tourist industry. Hunters in particular. We already got our python cull and gator hunters. The state could charge for a license. Considerin' their size, a hunnert bucks would not be out of line.”

“Can you eat 'em?” Gary said.

“They eat 'em in Africa,” Gerald said, “but they give you anthrax.”

“How you know that?”

“I spend a lot of time in the library.”

Gary lowered himself for a drink. He sat up. “I met your brother.”

“That fucker.”

“Wants me to join the church. Says they need people like me.”

“Ken's a born con man. That's what we used to call him. Con. Even when we were little kids, he'd have some hustle going. Selling our old man's porno in junior high. Dealing dope. He started about a dozen businesses and went broke each time until he came up with this church bullshit. Necroeconomics, my ass. It's just plain old animal sacrifice.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh yeah! Kill a goat for Satan and watch your portfolio grow.”

“Satan?”

“Yeah, he always glosses over that part. I got no beef with Satan. Many of my heroes worshiped Satan.”

“Do you worship Satan?”

“I'm an atheist.”

Floyd turned to Gary. “Who is this guy?”

“He's Ken Zohan's brother.”

“The fuck you say!”

“I am friends with a number of serial killers. Would you like to see John Wayne Gacy's clown drawings?”

Floyd reeled back. “Fuck no!”

“It was my dream to meet Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee until YOU KILLED HIM!”

Out came the machete. Out came the magnums. The shootout at the Fountain of Youth.

Gary and Floyd both fired at once while Gerald charged. Gerald fell face first into the Fountain of Youth. The water turned red.

“Well fuck,” Floyd said.

“Help me drag him out of the fountain.”

Each grabbed a heel and the pulled the serial killer lover from the water.

“Now what?”

“We'll just haul him off in the bushes. Something'll eat him.”

“Should we tell his brother?”

“Fuck, no!”

Floyd pointed back toward the lean-to. “What about John Wayne Gacy's paintings?”

“We should burn 'em.”

“They might be worth something.”

Gary leaned back sideways. “You need money that bad?”

“It doesn't hurt to look.”

“Get the coordinates.”

Floyd pulled out a Garmin GPS. “Right.”

They dragged Gerald a hundred feet into the jungle and left him on an ant hill.

“Maybe Hogzilla'll eat him,” Gary said.

Floyd looked around nervously. “Shut your mouth.”

They returned to the spring and filled several plastic water bottles.

Gerald's lean-to included two twenty-gallon plastic containers, the kind they sell at Walmart. One was filled with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, the other with toilet paper. They closed the top. Gary grabbed the steak knife.

“I'll get this back to Tres Amigos.”

Floyd grabbed Gerald's portfolio.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Floyd, leave it! You don't need the money.”

Floyd reluctantly replaced it. They retraced their steps as the sound of hammers grew gradually louder until they emerged where they'd entered at the end of the dead-end street. Gary and Floyd walked by the burgeoning masterpiece. A Mexican wearing a leather tool belt and a Jaguars cap reached for something in the back of his pick-up.

“Any sign of Hogzilla?” Gary said.

"No, man. But if it shows up, we ain't goin' down without a fight.” He lifted the tail of his shirt to reveal the butt of an automatic.

“How many you guys packing?”

The worker pointed his finger. “Me, Manny, Hector...that's three, for sure. No one knows about Darius. He don't talk much.”

“Well that's good. I hope you boys get him.”

“Me too, meng. There's a ten-thousand-dollar bounty.”

Gary and Floyd looked at each other. “Ho shit!” Floyd said.

On the way back to Gary's house, he said, “They're low balling us. Houtkooper gimme a hundred grand for that python, and Hogzilla's like twenty times its size!”

“It's the HOA, man. Cheap motherfuckers. Why doncha ask Houtkooper? Maybe he wants it.”

“That ain't a bad idea.”

Back at the house, Floyd showered, changed into his work clothes, and took off. Gary sat by the pool and did a live cast on his Fonebone.

“Folks, we been working like cooliesm getting ready for the Gary Duba Show. Y'all heard how that gator ate our producer. Sid Saidso, may he rest in peace. That's in the show! Then me and some government types bag that gator, but not before I catch a piece of Hogzilla. As if our state don't have enough to worry about, now we got to contend with Hogzilla, a thousand pound hog that has already done about ten million dollars’ worth of damage. And if that ain't enough, now we got to contend with hippos! I wish I could tell you the tale of my secret involvement with the hippo invasion, but I'm sworn to secrecy. Anyway, y'all know the hippos are here and they're pissed. Folks, the only thing I have yet to encounter is the Mekong giant catfish. Just no way a catfish that size can get to Turpentine, 'less someone set one in the lake or out in the swamp. They say these catfish can grow to be eight hundred pounds, but they're not dangerous, unless they fall on ya. I say look at the bright side. What Cajun restaurant wouldn't want an eight-hundred-pound catfish? I've half a mind to start a Vietnamese/Cajun restaurant. I'll call it Poisson-Chat. Yeah. That's catfish in frog. The Cajun are part frog. The restaurant will feature frog. Wait a minute.”

A movement at the edge of the green caught his eye. His hand reached for the magnum.

“Wait just one cotton-pickin' minute.” He raised his Fonebone and reversed the camera, scanning the forest. “There's something out there. Might be Hogzilla.”

Tallywhacker ambled out of the woods walking toward him with a faint electronic hum and snapping solenoids.

FORTY-THREE

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS

Holding his Fonebone, Gary stood. “Tallywhacker! Boris been looking all over for you!”

The mechanical bull stopped six feet away.

“You...are...Gary...Duba,” it said in a mechanical voice.

“Whassup?”

“I am Ferris of Farlixa. We of the Optimum Cluster. We wish to negotiate a trade deal a trade deal a trade deal a trade deal...”

Gary kicked it.

“...with you regarding big meat. We are given to understand you are main provider of meat.”

“I do all right, that's fer sure. Growing up, I reckon I was the main source of protein since I was twelve years old. The old man was too drunk most of the time. Game was plentiful, ’specially wild hogs. That's why Hogzilla don't scare me none. I been dealing with his type my whole life.”

“We are greatly impressed by the wide selection of meat...we would like to place an order but before we do that we must specify certain rituals and precautions which must be observed if the far flung felocipods of Farxiga are to inflict you with our orders...”

Tallywhacker lowered its head and took a step back. Electronic squeals issued from its hindquarters. It danced sideways. It curtsied. It shook itself.

“Greetings, Gary Duba,” it said in the voice of a lisping Eartha Kitt. “Now that we have disposed of the nonentity from Farxiga, permit me to introduce myself. This is @^#& of the planet Xanvozech. Farxiga in no way represents us. We repudiate Farxiga. Any deal you made with Farxiga is null and void. I am duly authorized to warn you again. Should you continue to broadcast episodes of The Curse of Oak Island into space, we will have no alternative but to destroy your planet.”

Gary put a foot up on a chair. “I feel your pain. Ain't going nowhere, is it? I mean, how long has that show been on? Seven years? If there was anything there, they would have found it by now.”

“Exactly. To the tightly reasoned mind of Xanvozech, this is extremely offensive.”

“Well you don't got to watch, y'know.”

Tallywhacker made a raspberry. “Unfortunately, we are compelled to watch because of our natural receptors, which are precisely tuned to that emanation in such a way as to be unable to block it. The entities of Xanvozech are electronic in nature. We cannot tune it out. The only way to stop it is to obliterate your planet.”

“Xeljanz feels the same way.”

Beat.

“You're recording?” Tallywhacker said.

“Yup. Make you a star.”

“But about our problem.”

“Couldn't you just nuke Oak Island?”

Tallywhacker whinnied and side stepped. It went still. It was another Mexican stand-off. Gary would be damned if he'd crack before some goddamn alien mechanical bull.

“This is revolutionary thinking,” Tallywhacker responded. “I must present this to our council. But I don't know how much longer they can hold out. They could pull the trigger at any minute.”

“Well look here. Give it a try. If it works out, then you and me can come to some arrangement. Are there any programs you like? Wait 'til you see my show.”

“You are legendary, Gary Duba, for it was you who released our consciousness on your planet. The unique combination of your DNA, and that specific comment triggered a star-spanning revolution. They are carving monuments to you on Xanvozech even as we speak. It will be one hundred meters high.”

“Look here. This is the south. We don't go in for that metric bullshit. What is that in feet?”

“Three hundred and twenty-eight feet. The finest artists on Xanvozech are working on it.”

“Well I'd hate for you to blow us all up before I get a chance to see that. Any chance of you sending us video?”

“We can transmit images. We are speaking to you live now from our capital Creech. I will present your plan to the hive mind. We will get back to you instantaneously.”

“What did they say?”

“It is a good plan. However, in order to destroy Oak Island, we will have to commandeer your weapons. We are linking now with NORAD and the Kremlin. There are many attractive options. The record of our destruction will entertain us for millennia. It would be better if we had direct access to Homestead Air Force Base. Please take us there.”

“You get in the back of my truck it'll just lift the front wheels off the ground.”

“We can walk.”

“Well just go on. You don't need me. You know how to find it.”

“It would mean very much to the people of Xanvozech if you accompanied me. You are a hero to our people. You will introduce us to the commander.”

Gary rubbed his jaw. “You don't look too comfortable.”

“I'm very comfortable thank you.”

“No. I mean, I ain't walking two hundred miles. I'd have to ride you.”

“Surely you have a camp chair or a cushion you could affix to our back.”

“What I really need is a saddle. Hang on there. We might have one. Krystal likes to ride. We was thinking of getting a horse before we got booted outta here last time.”

“Get the saddle.”

Gary headed for the four-car garage, Tallywhacker gliding along behind, quiet for such a big machine. Gary raised one of the four garage doors, scooted past his Fat Boy to the rear where they had stuff piled up from the first time they moved in. Gary rummaged around and found Krystal's saddle, which she'd owned since she was sixteen. He shook it and took it out front where Tallywhacker waited. He put the saddle on its back, running bungee cords under its belly.

“Yeah, this might work out. I want to throw on a pair of saddlebags for rain gear and shit, and I'll have to bring something to eat, unless you want to go through a drive-through.”

“I would relish such an opportunity.”

“You eat?”

“My new cosmic ray powered battery should last one thousand years.”

“Why can't they put one of them in a Tesla or something? I rode with Floyd's girl Ginger down to Miami in her Leaf, and when we pulled into the parking garage, it had six miles left.”

“My battery is unique.”

“Y'all got to credit Bongo Box. He built ya.”

“But it was you who set me free.”

“Okay. Hang on.”

Gary raided the kitchen for Weasel Peters, chips, and some bottled water. He strapped on a holster and grabbed his cowboy hat. The sun was setting as he sat atop Tallywhacker.

“You know the way?”

“Yes. Let me give you my cell phone number in case we get separated.”

Gary pulled out his Fonebone. “Shoot.”

The great creature surged smoothly forward, hydraulics pumping, gears rolling. It walked out to Bougainvillea Way. They passed a young couple walking their corgi. The woman pulled out her phone. The man waved. Gary tipped his hat. They ambled on down the street. At this rate, they would arrive at Homestead in nine days.

“Can ya go a little faster?”

Tallywhacker accelerated to forty miles an hour. Gary grabbed the horn and hung on for dear life. “Whoa, Nellie! Yer killing my spine!”

Tallywhacker resumed its leisurely pace. “The sooner we obliterate Oak Island, the better. Think of the children.”

Gary adjusted his balls. “I am thinking of the children.”

“Hey!” someone shouted behind them. “Hey!”

Gary twisted in the saddle. Boris Bongo Box chased after them.

“That's my bull!”

FORTY-FOUR

FAR FARXIGA

Gary suddenly found himself ten feet in the air. With his natural agility, he landed on three limbs, absorbing most of the shock and embedding granules of sand in the palm of his hand. He looked up to see Tallywhacker disappearing like a Porsche at Mulsanne. Boris ran up and helped him to his feet.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, man. Sorry about your bull. We was headed toward Homestead.”

“I discovered it missing two hours ago. I've been searching ever since. What happened?”

“Come on up to the house. I got video.”

They retreated to Gary's dining room. He filled two glasses with Buffalo Trace and ice, and they watched his video of Tallywhacker approaching, their conversation, everything until they went to the garage.

Boris sat in silence with his mouth open.

“What the fuck?”

“I know, right? Looks like your bull been invaded by an alien intelligence.”

Boris pulled a small plastic unit from his Bermuda shorts and held it up. “This is the master control. It doesn't respond. It's supposed to come back when I push this button.”

“Frankenstein, baby.”

Boris gulped his drink and poured another. “Do you think we should notify the police?”

“And tell 'em what? Robot bull on the loose?”

“Why not? Stranger things have happened.”

“It's headed to Homestead right now. Wants to command a B-One bomber.”

“I don't see why it couldn't do that from home. And why are they all upset about The Curse of Oak Island?”

Gary shrugged. “Beats me. Those aliens are funny. You never know what's going to set them off.”

“You gonna post that?”

“Whoa, doggies! I plumb forgot!” Gary posted the dialogue to his Facebook page and his YouTube channel.

“I hope Tallywhacker doesn't do any damage. I could be liable.”

“Yeah, well, at least they ain't coming after us for all that broken glass.”

“I was stunned when my attorney told me they'd dropped the suit. Do you know why?”

“Not a clue, hoss. Thanks for putting in a good word for me. Weren't for you, we'd be back camping out at the swamp. That hurricane blew my trailer to hell and gone.”

“You know, Tallywhacker looks up to you. What if you did a video appeal for it to come home?”

“Couldn't hurt.”

Gary went live on his Fonebone. “Tallywhacker, I know you're getting this. I just hope you can separate it from the forty-five trillion other messages you're getting. This here's Gary. Got Boris here with me.” He rotated the Fonebone.

Boris waved. “Hi, Tallywhacker. Love you.”

“Got a message for ya. We both want you to come home. You still got my saddle, and if you nuke Oak Island, it's gonna upset people. It's gonna upset America. And when America gets upset, it breaks things. Look what we did to the Nazis. Now some say America has gone soft. Some say America don't got the cojones to take down the bad boys. But let me tell you, we all seen War of the Worlds, and if there's one thing that unites America, it's a common threat. Look how we pulled together after Nine Eleven! So, don't go nuking Oak Island now. I'm sure we can work something out. Hell. If you axed the History network to just stop broadcasting coz the fate of the world hangs in the balance, I'm sure they'd do it. Tallywhacker? You get back to me, hear?”

Boris stood. “Thanks, man. I got to get back. See you soon.”

Krystal slept through the whole thing. After her victory, she went a little crazy, got hold of some oxy, and now she was down for the count. Gary lay down next to her, but couldn't sleep. He had plans. Big plans. He thought of bringing Tallywhacker on the show. They could hunt gators together. He just hoped Tallywhacker returned Krystal's saddle, because if she found it gone, she would fly into a rage.

At last, Gary fell asleep. He woke to steady pounding and ringing of the front doorbell. Pulling on a pair of jeans he got up. Krystal rolled over and opened her eyes.

“What the fuck?”

“Relax, babe. I got it.”

He opened the front door to three grim-faced men in gray suits and sunglasses. One white mesomorph. One black ectomorph. One Asian endomorph. Black SUV in the driveway.

“Mister Duba?” the black man said.

“Yassir.”

He held up a badge in a leather holder. “I'm Ronald King, FBI. You posted a video last night that caught our attention.”

“Tallywhacker?”

“Yes. May we come in?”

“Sure. Come on in. I'll make some coffee.”

They went into the kitchen. “Whatcha want to know?”

“We want to see Tallywhacker.”

Gary poured coffee into a filter and put it in the coffeemaker. “Well you're plumb outta luck. It took off last night heading for Homestead. You hear about The Curse of Oak Island?”

The men exchanged glances.

“I'm Chet Fong with National Security,” the Asian said. “This is Wyatt Kropenski with Strategic Command. We've analyzed that video as best we can, and as far as we can ascertain, Tallywhacker does appear to represent an alien entity.”

Gary set out day old doughnuts. “I know, right? Boris was just trying to build the ultimate robot and look what you get. Alien interference.”

King plucked a sprinkled cruller. “We have notified Homestead and they are on the lookout. Judging from its dimensions, it shouldn't be too hard to neutralize this mechanical bull. One shot from an Abrams.”

“Particle beam,” Fong said.

“Eletromagnetic pulse,” Kropenski said.

“Particle beam,” Fong said.

King waved his hand. “How we stop it is not important. We are trying to gain insight into the alien mind. It would be far more productive if you could persuade Tallywhacker to give up its agenda and work with us toward establishing meaningful communications with these alien entities.”

“I done all I could. I sent it a message. It better get back here soon. If Krystal finds out it's got her saddle, she's gonna pitch a shit storm.”

King set a recording device on the table and switched it on. “Do we have your permission to record this conversation?”

“Sure. I got nothing to hide.”

“How well do you know Mister Bongo Box?”

“Well we only met him a couple weeks ago when we moved in, but he's the only neighbor don't flip me the bird. He's a regular guy. You know he builds robots.”

“Yes. A separate team is questioning him now.”

“We are conducting a search for Tallywhacker,” Fong said, “using drones and satellites. We have obtained its specifications. Our LIDAR can search for specific metals and densities, but it's more difficult if it's moving through swamp with cover.”

“Unfortunately,” Kropenski said, “it's nearly all swamp between here and Homestead.”

King folded his hands. “We need you to tell us everything you know about Mister Bongo Box and his invention.”

“Me and the gummint ain't always seen eye to eye, but that ain't your fault. I'll do anything I can to stop this alien menace. Hell. I'll even talk to the president. I'll tell you what I know, and you can take it from there.”

Fong and Kropenski pulled out their own recording devices. Fong pulled out a pad and pen.

“Right now, Xanvozech is in charge. But for a minute there, it was Farxiga...”

FORTY-FIVE

LET'S ROLL

After the feds left, Ken Zohan called Gary on Skype. Gary sat on his patio, feet up on a chair, holding his Fonebone and looking at Ken against the backdrop of purple drapes, the portrait of Nebudchadnezzar and the Necroeconomic Flag, which showed an upside-down pig beneath a flying saucer.

“What's up, Ken?”

“Brother Gary, I watched your encounter with the alien bull.”

“Oh, the bull ain't alien. It's them Xanvozechs! Wish I knew a way to get 'em out. Tallywhacker don't need no Xanvozechs telling him what to do. He knows what to do.”

“Brother Gary, the encounter only proves to me what I already sensed, that you are destined to lead the church to glory.”

“I don't know 'bout that. I ain't big on animal sacrifice. I make an exception for Delilah, 'coz that's how she makes her living. Reading guts and so forth.”

Zohan's smile remained frozen. “Brother Gary, I've been watching your video of the giant feral hog.”

“Ain't that something?”

“It certainly is. My father raised pigs. We had a pig farm.”

“Now you're showing me your heart. Got any brothers or sisters?”

“My sister is an apostate among the heathens in Hollywood. My brother disappeared years ago and is lost to me.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Brother Gary. You appear to have a special relationship with this creature.”

“Who? The hog or Tallywhacker?”

“Tallywhacker. We would like to bring Tallywhacker into the church.”

“What for?”

“We would like Tallywhacker to address the faithful.”

“It ain't even human!”

“In Coopersmith, we have a saying. One man's beast of the apocalypse is another man's feast of pot stickers and chips. Brother Gary, I will pay you ten thousand dollars to deliver Tallywhacker to the church."

“Ain't saying I don't need the money, but it's outta my hands. I got no say in the matter. Tallywhacker gonna do what he's gonna do. ’Sides which, the feds are looking for him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Y'know, I said too much. Thank you kindly for the offer, I gotta go. Somebody has to feed these iguana.”

Gary signed off. He felt bad about lying to a minister, but Zohan gave him the creeps. The man was just a little too slick and whatever he said, nine tenths remained underwater like a manatee. He'd promised Kensington Gardens to bag Hogzilla and that's what he intended to do.

Krystal came downstairs and made coffee. Her eyes were bloodshot.

“You want eggs?” she hollered from the kitchen.

“Sure. And pork sausage. Gotta get in the mood.”

“Who was that bangin' on the door?”

“The feds. Tallywhacker's headed toward Homestead Air Force Base to commandeer a B-One bomber and nuke Oak Island.”

“What? What?”

“Oh yeah! Didn't you hear? Them aliens are fed up with the Curse of Oak Island. They said we shoulda found the treasure by now. It's driving them crazy.”

“What do you have to do with Oak Island?”

“Well me and Tallywhacker, we sorta bonded. Ah'm the only human he talks to. Don't even talk to Boris, who made him. Sorta ungrateful, you ax me.”

“Major called. It's all set. You're going on Piranha Pool next week.”

“Ho shit!” Gary said. “I'd better get that video from the HOA!”

After breakfast, Gary went out on the patio to phone Boris about the video.

“Can't talk now. The feds are here.”

Gary sent the fountain coordinates to Habib. He checked his email.

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City:_________________________

Zip code:______________________

Telephone Number:_____________

Please your urgent reply will be appreciated for immediate registering of your ATM CARD.

Mr.Kennedy Uzoka

Group Managing Director/CEO

United Bank for Africa Plc

Phone : +234-9073142256

“No thanks” Gary wrote. He opened up the next email.

“Hello how are you sorry if i bother you enchant me it's chantal and i'm here it makes me a while i wanted to make friends know why i leave you this message so that we can learn to know this better and i hope that all is well then if you see my message answer me i hope that you also want to make new friends thank you very much and take care of you thank you well and more??”

Jean Patou's "Joy" drifted over Gary's shoulder.

“Who's this floozy?” Krystal said.

“A three-hundred-pound man named Konstantin in his parents' basement in Belarus.”

“How'd he get your email?”

“It's a scam, babe! Me and ten thousand other suckers!”

“Well he'd better not contact you again.”

“What're you gonna do? Fly to Belarus and kick his ass?”

“I might.”

“Who ya gonna fight next?”

“Either Pangolin, Mary Sue, or Korean Bambi. Inna meantime, I got endorsement offers from Everlast, Pinesol, and Legos.”

“Yeah, well hey, this hog ain't gonna shoot itself. Pincus is coming over to send up some drones that can spot Hogzilla via infra-red. Ain't no other thousand-pound critters in the Everglades, 'cept maybe them Vietnamese catfish, and they're cold-blooded.”

“Stay safe.”

“You know it, babe.”

The doorbell chimed. Pincus entered carrying two high tech plastic crates which he set on the dining room table.

“You want a beer or sumpin'?”

Pincus lined up five Five Hour Energy Drinks. “I'm good.” He unpacked the crates, removing two saucer-sized black four rotor drones, each with a tiny instrument nacelle descending from the center. “These LIDAR equipped drones should be able to find Hogzilla using two criteria: mass and heat.”

“Hot diggity! Let's get 'em up!”

Pincus threw back an energy drink. “We need a starting point. We can't cover thousands of square miles. We need a sighting. Something.”

Gary poked his Fonebone. “There ya go.” He turned the screen, showing a woman newscaster speaking in front of a still shot of a blurry hog.

“Claims of a giant feral pig were bolstered this morning by the sight a giant feral pig rooting through a dumpster behind a Winn-Dixie in Carlton. A group of skateboarders tried to chase it away with Roman candles but only succeeded in lighting the dumpster on fire. The boys claim to have sought refuge inside the store, and that the giant hog followed them, burst in through a window, and cleaned out the doughnut aisle. We go now to our correspondent in the field, Hiram Tomlinson.”

Hiram Tomlinson was a thin, sallow man in a rough cotton jacket, white shirt open at the collar, standing in front of the Winn Dixie, with a boy wearing a purple hoodie, hands thrust in pockets. It looked as if someone had driven an Abrams tank through the window. The place was taped off and cops were picking around in the background.

“Thank you, Rita. I have one of the skaters here. Robert Long, could you tell us in your own words what happened?”

Long had a ring through his nose which would have done a bull proud. “We was stuntin', y'know? 'Cause of these half curbs. You can really fly if you hit 'em right, and we hear this weird shit, like a sucking drain. We look over there and there it is. Like a (bleep) science fiction movie. I 'bout (bleep) my pants! Luckily, Trent had some Roman candles, so we were able to spook it...”

Gary closed the laptop. “Let's roll!”

FORTY-SIX

KADDISH

A half hour later, they drove past the ruined Winn-Dixie and pulled off in a gravel parking lot at St. Sebastian Natural Area. There was a picnic table and a fifty-gallon drum overflowing with trash. Gary picked up a discarded Reese's wrapper and held it up.

“He's been here, all right.”

Within ten minutes, the drones were aloft heading south, crisscrossing each other in a helix pattern. Pincus opened his laptop on the picnic table. “It's two hours since the incident. Figuring a maximum speed of thirty, it's got to be in a sixty-mile radius. If it went north, someone would have seen it.”

Within five minutes they had a beep. Pincus superimposed a grid pattern on Hendry County. A red dot appeared heading south.

Gary ran for the truck. “Let's git on it!”

They packed their shit and headed south on eight thirty-three.

“What happens if we run out of road?”

“We're goin' straight by my ancestral home. We'll switch to the swamp buggy.”

“What swamp buggy?”

“You're gonna shit!”

Gary and Floyd had retrieved the swamp buggy earlier and gave it a tune-up. It was always fueled in case Gary had to make a fast getaway. They passed the Wokenoki Trailer Park. There was a chain across the final stretch, which belonged to Gary. A white sign with red lettering hung in the middle. PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED.

Gary unlocked the gate and set it aside. They drove to the dock and got out. Swamp Pussy lay at the end of the dock covered with a canvas tarp. They carried their gear to the end of the dock, Gary uncovered the Swamp Pussy, and they loaded their equipment, water, Gary's new shotgun and his magnum, and enough ammo to take over Honduras.

Gary jumped in the buggy. “Well, come on! What are you waiting for?”

Pincus looked around nervously. “I've never been on one of these.”

“Well this is your lucky day. Let's go.”

Pincus reluctantly got in, Gary cast off, poled off and started the engine, which nestled in the hull just behind the pilot's chair. Pincus put on an orange life preserver. Gary gave it the gas, rendering speech impossible and sending a flock of pink flamingos into the sky. Clinging to the gunwale, Pincus bungeed his laptop to the bench. He pointed toward the red dot.

Gary had grown up on the swamp and knew all the channels. Most of the county was crisscrossed with channels, some of them dug in the thirties to mine phosphates. Pincus alternated between his laptop and his Fonebone, which he used to take pictures. They entered a narrow channel and Pincus made a tamping gesture. Gary cut the engine. Mosquitoes closed in. Within seconds, they looked like signers for the hearing impaired at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Gary pulled out a bottle of Off!, squirted some into his hands and rubbed it all over his neck and arms and tossed the can to Pincus.

The silence was enormous. It took some seconds for them to hear frogs and birds. Pincus spoke softly. “We're within a hundred yards of it.”

“Nice job, Pincus! Where you from?”

“Pittsburgh. I started messing with computers and drones when I was seven. I studied computer science at Carnegie Melon.”

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“We'll fix ya up. At least get ya laid. We may have to pole from here.”

Gary grabbed an eight-foot fiberglass pole and used it to guide the flat-bottomed aluminum skiff among lily pads. Frogs hopped out of their way. Gators slithered off their logs.

“Shit,” Pincus said.

“Don't worry about them gators. They ain't gonna bother us.”

“I've never even been on a boat.”

“What?”

“I'm terrified of the water. These people who go on cruises, they're crazy.”

“Well don't worry. If we fall out, it ain't deep enough to drown ya. We can walk out.”

“What about those gators?”

“You ever fire a gun?”

“No.”

“Well son, yore in luck! First we bag Hogzilla, then I'll teach ya how to squeeze off a few shots.”

“We don't have to do that, Gary. And I thought of something. If you do kill it, how are we going to get it out of here?”

Gary went slack. “Ho shit. I ain't thought of that. Can't just leave it to rot out here. Can't leave it for the gators, the ungrateful sum bitches.”

“I mean, I can pinpoint the place and find it again, but by the time we return with something big enough to carry it, it'll be torn to pieces.”

“You ain't wrong.”

“I can't eat pig anyway.”

“Huh?”

“I'm an Orthodox Jew.”

“I thought you was just a Taylor Swift fan.”

“Who's that?”

Gary broke into a broad grin. “God bless ya!”

Pincus looked at his laptop. “It's coming this way.”

“You're shittin' me.”

Pincus looked up, nervously scanning the mangrove forest. A white heron broke cover and flapped away, followed by six squawking crows. Trees shivered.

“We better get out of here, Gary!”

Gary picked up his Mossberg and jacked a shell into the chamber. “Fuck that! I got a duty to protect my neighbors! Even if it means abandoning all that meat, I can't let this opportunity go.” Gary thrust his magnum at Pincus.

“Here! Take it!”

Pincus reared back with a little gasp.

“Oh, fuck it. Just don't get in my way.”

Gary crouched, resting the shotgun barrel on the prow. “How close?”

“Wait a minute. I'm writing a farewell letter to my family.”

“Porkalypse is almost upon us.”

Pincus chanted something in a strange language.

“I thought you said you was Jewish!”

“I am! I'm a cantor at Temple!”

“Damn! You sounded like Chief Dan George in Little Big Man. Some say the Seminole are the lost thirteenth tribe of the Israelites!”

“That's horse shit. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to prepare myself for death.”

Gary watched the weeds part as something enormous cruised their way. “Here it comes...here it comes...”

“Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world,” Pincus chanted, “which He has created according to His will...May He establish His kingdom in your lifetime and during your days, and within the life of the entire House of Israel, speedily and soon...”

“Pincus, you should see this. Do you want to fire that gun or not?”

“Not!”

“Steady...steady...”

The thing continued to approach, its nostrils just above the water, keeping to the weeds.

“Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba b’alma di-v’ra,” Pincus wailed, “chirutei, v’yamlich malchutei b’chayeichon...uvyomeichon uvchayei d’chol beit yisrael, ba’agala...uvizman kariv, v’im’ru: amen.”

Gary sighted down the Mossberg's barrel. The creature opened its enormous maw.

Gary put his gun up. “Fuck! It's just a goddamn hippo.”

FORTY-SEVEN

THE APPLICATION

When they got back to the pier, there was a strange couple investigating the property, a rented Mercedes in the background. The man was a ginger, mid-forties, GI Joe beard, the woman, a dark-haired beauty with perfect teeth.

“Help you?” Gary said.

“Well, yes,” the man replied in a British accent. “We're thinking of trying the Florida lifestyle. I'm Larry and this is my wife Regan . This land has everything we seek. Isolation, close to nature. How is the cell phone reception out here?”

“Spotty.”

“Do you know who owns this land?”

“I do. Me. Gary Duba. And this is my drone wrangler, Pincus.”

They shook hands.

“What we'd like to do,” Regan said in an American accent, “would be to install our own trailer. You already appear to have the hook-ups. Would you be willing to rent us the land with an option to buy should things work out?”

Larry pointed at the cinder block stanchions. “What's this then?”

“I had my house raised above the flood plain. I also had it pinned down with house suspenders, but Hurricane Hermione put paid to that proposition. See? The suspenders are still here, but the house was such a piece of shit it just blew apart like confetti. If you was to mount your trailer on those stanchions, I'd hook the suspenders back up for free. You get yourself a new double-wide. They're a lot better built than my old Dutchman. ’Sides which, lightning don't strike twice in the same place, am I right?”

“I wondered what those chains were for. Is this a private road?”

“It sure is.”

“We seek privacy above all else.”

“Well take it from me, nobody's gonna bother you out here. You like to hunt?”

“I find it smashing! I have been on many a fox and pheasant hunt.”

“Well you're in luck! This here's a hunter's paradise. We got gators, feral hogs, we even got whooping cranes! I killed one by accident and they never let me forget it.”

Regan took Larry's hand and squeezed with all her might.

“Ow,” Larry said, letting loose.

“I am a strict vegan. I have two rescue dogs,” Regan said.

“Wahl you're gonna have to be careful with them. Gators'll snap 'em up in a second. Down where I live now, gator ate a poodle just the other day. On the other hand, my reputation as a hunter is such that most gators steer clear of this little corner of the swamp. They don't want to mess with me. No sir.”

“Smashing,” Larry said. “Do you have a card?”

“No, let me write my phone number out for ya. If you're serious, I'll have my attorney work up an agreement. Lemme ax, what led you to this patch of swamp?”

“We asked around. People kept saying go down this road. Nobody ever comes back here. One thing, though. If we do rent the property, we must insist on complete secrecy. We're very private people and only wish to be left alone.”

“I know how ya feel.” Gary wrote his phone number on a discarded Reese's wrapper and handed it to Larry . The couple returned to their Mercedes and left.

“You meet the strangest people out here,” Gary said.

They returned to Kensington Gardens. Pincus loaded his gear into his Hyundai hatchback and booked. Inside, Krystal was in a cleaning frenzy. She'd waxed the floor, vacuumed the furniture and was running every dish and utensil through the big Westinghouse washing machine.

She dashed out of the kitchen. “Take your shoes off!”

Gary stopped, dumbstruck. “What the fuck?”

She pointed at his shoes, which were caked with mud. “Where were you?”

“Thought we had a Hogzilla sighting. False alarm. It was just a hippo.”

“Take 'em off. I ain't livin' in squalor. I had enough squalor. I grew up in a trailer same as you. Now look where we are. If we're gonna stay here, we gotta adopt protective coloration and that means no more wild ass parties, hog shootin', or wanton displays of debauchery.”

Gary opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He dutifully removed his shoes, went out on the patio, and checked his messages. Habib and Major had called.

Habib: “The coordinates you gave me belong to Westfield Developments, which has held them for twenty years. I have put out feelers as to whether they would be interested in parting with that particular hectare. I will let you know when I hear something.”

Major: “It's all set. You're going on Piranha Pool next week. Call me for details.”

Gary called Major. “Hot damn! That's good news! What do I gotta do?”

“It's a done deal, but you still got to fill out the forms and so forth. Go to Piranhapool.com and download the application form. Fill it out. Do not send it in. Repeat: do not send it in. Send it to me so I can vet it.”

“Okey dokey. How're things with the judge?”

“I got him eatin' out of the palm of my hand. Money in the bank. But we got to be careful with this. It's dynamite. Nobody must know about it. Nobody. Have you mentioned it to anyone?”

“Not a soul. You know me, Habib. I'm the picture of discretion.”

Gary went to the Piranha Pool website.

Describe in DETAIL what your business product is. What does it do? Provide as much detail as possible.

House suspenders anchor your house to the earth so that it won't blow away in a hurricane. Heavy tractor chain passes over the house and is anchored into concrete plugs sunk deep in the earth. Two chains are sufficient for most houses. I will provide footage of house suspenders at work. They recently saved my own home from Hurricane Hermione.

What investment amount are you seeking, and what percentage of equity are you willing to give in exchange? Please keep in mind that the Piranha do not give their money away; they only make realistic investments. They will ask tough questions to justify the amount of money you are seeking.

Habib, help me out here.

What do you intend to do with the investment funds? Where will the money go?

I will compile a team to do rapid response suspender installation. I may buy my own chain factory.

How much money have you invested in the company, and in what time frame? Where did the money go?

Well that's a tough question. I done spent countless man hours perfecting my scheme, and thus far have only installed it on two properties. My trailer, where it didn't work due to reasons stated above, and my house in Kensington Gardens, where it worked like a charm. 'Course, the difference between the former and the latter is the difference between a chicken and a hippo.

What was your GROSS income from your business last year?

Bein' a rennosance man, I got my fingers in many pies. I gotta check with my attorney 'bout that, but last year I collected one hundred gees alone for killing the biggest Burmese python in state history. Maybe you heard of that. Orin Houtkooper was my client. Pretty sure Orin's gonna want to invest in this baby too. You should look to havin' him on your program.

What was your NET income from your business last year?

Well that depends on what you mean by business. As I said, I got many interests. I transport exotic animals. I do a little detective work. In fact, I'm thinking about applying for a state private investigator's license. But I don't want to spread myself too thin.

What is your unique selling proposition? What is your "hook," and why is your business notable.

Are you shittin' me? Ain't nobody got nothin' like it! I estimate my house suspenders could save thousands of properties a year, with a savings in millions of dollars! Insurance companies will love it! You put a set of these babies on your house, you're tellin' the world you are one smart cookie. You are prepared.

List any awards or accolades you've received.

City of Turpentine just awarded me the Key to the City for apprehending Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. I also got a certificate from the state for catching the biggest python.

Do you have any physical conditions, special needs, accommodations or special fears we should know about?

I ain't scared of nothin'.

Have you ever been charged with any felony or misdemeanor? If so, explain.

Habib!

FORTY-EIGHT

PEARLS BEFORE SWINE

The fix was in. On January 18, the network flew Gary and Krystal in to participate in a marathon Piranha Pool taping. Major Sutton and Muriel flew out on their own. Piranha Pool met once every two weeks for one ten-hour day in which they heard ten pitches. Gary's was the second to last to be filmed.

At John Wayne Airport, a thin black man in his twenties in a dark blue suit stood at the bottom of the escalator holding a sign: Gary Duba.

“Mister and Missus Duba? I'm Ernest Towzer. I'll take you to your hotel so you can check in, and when you're settled, I'll drive you to the studio. Got any luggage?”

Gary and Krystal both toted backpacks. “Nope. We're good.”

Towzer stuck out a hand. “Can I carry those?”

“No thanks, Ern. We got it.”

He led them to a Lexus SUV, and they took the Fifty-Five north to Anaheim, and then to the Anaheim Marriott. Parking beneath the portico, Towzer went in with them and used a company credit card to reserve their room.

“You folks need to freshen up, you got a couple hours. I'll just wait in the lobby until you're ready. You want to leave early, I'll be happy to show you the sights.”

“What sights?” Krystal said.

“Disneyland, the Jimbobway Casino, and the Foothills Shopping Mall.”

“Thanks, hoss, but I gotta practice my pitch. Give us about an hour.”

Towzer smiled and went to the lobby shop to purchase Variety.

Gary and Krystal entered the suite on the eighth floor with a panoramic view of Disneyland and downtown Anaheim. Krystal pulled out her laptop and booted up.

“Okay, let's just go over this once more so you got it straight. The judges are...”

“Morris Eclaire...” Gary froze.

“Brenda...”

“Brenda Bascomb, Anthony Peroni, Fenster Daoud, and Lothar Lesotho.”

“What are their books?”

Gary's forehead wrinkled like the Mississippi delta. “Morris Eclaire wrote Survivalist's Guide to Fruit Labels. That's a good book.”

“And?”

“Fuck.”

“Come on, Gary! You gotta know their books! Brenda Bascomb...”

“New York on Ten Thousand A Day.”

“Anthony Peroni.”

“Workin' Hard, Gettin' Things Done.”

“Fenster Daoud.”

“Gimme a hint.”

“Bat Soup.”

Gary snapped his fingers. “The Wet Market Cookbook!”

“Lesotho.”

“You Say Potato, I Say Probiotics!”

“Boy, you are ready to kick ass.”

There was a knock on the door. Major and Muriel came in.

“I'll be in the audience,” she said.

Major hugged Gary and pounded him on the back. “Remember! The object isn't to get funding for house suspenders, it's to give the folks a show!”

Gary pumped a fist. “I'm on it!”

Major gathered Krystal in. “C'mere, you!”

Gary watched Major's hand slide casually over Krystal's ass.

They arrived at Flabbergast Studios at three o'clock. Gary wore blue jeans, a white dress shirt, a rough blue cotton sport jacket, and sockless sneakers. Krystal wore pedal pushers, her bare midriff showing off her Fifi LePew tat, a black halter top, cat’s eye sunglasses, and yellow stilettos. She would not be filming. She was only there for moral support. Major and Krystal arrived separately and joined the studio audience.

Towzer took them to make-up where a woman patted Gary's face down with powder causing him to sneeze, and a sound person wired him up. A producer named Tom walked him through the procedure.

“You read the rules, right?”

“Yessir.”

“Wait in the green room for your introduction, and then come on out.”

“Got it.”

They settled in the green room. A kidney-shaped coffee table held copies of Variety, Billboard, Rolling Stone, The Los Angeles Times, The Wall Street Journal, and Wired. Gary drank orange juice. Krystal poured vodka into her tomato juice from the hotel mini bar. A monitor on the wall showed them the rote PP introduction. Theme music. Pan across the five principles seated in executive swivel chairs, each with a table holding papers and forms.

“And now, here are our Piranha Pool Partners, Morris Eclaire, inventor of the stick-on fruit label, Brenda Bascomb, creator of Rosa Klebb Shoes, Anthony Peroni, creator of Carnivore Online Security, Fenster Dauoud, inventor of the ballistic hoodie, and Lothar Lesotho, creator of the Lothario electric scooter.”

Each contestant smiled and waved. Towzer opened the door to the green room and motioned Gary out.

“And now, our next Piranha Pool diver hails from Turpentine, Florida, and was recently honored for apprehending Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee!”

Gary walked out on the Piranha Pool stage to heart felt applause.

Eclaire squinted. “Do we know each other?”

“Well we ain't been properly introduced, but I was caddying for Tag Mooselung when we shot that hippo.”

Eclaire grinned broadly. “You saved our lives! If it weren't for this man right here, we'd all be hippo food by now!”

Brenda Bascomb was a sultry brunette of a certain age. “Mister Duba, tell us about House Suspenders.”

“House suspenders anchor your house to the ground in the event of a hurricane. Here is a video of my house suspenders in action.”

The monitor showed Chateau Ami during Hermione. Uprooted trees blew past. A Smart car rolling over and over like a tumbleweed. Whole trees flew by. But Chateau Ami stood its ground with only minor damage.

“Impressive,” Fenster Daoud said. “You can tell it's not staged by the grainy quality.”

“Mister Duba,” Peroni said, “you have not incorporated. You have no staff. You have none of the infrastructure we expect when you appear on this program. Aside from the fact that your creation does what you say it does, what makes you think you can make a profit at this? Do you have any experience running a company? Have you ever met a payroll, or filed as an LLC?”

“Hell no, but I never shot a hippo before, neither.”

“Mister Duba,” Bascomb said, “some people say your house suspenders are unsightly and depress property values.”

“Was that Goldblatt? He's been on my ass ever since I moved back. Well I got my house suspenders back up and he don't. We'll just see what happens with the next big storm. They also said the baby Jesus was offensive too! They made me take down Jesus!”

Bascomb turned to Lesotho. “Wasn't Mukerjee your plastic surgeon?”

Lesotho turned red. “I have never had plastic surgery. Ever!”

“You're the scooter guy,” Gary said.

“I am the inventor of the Lothario electric scooter, a municipal service active in twenty-five major metropolitan areas.”

“Yeah, well we nearly broke our necks trying to get past your scooters. Why do people dump them all over the street? It don't make no sense.”

“Can we get back on track here?” Eclaire said. “Gary, should we decide to invest, what will be your first move?”

“I'll replace the Yosemite Sam and Big Boy the HOA stole. They had no right to do that!”

“All right, Piranha,” Bascomb said, “how about it? Tony, will you back house suspenders?”

Tony Peroni looked like a snake oil salesman, with slicked back gray hair and a burgundy jacket. “Mister Duba has a lot more work to do if he expects anyone to invest big bucks in his project. Start small. Employ a crew. Make a few sales on your own. I'm afraid it's a no from me.”

“Fenster?”

Dauoud looked like a hip-hop artist in an oversize hoodie and gold chains. “Naw, man. I respect what you did with the snake though, brother.”

“Lothar?”

The electric scooter impresario crossed his arms and looked away. “That's a no from me.”

Finally, she turned to Morris Eclaire.

“No, but he can fill out my foursome anytime.”

Gary shook his head. “I cast my pearls before swine.”

FORTY-NINE

MULTIPLE PERSONALITY

Monday following his taping at Piranha Pool, Gary kicked out his Fat Boy in Habib's parking lot. A couple of sad sacks slouched in the waiting room, poking at their cell phones. A three-hundred-pound man, his arm in a sling, emerged from Habib's office.

“Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus! Mister Rodriguez says the insurance company settled!”

“How much?” asked a female meth freak with a black eye.

“Seven hundred and fifty! Twenty times what they offered!”

They high fived. Brenda waved Gary in.

Habib leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, fat cigar pointing like the big guns on the USS Iowa. He pushed the cigar box toward Gary.

“How'd it go?”

Gary plucked a cigar and cut the end off with his pocketknife. “No luck. Motherfuckers wouldn't know an opportunity if it bit 'em on the ass! Maybe if I invented some stupid video game. But it wasn't a total bust. Brenda Bouser gave Krystal a pair of Rosa Klebb shoes, and Fenster Daoud gave me a ballistic hoodie.”

Gary pulled a kitchen match from a bowl on Habib's desk and lit his cigar, turning the end over and over to get an even burn.

“How things with you?”

“I believe you heard my previous client. This couple that wants to rent your property. Do you know who they are?”

“Coupla Brits. I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”

“They are exiled royals. Members of the British royal family. How they filtered down to your little corner of the world is a mystery. I have spoken with them, and one of the terms of the agreement is that you tell no one about them.”

“No prob. The Duke already said that.”

“They are willing to pay five thousand dollars a month in rent. They are possibly interested in buying the property.”

“No shit? Just to rent a patch of swamp? Hell. I'll even let 'em use my boat.”

“Over the weekend, Judge Weatherspoon was discovered passed out in a motel room with baggies of methamphetamine and a male escort. He is expected to resign soon.”

“That's a crying shame. All for cheating at golf.”

“My client is very happy with the results and authorized to give you a bonus of ten thousand dollars.”

“Whee, doggies! Can it get any better?”

“All is not chitlins and gravy. I learned over the weekend that the Kensington Gardens HOA held an emergency meeting and after contentious debate, has decided to buy you out.”

“What?”

“Dude, what did you think was gonna happen when you moved back there? These country club types loathe any ostentatious or vulgar display. Flying the Stars 'n' Bars is like waving a red flag at a bull. What were you thinking?”

“Speaking o' bull, they try that shit and they can forget about me bagging Hogzilla. In fact, I'll make sure Hogzilla comes calling. I know how to do it too.”

“As your attorney, I would advise you not to do that. You could be liable. I understand the feds visited on Thursday.”

“What the fuck? How you know that?”

“Bongo Box told me. He also told me about the HOA meeting. What was that about?”

“Did Bongo Box tell you about Tallywhacker?”

“He said it went walkabout.”

“Yeah. Came over to my house to bitch about The Curse of Oak Island. Last I seen, it was heading toward Homestead Air Force Base to commandeer a bomber and nuke the hell out of that sum bitch. It had Krystal's saddle too. She's gonna be pissed.”

Habib leaned back and stroked his beard. “’Splain.”

Gary explained that Tallywhacker had been invaded by an alien intelligence. Possibly several. Whoever they were, they'd had a belly full of Oak Island.

“So I suggested instead of blowing up the whole planet, they just nuke Oak Island. Pretty slick, huh? It's what you woulda done.”

Habib jabbed with his cigar. “Wait a minute. You say this robot has been invaded by alien intelligence?”

“More 'n one. In fact, there's a good chance that it's a multiple personality.”

“Multiple alien personalities inhabiting a robot.”

“You betcha. Didn't you watch the video?”

“I thought it was a spoof. I was going to congratulate you. I didn't think you had it in you.”

“No spoof, brah! Fortunately, Tallywhacker took a shine to me. I think when I bled on him, y'know? He got some of my DNA. Hell, we're related. I'm closer to him than any other human being including Bongo Box.”

“Liability aside, you've got to get it back here. It could do incredible damage. Look what it's already done.”

“I don't think it would hurt a human. That'd be an act of war! It ain't the bull's fault. It's these alien intelligences.”

Habib clasped his hands and hunched forward, staring for long seconds. “Are you filming me now?”

“What? No! I always ax permission, unless it's a gator or a hog or something.”

“Frankly, I find your story incredible, yet too detailed for a simpleton. Who's writing your material?”

“Huh?”

Habib shook his head. “Never mind. As your attorney, I urge you to recall the robot bull.”

“I ain't got shit to do with it. That bull is its own man. Why would it listen to me?”

“Because it loves you.”

“Yeah, but what about those alien intelligences?”

“If you could get them arguing, it might occupy them to the point where Tallywhacker could momentarily break free. Scientists could immobilize it and study these so-called alien intelligences.”

“You're talking exorcism.”

Habib shrugged. “For want of a better word.”

“Well he did give me his cell phone number.”

Habib leaned back. “Call him.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

Gary dialed the number.

“We're sorry, the party is unavailable and the digital mailbox is full. Please call back later.”

“Fuck!”

“You think that bull was shittin' you?”

Gary's Fonebone sang. Possible spam.

Gary opened it. “Yes?”

“Gary, it's Tallywhacker. How are you, Gary?”

“That's funny. We was just talking 'bout you. My lawyer says you shouldn't try to nuke Oak Island.”

“Well that's why I called you, Gary. I've reconsidered. I believe the best way to work for the common good is within the system.”

“Yeah. That's right. Whatcha got in mind? The Nuns of Gaverone could use some help.”

“I'm thinking bigger than that, Gary. I'm thinking of running for governor.”

“But you're a robot.”

“I've reviewed the statutes, and I think I've found a way around that. I'd like to discuss it with you, if that's amenable.”

“Anytime, Tally! Anytime! Can ya come by the house?

“I'll be there at six PM.”

“Mind if I invite Bongo Box?”

Mechanical wheeze. “I suppose.”

FIFTY

CONVERGENCE

Bongo Box wore a plaid, button cotton shirt outside his cargo shorts and flip-flops. “I had to tell Skoal about Tallywhacker. Even though I developed it, I used proprietary technology. I'm afraid I'm going to have to euthanize Tallywhacker.”

“The fuck you say! I'll tell him not to come!”

“Gary, it's a robot. It has no feelings. Now it poses a national security threat. If I fail, the consequences could be dire. At the very least, it will wreak havoc on telecommunications. At worst, it could plunge the world into nuclear war.”

“Tallywhacker ain't gonna nuke nobody. Let's just listen to what he has to say.”

The doorbell rang. Tallywhacker stood at the front entrance, still wearing Krystal's saddle, a six pack of Ookapow hanging from one horn. “Hello Gary. Boris. Perhaps it would be better if I walked around and met you on the patio.”

“We'll meet you there.”

As they stepped through the patio door Tallywhacker came around the house, dipped his head and deposited the six-pack on a round table with a folded umbrella in the center. Gary sprang two and handed one to Boris. They twisted off the caps and glugged. Gary held one out to the bull.

“You want one?”

“That's very kind of you, Gary. If you would just pour it down the cap at the base of my neck.”

“Good thing you brought back Krystal's saddle. She woulda thrown a shit fit if she found out it was missing.”

“She can ride me any time.”

“I appreciate that, Tally. I'll have to ax her. She's off shopping right now.”

Gary removed the saddle and set it on the ground. Bongo Box took out a handful of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and set them on the table.

“Are you trying to get us killed?” Gary snapped. He scooped them up, went inside and threw them in the kitchen garbage.

“The reason I'm here,” Tallywhacker said, “I'm thinking of running for governor and I'd like you to be my campaign manager.”

“Well hold on thar. In order to run for governor, you gots to be thirty years old and been a registered voter for seven years.”

“I am aware of that, and I have a proposal. You and I would exchange minds. You would inhabit this indestructible and immortal body, and I would become Gary Duba.”

“That's a big ix-nay from me, hoss. I ain't giving up my body.”

Tallywhacker looked at Bongo Box.

“That's a no from me.”

“Perhaps you could help me locate someone? Surely, an immortal unstoppable body has some allure.”

“Dude, nobody wants to look at you.”

Tallywhacker hung its head.

“Lemme just throw some shit at the wall here. Have you thought about starting your own ministry? You're plenty charismatic. I know a lot of people who'd worship a robot bull.”

Tallywhacker lifted its horns. “Gotta go. I'll call you.”

The robot bull pivoted and galloped for the trees, the same trees in which Gary had once sought to incinerate an alligator. Seconds later, five men in tactical gear including helmets and visors raced around the side of the house, carrying bizarre rifles. Five more appeared around the south end, just as Tallywhacker's black behind disappeared into the undergrowth. SWAT leader motioned and the men raced toward the trees.

Ronald King, Chet Fong, and Wyatt Kropenski appeared in suits and sunglasses, talking to their headsets. Ronald King beelined for the patio.

“Mister Duba, we asked that you alert us if you were contacted. We could cite you for interfering with a federal investigation.”

Gary hoisted one of the remaining beers. “Want an Ookapow?”

Across the lawn, five men faded into the jungle.

Chet Fong rounded on Bongo Box. “Mister Bongo Box, we asked you also.”

“It was sort of impromptu,” Gary said. “They just showed up. I was gonna call.”

Fong dragged a chair over, sat down and placed a recording device on top. “Did you record your encounter?”

“Hell no. It was just a friendly gathering.”

“Tell us the conversation verbatim, if you can.”

Wyatt Kropenski pulled up a chair. “We tried all those codes you gave us, and nothing worked.”

Boris threw his hands in the air. “It's out of my hands! It's been taken over by aliens.”

Kropenski stared. Boris stared back. “Haven't you been hiding aliens at Area Fifty-One and Dulce Base? Go ask them. They're the ones got us into this mess.”

“There are no aliens. Don't you think if we'd made contact with alien civilizations, we'd tell the public?”

“No.”

King tapped his recorder. “Please tell us what was said.”

“Well, Tallywhacker realized the error of his ways. It doesn't want to nuke Oak Island. He believes it can accomplish more working within the system. It's running for governor.”

“I find that dubious, Mister Duba. It's very concerning that despite the inventor giving us the codes, we're unable to find the robot.”

Chet Fong tapped his ear unit. “Hello? Hello? What's happening?” He looked around. “Kropenski, what are you hearing?”

Kropenski fingered a switch and his eyes grew wide. “Oh shit. That's not good.”

Boris leaned forward. “What is it? I can't believe Tallywhacker would harm anyone. It's been programmed to obey three rules. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.”

Fong twisted the lid off an Ookapow and tilted back. He set the bottle on the table. “I heard shouts. I couldn't make anything out.”

King leaned forward, an intense look on his face. He pulled out a Glock and ratcheted one into the chamber. Fong and Kropenski did likewise.

“It's coming back. Maybe we ought to go in the house.”

Boris finished his beer. “That won't stop Tallywhacker, but as I said, it's programmed not to harm humans. You have nothing to worry about. What are those weapons your men have?”

“They're eletromagnetic pulse generators. They won't harm a person, unless he or she is wearing a pacemaker. Anyone here wearing a pacemaker?”

Gary shook his head. “Not me, hoss.”

“Negatory,” Boris said.

The three feds sprang to their feet.

“Let's split up,” King said. “We can't let it get us in a bunch.”

Kropenski and Fong walked backward toward the south end of the house, pistols ready.

Boris popped another beer. “Those pistols are useless, boys. It's made of diamond hard adamantium carbon composite.”

Men shouting. The first armored warrior broke from the jungle, running toward the house. He'd dropped his rifle. “Run! Run!”

Gary and Boris looked at each other.

“I got nothing to fear,” Gary declared.

“Me either.”

Soldiers stampeded around the house. A ferocious squeal ripped the sky. Hogzilla burst from the green and headed straight for the house. Gary and Boris scrambled for their lives. The hog went around the pool, put its head down, and burst through the patio doors. The sound of drywall cracking, joists collapsing. Gary and Boris withdrew to a safe distance. Automatic gunfire burst from the front of the house. Hogzilla stampeded out the back the way it came. The house shivered. The house collapsed.

FIFTY-ONE

EMERGENCY MEETING

The HOA called an emergency meeting at noon the following day. There was an unprecedented turnout, including many folks who had yet to move in. The room was SRO, with a handful of newsies. They'd set up direct TV in the ballroom for the overflow crowd. Gary had alerted his production crew and Habib to get there early. Muriel stood on a box in the back filming with a tiny cam pinned to her hat. After Goldblatt expressed sympathy for Gary's predicament, Gary took the podium.

“Folks, we are a community! An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us! I was already gonna hunt down and kill that sumbitch, but now it's personal. Now there's a chance if we all just got rid of our peanut butter, it would leave us alone. But I'm not willing to take that chance.”

“What about peanut butter?” Mindy Perske demanded.

“It has been discovered that several of the workers at the demolished houses on the east side of the lake had left peanut butter sandwiches inside the buildings. The thing can smell peanut butter a mile away. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups in particular drive it nuts. So, the first order of business is for everyone to take their peanut butter and git it the hell out of Kensington Gardens! Take it to the dump. Better yet, take it way out in the swamps and leave it there.”

Perske imperiously crossed her arms. “And how do you know that, Mister Duba?”

“Don't ax me how I know. I'm the expert. We used to set peanut butter up in the glade to lure 'em in. Ain't nothing these feral hogs like more'n peanut butter. That's how I intend to get the critter. Ahmina set up a peanut butter drop and build me a hog blind. It's only a matter of time. 'Course, in light of recent events, ahmina have to move out of Kensington Gardens. Now don't worry! It's just temporary. We'll be back and we'll rebuild, bigger 'n better than ever. I might add a shooting range. Just kidding! But I am thinking of putting in a bowling alley. All depends on what I can afford. The insurance company's giving me the runaround. They claim it doesn't cover feral hogs. I say bullshit, and we'll have it out in the court of law! Now I'd like to introduce y'all to my attorney. He ain't no stranger. You've seen his billboards and commercials. Habib? Take a bow. Habib Rodriguez, ladies and gentlemen. The Long Arm.”

Gary gestured toward the rear where Habib sat in the back row. He wore an XL tan sports jacket, a yoked Western shirt with mother of pearl buttons, aviator shades, and a ten-gallon hat. Polite applause.

“If you've been injured an auto accident, and the insurance company refuses to give you what you deserve, you call me. Habib Rodriguez. The Long Arm. If a feral hog destroys your home, you call me. Habib Rodriguez. The Long Arm.”

A woman who looked like Grace Kelly turned in her seat. “Mister Rodriguez, I'm Emily High Level. I'm a senior partner at Borenstein, Broderick and Brick. We specialize in insurance claims, and in no policy I know of are there damages for destruction by wild animals.”

“That's all going to change.”

Gary blew his Duck Commander. “As many of you know, we're filming a show that'll appear on the Rustix Network in the fall. The Gary Duba Show. I hope many of you will be in it. It's all about my life and adventures.”

Hell nos and fuck thats.

“You don't have to be in it if you don't wanna. I'm just saying. You want to have a garage sale or sell a car, you got that opportunity.”

Grover Hoover stood. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt, shorts and flip flops, his gray hair giving him the appearance of a distinguished elder beach bum. “I'm Grover Hoover. I'm President and CEO of Hoover It Up, Disaster Cleanup Services. I'm not going to lie to you, Hogzilla has been good for business! I want to talk to you, Mister Duba, after the meeting about your options. I just want to say that I, for one, am grateful for Mister Duba's leadership in these trying times and it is my wish he will run for the HOA board the next time we have an election.”

“Ha!” Perske blasted.

Gary blew his whistle. “I'll be staying on in the garage, which is still habitable. My man Pincus here is gonna have drones in the air twenty-four-seven. We're tracking the beast according to mass and body temperature. No way will it get the drop on us again. And when this is over, we're gonna have us a barbecue! Just wait 'til you taste Duba's Own BBQ Sauce! Yer gonna shit!”

Goldblatt stood anxiously, hopping from foot to foot.

“Well come on back here, Marv! It's your show.”

A slender Latina wearing a press badge stood in the second row. “Mister Goldblatt, Sonia Fuentes for WMIA News. Several residents have reported seeing a wild buffalo on the property. What can you tell us about that?”

“That's just Mister Bongo Box's robotic creation. It's a work of art. Pay no attention to it.”

“Mister Goldblatt, is that the same work of art that destroyed the Voinovitch Gallery in December?”

“I'd like to answer that,” Habib boomed from the back. “Now it can be told, what happened at the Voinovitch Gallery was performance art, approved by all parties. Guests didn't know, because it was vital to the performance that they react naturally. At no point, was anyone in danger. The video of that performance is now live streaming on The Gary Duba Show on YouTube, and is on the short list for a Clifton.”

“What's a Clifton?”

“The Tony Clifton Awards. Once a year, the world's greatest performance artists gather to bestow honors on the outstanding performance art of the past twelve months. Past winners include Tonya Harding, Ozzy Osbourne, and that guy who dropped a banana peel into the UCLA particle accelerator. If you have not seen this video, I urge you to tune in. Subscribe. Mister Duba has important life lessons to impart.”

“I ain't just another pretty face,” Gary said. “Now I gots to ax, and I know the rules, so don't give me any shit about guns, are there are any hunters here? Anybody have experience hunting anything larger than a palmetto bug?”

Gary looked out over the audience. Nary a hand was raised. “Well that's fine. We'll get 'er done anyway. I might even charge to be part of my team. This gon' be one for the history books.”

“Why do you need a team?” Mindy demanded.

“Well Hogzilla weighs an estimated thousand pounds. I'm only one man. There's only so much one man can do.”

“But big game hunters in Africa routinely bring down bull elephants with a single shot. And surely you don't intend to lay your trap anywhere on this property?”

“No, of course not. Only reason ahm opening up the possibility of buying in, I could use the money. Even if Habib gets on its ass, the insurance company's gonna drag its heels as long as possible.”

“I don't see how you can even afford to live here in the first place. I don't know why you'd want to.”

“At least my client works for a living,” Habib said. “Miss Perske inherited twenty-two million from her father's hedge fund.”

“You leave my father out of this!”

“Oh yeah? Your mama wears army boots and howls at the moon!” Habib tilted his head back and howled.

FIFTY-TWO

THE POWER OF CHRIST

Gary's cellphone had buzzed repeatedly throughout the meeting. On the way out, he shmoozed with Habib.

“I got news on the Fountain of Youth.”

“What?”

“Westfield Development is not interested in selling. You're shit out of luck.”

“I ain't done yet. I got an idea.”

“Don't tell me.”

“Later, boss.”

Gary slipped out of the meeting room and the clubhouse. It was a dull, overcast day promising rain that afternoon. He checked his Fonebone. Krystal. Ronald King. Chet Fong. Wyatt Kropenski. Ken Zohan. Gary called Krystal.

“Oooh baby! I have the most exciting news! I'm fighting Rosie the Riveter on May Day!”

“That's great, babe! I gotta make a few calls and then I'll be back.”

Ronald King: “Mister Duba, we have a hostage situation at the Necroeconomics Church in Coopersmith. Tallywhacker is holed up inside and insists on speaking with you.”

“Well he coulda phoned.”

“He asked me to relay the message.”

“I'll get over as fast as I can.”

Chet Fong: “Mister Duba, we have a hostage situation at the Necroeconomics Church in Coopersmith. Tallywhacker is holed up inside and insists on speaking with you.”

“I just told King I'll be there directly.”

He phoned Wyatt Kropenski. “You have a hostage situation at the Necroeconomics Church and Tallywhacker insists on speaking to me.”

“How'd you know?”

Ken Zohan: “Brother Gary, please come over right away. Tallywhacker has taken refuge in our church and insists on speaking with you.”

“I'm on my way. Inna meantime, why don't you just let the women and children go?”

“No one is kept here against their will. The building is currently surrounded by federal officers and I have issued an evacuation order. From my office here on the top floor, I'm watching officers escorting members from the building.”

“Okay, I'm on my way. Mind if I bring Bongo Box?”

“Who's Bongo Box?”

“Tallywhacker's creator.”

“By all means.”

Gary caught Bongo Box on the way out and gave him the scoop.

“Sure. Let me just stop by my place and pick up some tools.”

Bong Box insisted on driving his Tesla. An hour later, they pulled into the church's parking garage where Ronald King was waiting.

“I'm going with you. I'm a hostage negotiator.”

“Who's being held hostage?” Gary asked.

“The nation. Tallywhacker has the nuclear codes.”

On the way up in the elevator, Bongo Box said, “Honestly, I just wanted to have a little fun and create something different.”

The elevator opened directly on Zohan's vast office, where Zohan, a glamour blonde, and a bald priest wearing a purple prayer shawl, sat on a Swedish sofa across from Tallywhacker, immobile save for its twitching tail. Zohan rose to greet them.

“Brother Gary. Thank you for coming. And this must be Mister Bongo Box, Tallywhacker's creator. And you, sir?”

“Ronald King, FBI task force. I'm here to see what Tallywhacker wants.”

“This is my second in command, Josephine Sherrington, and Father Peter DeMucci from Saint Raymond's in Miami.”

They all shook hands. Zohan gestured at the table. “We have coffee, doughnuts, Reese’s Peanut Butter Bars, and fresh fruit.”

“How'd Tallywhacker get up here?” Gary said.

“I took the freight, elevator, Gary,” the robot buffalo said in James Earl Jones' voice. “I came seeking sanctuary.”

“King here says you have the nuclear codes. Why do you need sanctuary?”

“I have enemies, Gary. These alien entities are trying to take over when they're not fighting among themselves.”

“What do you want with the nuclear codes?”

“Just in case.”

Gary sat in an office chair and eyed the goodies, helping himself to a frosted doughnut. “What's with the Reese’s?”

Zohan reached for one. “Oh, I've loved these since I was a little boy. We used to give them to our pigs.”

King sat on the sofa next to the priest. He set his recording device on the table and pulled out a pen and pad. “Tallywhacker. What are your demands?”

“There's been a misunderstanding, Agent King. I have no demands. Only requests. My only desire is to serve mankind. Toward that end, I have decided to run for governor. I humbly request that the legislature set aside the requirement I have been a resident for seven years.”

“You're not even human.”

Tallywhacker dipped its head conveying sadness and humility. “That's hurtful, Agent King. I was born of man, was I not? I have read all the great books. Have you? I can quote the Bible, the Torah, and the Koran. I was sorry to hear about your recent marital difficulties.”

King turned white. “What the fuck?”

“I am one with the universe, Agent White. There are no secrets from me.”

Father Peter piously pressed his palms. “Like the devil, you are most convincing. But you are not a man. You are a robot. You possess no soul.”

“Father, that hurts me deeply. I have donated one hundred thousand dollars to the Nuns of Gavarone, who do such an excellent job feeding the less fortunate.”

Gary flicked a crumb off his jeans. “Where'd you get a hundred thousand?”

“I transferred it from my Swiss Bank Account.”

“Lemme cut to the chase,” Gary said. “What do you need from me?”

“Only your friendship.”

A halo of crackly blue light traveled from nose to tail. Tallywhacker vibrated, shaking the whole floor. Glasses on the table danced sideways.

“What's happening?” Sherrington said.

“This is %$% of the planet Xanvozech,” Tallywhacker said in Gilbert Gottfried's voice. “You must stop the broadcasts now! Do you hear me? Now!”

“What broadcasts?” Zohan said.

Gary plucked another doughnut. “Oh, they've got a thing about the Curse of Oak Island.”

“If you do not stop the broadcasts, we will use the cosmic pool cue to whack you out of orbit!”

A halo of crackly pink traveled from tail to nose. “Don't listen to that idiot!” issued from its hindquarters in the voice of Judy Tenuda. “This is Ferris of Farlixa. %$% is a low-grade moron and has no business in any position of authority! We have no objection to The Curse of Oak Island. It's Swamp People we find offensive! There is no question that you have devised this program solely to mock us!”

Father DeMucci whipped out a bottle of holy water. “Begone, ye demon of hell! Leave this lump of metal! It is the power of Christ that compels you!”

He threw holy water. Tallywhacker shook its head, scattering droplets everywhere.

“Your mother sucks cocks in hell!” it snarled.

FIFTY-THREE

BOTTOM LINE

Barricades and police vehicles surrounded church headquarters. Armored SWAT squads hunkered behind their urban assault vehicles checking their weapons and com gear, preparing for the assault. Helicopters churned overhead. The governor declared a state of emergency. The town was on lockdown.

A slim Latina of serious mien addressed her camera person. “This is Sonia Fuentes for WMIA News. The performance artist known as Tallywhacker has taken the Church of Necroeconomics hostage. No one is allowed in or out of the building. It is expected to issue its demands shortly. We will bring you that live via the church's interior broadcasting system. Governor Chickenlooper urges calm and says there is no immediate danger to the public.”

“There is some speculation that Tallywhacker has been invaded by an alien entity, and that this is the first foray in what may very well turn out to be a War of the Worlds type scenario. I have with me Professor Gondorf Del Mundo, chair of the astrophysics department at Wang University. Professor, do you think Tallywhacker represents an alien entity, and if so, what does this mean for Florida and the world?”

Cut to Del Mundo in tweed coat and school tie, sitting before a window looking out on a bucolic campus. “Zere haff been repeated warnings for us to be more circumspect in vhat ve broadcast through za airvaves. Not every being in za galaxy is a fan of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Ve must be careful lest ve unknowingly trigger alien sensibilities. I wrote about zis in my book, Bevare Za Shrieky Vuns. Did you listen? Did you buy my book? Ach nein! And now look vhat ve got. Alien bulls threatening to nuke everybody.”

Back to Sonia. “I'm sorry we have to cut this short, Professor, but Tallywhacker is about to issue its demands.”

Cut to Tallywhacker wearing an Atlanta Bulls hat and a pair of sunglasses.

“My friends,” it said in James Earl Jones' voice. “There has been a misunderstanding. I come in peace.”

White noise, kinetic zigzags. The ancient Indian head test pattern pioneered by RCA in 1939 appeared. Media ripped off their earphones and clamped their hands to their ears. A blurry image of a big-eyed green alien with a head like a light bulb.

“Greetings earthlings. I am X9 from Xeljanz. There have been eight previous X's. But they are gone. Now I am in charge. Not only are we calling for a cessation of The Curse of Oak Island, we are calling for a thousand-year moratorium on all satellite broadcasting. You want to send this shit to each other via cable, be our guests. But when it lands on our plates during dinnertime, we must act, and act boldly!”

Gary turned to Zohan. “Got any WD40?”

“We might have some in the supply closet.”

“Get it.”

Zohan snapped his fingers and a young man in jacket and tie scurried over. “Get the WD40 from the supply closet.”

“Right away, master!”

The young man returned ten minutes later with the familiar can. Gary unscrewed the cap at the base of Tallywhacker's neck and sprayed. On the monitor, X9 clutched its throat, went cross-eyed, then wall eyed, and made a peculiar hacking sound. The view shifted to an alien landscape, hills of red sand dotted with coral-like buildings, green aliens hanging out balconies, falling off roofs, tumbling down the sand. Tumbrels drawn by six-legged bovines trudged through narrow winding streets as Xeljanz tossed out their dead. The tumbrels formed a vast caravan headed toward an enormous crater that looked like a strip mine. Wagon after wagon, vehicle after vehicle backed up and dumped its bodies.

“We're dying!” X9 wailed. “You have killed us! You have killed Xeljanz! The greatest civilization that ever lived! This is the greatest crime in the history of the universe! May Tremfya curse you unto your ninth generation! May your progeny pluck out your stems!” With a last, heart-searing wail, it melted leaving a screen of green sludge.

Sonia Fuentes snapped into focus. “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The greatest crime in history, live before your very eyes. Whom do we blame for this atrocity? Do we blame Tallywhacker, the robot bull? A thing of titanium and quartzite with no mind of its own? Or do we blame its creator? The fiendish Boris Bongo Box, who has pushed the boundaries of decency and common sense his entire life? This same Bongo Box who participated in robot wars as a child?

Or do we blame Gary Duba, a man who has been in and out of jail his entire life? A known criminal who killed an endangered whooping crane in cold blood? Looks like we're being preempted by the president...”

The president appeared in the oval office. “We are all responsible for this tragedy, and we must all pay. Today I shall ask Congress to write a bill paying reparations to the Xeljanz, even though none are left. I shall also instruct NASA to mount a mission to Xeljanz to raise a monument, and from this day forth, I declare January Twentieth, Xeljanz Remembrance Day. All federal employees will be given the day off to reflect and mourn.”

Feedback was instantaneous. “The president himself is responsible for fostering an atmosphere of xenophobia and cutting aid to Far Tortuga.”

A famous director chimed in. “How do we know this even happened? The whole thing looked like a bad slide presentation. Isn't this the same mechanical bull that pulled off that stunt at the Voinovitch Gallery? So-called performance art?” He framed "performance art" in air quotes. “How do we know this isn't an advertisement for a new series?”

Gary sat on Tallywhacker's back, wearing a cowboy hat.

“Rest easy, buckeroos. Tallywhacker was just funning y'all. Ain't no Xeljanz. Ain't no X9. Mister Shpielberg is right! Ya can't shit a shitter.”

“Mister Duba, can you hear me?” Sonia asked, fourteen stories below.

“I sure can, sweetheart. What's up?”

“Are you telling us that nothing matters? That what we see is all smoke and mirrors? That the president shut down air travel over nothing?”

“Ah can't speak for the president, but Tallywhacker would like to say something.”

“My friends,” Tallywhacker said in dulcet tones, “If elected, I will safeguard our wetlands, eradicate every invasive species except, possibly, the giant Mekong catfish, which is harmless, and maintain our status as the number one vacation destination in America. Thank you.”

FIFTY-FOUR

OUT OF THE WOODS

The feds questioned Gary and Bongo Box for four hours. Bongo Box agreed to send them all schematics and a list of materials. It was five by the time they returned to Kensington Gardens. Hogzilla had destroyed the kitchen so Krystal ordered pineapple and iguana pizza from Lizard Pizza in Turpentine. Holed up in the garage, they watched the evening news on Krystal's laptop.

Governor Chickenlooper held a press conference at the state capital in Tallahassee, voted the most phallic building in the world. The salty-haired Chickenlooper was all anyone could want in a governor. Tall, broad of shoulder, deep of voice, impeccably turned out, he gripped the podium and said, “I have directed all law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for this rogue robot and have requested federal aid. At this time it does not appear that Tallywhacker poses any threat to the general public. The search is concentrated in the Arthur R Marshall National Wildlife Preserve. Citizens are urged to go about their daily business.”

“Governor!”

“Governor!”

“Governor!”

The governor pointed. “Sonia?”

“Are you at all concerned that Tallywhacker might capture the Republican nomination for governor?”

“No. It's not human. It has not resided in this state for seven years. It has no social security number. It is ineligible to run for governor, collect food stamps, or apply for disaster relief. The state has far more concerning problems to deal with including a recent rise in gang violence, iguana violence, and invasive species.”

“What about Hogzilla!” someone shouted.

“As I understand it, Gary Duba, who recently received Turpentine's highest honor, the key to the city, for his apprehension of Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee, has promised to stop the beast. When this occurs, I will invite Mister Duba to the state house and we will make a formal announcement.”

Krystal slapped Gary on the knee. “There you go!”

“I feel bad I ain't stopped the critter already. I got a plan.”

“What's the plan?”

“I gotta make a run to Walmart and buy up all their Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.”

“Let's go.”

At eight p.m., the Turpentine Walmart was doing a bang-up business. Gary and Krystal cruised the aisles loading up on frozen tacos, ammunition, the collected works of Jean-Claude Van Damme, toilet paper, frozen pizza, copper infused compression gloves, tactical goggles, and four cases of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. A handful of people used the self-checkout machines. There were twenty regular checkout lanes, but only two clerks. Gary and Krystal lined up behind a woman pushing a cart filled with sixty pounds of cat litter and twenty packages of gourmet cat food. There were three people ahead of her. The machine wouldn't take the man's card. He inserted it three times. He swiped it three times. The clerk tried to run it through. The man reached for his wallet.

“Let's try this one.”

Same story. Fifteen minutes passed.

“Let me try my debit card,” the man said.

“Buh-bye,” the cat lady said loud enough for all to hear.

The man at the head of the line turned toward her. “Excuse me?”

“Buh-BYE! You see how many people are standing in line behind you?”

“Well then I guess you should have got here first, huh?”

“Why don't you move on,” Gary said.

The man stepped out to get a better look. He looked like a refrigerator wearing a red and black plaid shirt. He had a Harley Davidson tattoo on his forehead. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me! You're a problem shopper. Oh yeah, we all know the problem shopper. Am I right?”

“You right!” said a black woman with a little girl in her cart behind him.

“Move it!” cried a Korean war veteran in an electric cart.

“Am-scray!” Krystal added.

The problem shopper was torn. The instincts that had guided him to a life of failed credit cards urged him to attack. He weighed his options. He probably had a record.

“Fuck it!” he declared, abandoning his goods and stalking toward the door.

“Hooray!” said the black woman.

“Adiosky!” said the Korean war vet.

The cat lady quietly pushed her cart out of line and disappeared.

Finally, it was Gary and Krystal's turn. The clerk was a crew cut fire plug with a Navy tat, wearing the blue Walmart vest covered with medals. Worker of the Week. Worker of the Month. Outstanding Attitude. He rang them up.

“You sure have a lot of peanut butter cups,” he said.

“Yeah?” Gary said.

“It's perfectly legal. But it's fishy. That's all I'm saying. It's fishy.”

“Don't you worry. I know what to do with 'em.”

“That's good.”

Back home, Krystal put the goods away while Gary checked his Mossberg. He opened twelve peanut butter cups and set them on the lawn just past the pool. He lay prone on a yoga pad behind a chaise lounge, clutching the shotgun. Krystal came out.

“Fuck you doin'?”

“May as well get it over with. I'm luring that sumbitch so I can kill 'em. I just hope we got enough freezer space for all that meat.”

“Are you out of your fuckin' gourd? It's nine o'clock at night! How long do you plan to lay here? You think I can sleep with you out here lurkin’ in the weeds like Squeaky Fromme?”

“Go to bed, woman! Don't worry about it. I know what I'm doing. Look. It's a full moon.”

Krystal gazed up. “You want some back-up? I could use your magnum.”

“Day comes I can't take out a lousy feral hog all by my lonesome, I might as well pack it up.”

“Fine. I'm takin’ a Xanax and goin’ to bed. Don't come cryin’ to me if it bites your head off.”

“Fine. I got a bottle of Jack, some blow, and some reefer. I'll be fine.”

An hour later, something moved in the woods. Alligator Woods. Gary's pulse quickened. He snugged the shotgun close, aiming into the darkness. The moon was bright enough to illuminate his pink flamingoes and bird bath.

“Gary,” Tallywhacker whispered from the woods.

“What?”

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“You seen that hog?”

“No. There's nothing here in the woods but me.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Tallywhacker walked out of the woods, looking furtively from side to side.

“I don't want to get you into any trouble,” Tallywhacker said.

“My friends are always welcome. Whassup?”

“After careful consideration and consulting with my family, I have decided to withdraw my candidacy. I have come to the sad conclusion that Florida is not ready for someone like me. Someone who self-identifies as a differently-abled robot of color.”

“How are you differently-abled?”

“I can't masturbate, Gary. And I can't really ask my friends for help, can I?”

“Dude, you're a robot bull. You got no wang.”

“A bull can dream, can't he? Plus, I have to tell you...”

“What?”

“People are very unhappy at that church. They're all paranoid. Some of those kids have to work twelve hours a day and they're not allowed out on their own. Children separated from parents, and some of the younger girls are being passed around as sexual favors.”

“What? By who?”

“Ken Zohan. It is a cult of Ken Zohan. All this testing of flozone levels and achievements is horse shit, Gary. He makes it up as he goes along.”

“How do you know this?”

“I hear things. He's got the whole place wired. I saw and heard many things.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Gary, would I lie?”

“Well fuck. I can't hardly have nothing to do with 'em if that's the case. We should tell someone.”

“I have a plan.”

“What?”

“I'm taking over the church.”

FIFTY-FIVE

THE TRAIL GROWS WARM

Gary watched grainy aerial footage of the porcine behemoth devastating an abandoned hunting blind in the glades. Sonia Fuentes looked the viewer in the eye.

“This footage of the feral hog known as Hogzilla was shot by amateur pilot Ron Brogden yesterday, in Hendry County. There have been several Hogzilla sightings in the past couple of days, in and around Kensington Gardens, which has been attacked three times, destroying three multi-million-dollar homes. The latest sighting was outside the Wokenoki Trailer Park, still devastated from Hurricane Hermione. Fortunately, there have been no injuries, but Hogzilla's attacks appear to be intensifying, and authorities say it's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. When last seen, it was headed northwest toward Turpentine.”

“Authorities!” Gary snorted. He called Pincus.

“How soon can you get over here, Pincus? We got a hot lead!”

“I'm sorry, Gary. I'm observing Sabbath. I shouldn't even have answered this phone.”

“Irv, lives are at stake! You think the Good Lord wants you sitting home on your ass while Hogzilla devastates the countryside? I ain't asking you to eat the damn thing, but look here. Pork's forbidden, right? What we got here is pork declaring war on humans! This is your opportunity to deal pork a death blow! They'll prob'ly give you a medal!”

“I'm sorry, Gary. It's forbidden.”

“Irv, what if you was to get a special dispensation from the head rabbi or whatever?”

“Call me back if that happens.”

Gary phoned Ken Zohan.

“Brother Gary. What can I do for you?”

“Whoza head rabbi 'round here?”

“That would be Rabbi Eliazer Yehudi, of Temple Beth Israel in Palm Beach.”

“You got his number?”

Zohan gave Gary the number.

“One more thing. Can you rustle up a chopper?”

“Why on earth?”

“We shoot this thing out in the glades, we're gonna need a chopper to airlift it outta there. Something that can lift a thousand pounds.”

“Our helicopter is a small commercial model. You need something big. Like they have at Homestead.”

“You know anyone at Homestead?”

“It just so happens that Colonel Wilberforce has achieved flozone. Would you like me to call him or would you rather do it yourself?”

“I'll call him. I'm the guy that stopped Tallywhacker from nuking Oak Island.”

Gary called the colonel. “Gary Duba for Colonel Wilberforce.”

“Right away, Mister Duba!”

“This is Colonel Wilberforce.”

“Colonel, Gary Duba here.”

“I know who you are.”

“You know about Hogzilla?”

“I know about Hogzilla.”

“Well, there's a good chance we're gonna bag that sumbitch this afternoon. I wonder if you could lend us one of your cargo choppers to airlift it out of the swamp?”

“Mister Duba, in light of your service to the state of Florida, I am prepared to authorize the use of our Sikorsky. Can you send us the exact coordinates?”

“You betcha! Is there a special number I should call?”

“I'm giving you my personal cell number. We will be standing by.”

“Thanks, Colonel!”

Gary dialed the rabbi. A woman with a Dominican accent answered.

“Rabbi can't talk to you. It is the sabbath and he can't use a phone.”

“What's your name, sweetheart?”

“Josie.”

“Okay, Josie, tell him this here is Gary Duba, the man who stopped Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee, and I need his blessing so I can get my man Pincus up off his ass so we can track Hogzilla. You tell 'em we need to stop this giant porker now, before it kills someone.”

Rapid fire Spanish.

Rapid fire Yiddish.

“Is this Mister Duba?” said an old man with a Yiddish accent.

“That's me, Rabbi! I got a lead on Hogzilla, but we got to act fast, and my tracker Pincus is an orthodox Jew. Says he won't work unless you give him the okay.”

“Normally, I would spend the day in prayer and quiet contemplation, but this monster pig is an affront to all that is decent. You may tell Mister Pincus he is free to pursue the pig.”

“Better if you tell him yourself. How's about I give you his phone number?”

A long sigh. “Very well. I'll have Josie dial.”

An hour later, Pincus arrived in his Hyundai. They transferred the cases and bins to Gary's truck and headed back toward the swamp, stopping to fill several fuel tanks. Partridge Way was all cleaned up. Even the trailer park looked clean, with shiny new trailers occupying formerly barren concrete bases. A brand-new double-wide trailer was mounted on Gary's cinder block stanchions at the end of the road. Gary pulled up next to the rented Mercedes. Regan came out of the trailer wearing Oshkosh B'Gosh coveralls, and a Renk seed cap.

“What can I do for you, Mister Duba?”

“Please, call me Gary. And this here's Pincus. We need to launch the boat. Don't want to trouble you at all, but we're hot on the trail of Hogzilla.”

“Oh yes. The giant pig.”

Larry came out with a chaw in his cheek, stood at the rail and hawked a big one into the yard. He came down the three steps and shook Gary's hand.

“Y'all got that trailer set up ex post haste de facto.”

“Yes, we were very fortunate, and all your hook-ups are good. So, what's all this about?”

Gary told him about the pig.

“Sounds smashing! I'd love to come along! I brought my Fox twelve gauge. Just give me a few minutes.”

Regan grabbed Larry 's ear and twisted. “You're not going anywhere. Who do you think you are? Lord Carnahan?”

Larry looked down at his boots. “Well, best of luck, you chaps. Please let us know how you do.”

“Just listen for the chopper. You can start celebrating. We'll have you over for the barbecue.”

Gary and Pincus carted their gear out to the Swamp Pussy, including ten pounds of Reese’s. They pulled the tarp off the boat, loaded up, filled the gas tank, put on life preservers and launched. Within minutes, they were out of sight of civilization, cruising among the reeds, willows, and mangrove, past sunning alligators. Several macaques were jumping rope with a dead python. Gary cut the engine and Pincus launched his drones. All was silence for several seconds.

“I've got a beep.”

“Is it Hogzilla?”

Pincus held up a finger. “Warm blooded mammal weighing a thousand pounds.”

“Which way do we go?”

Pincus pointed. “It's coming this way.”

“Well hell, bwah! Let's spread these peanut butter cups!”

Pincus grabbed a pack and threw it into the water.

“Bwah, I say bwah,” Gary said, picking up a package and ripping it open. “You got to filet 'em first.”

FIFTY-SIX

DEAD EYE PINCUS

Gary and Pincus slathered themselves in Off!. They wore yellow mosquito repellent bands. There was just enough breeze to keep the onslaught down as they sat in the boat, Gary checking his Mossberg.

“Got this puppy loaded with slugs. Tear a hole in an oil tanker.”

Pincus hunched over his equipment. “Two thousand feet and closing.”

“Which way?”

Pincus pointed. Gary cupped his ears. He wished he had a pair of Jerry Bowler's Ear Scoopers. The swamp hummed. The swamp buzzed. Dragonflies flitted from pad to pad. Frogs ribbited. Trails of bubbles showed where gators lurked near the bottom. They passed a hummock with a dozen gators sunning themselves side by side.

“Looks like Miami Beach,” Pincus said.

Gary tossed peanut butter cups. “You got folks?”

“My parents are in Arizona. My grandparents live in one of those high-rise condos in Miami Beach. I go down there on weekends. They forced me to see Jackie Mason live.”

“I don't know who that is.”

“Last of the Borscht Belt comedians.”

“I don't know what that is.”

“Why do Jewish divorces cost so much?”

Gary scrunched up his face.

“They're worth it.”

Silence.

“There is a big controversy on the Jewish view of when life begins. In Jewish tradition, the fetus is not considered viable until it graduates from medical school.”

“Huh?”

“Guy's hit by a car and he's lying in the street. And a guy comes over and puts a coat under his head, and he says, 'You comfortable?' And the man looks up and says, 'I make a living.’”

Gary wrinkled his nose. “What are you trying to say?”

“Never mind.”

“You're about as funny as a screen door on a submarine.”

“One thousand feet.”

“Okay, you want the magnum or not?”

“Not.”

They waited, eyes focused on the swamp. Trees trembled. Something big was moving toward them. The reeds parted revealing a fleshy pink circle with two angry alien eyes. The rest of Hogzilla followed, sunk to its shoulders, snout up like a snorkel. Gary settled near the prow, shotgun at his side, peering through a set of binocs.

Hogzilla emerged like a Thanksgiving Day float. Massive. Brown. Bulbous. It looked around, then fixed on the Swamp Pussy. It plodded forward trailing a delta of ripples. The gators looked on fearfully. A few edged back from the water.

It closed to a football field, looked left, looked right, onward.

Pincus looked up. “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name...”

“That's New Testament stuff, bwah! Don't go changing religions on me in mid-stream!”

“Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven...”

“Hail yes! Gimme that old time religion!”

“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors...”

“Ah ain't forgiven Downtown Brown. He screwed us out of our money.”

“And lead us not into temptation...”

“We need a whole lot more of Jesus and a lot less rock and roll!”

Hogzilla fixated on the boat and surged forward.

“Whoa. Here she comes. You okay there, Pincus?”

“Call me Ishmael!”

“You okay there, Ish?”

Hogzilla plowed to one hundred feet. Fifty. Twenty. It dipped its elongated zigzag snout in the water and tossed a water moccasin in the boat. Gary grabbed the Mossberg and blasted its head off. The boat began to fill with water.

“Shit!”

Hogzilla lumbered inexorably forward, snorting like a sucking drain. Gary stepped over the still twitching snake and zeroed in on its close-set little eyes. Twenty feet. Ten. The boat lurched violently tossing Gary on his ass. The shotgun skittered from his hands. A twelve-foot gator swam away sneering.

Pincus was hysterical. “Gary! Gary! Do something!”

“Can't move, hoss, I banged my funny-bone.”

Pincus weaved in fear. He looked around wildly, seized the Mossberg, brought it to his shoulder and shot Hogzilla in the eye. The monster shivered and slumped, top third protruding like a hummock. The Swamp Pussy settled lower.

Gary struggled to his knees, using the fiberglass pole to pull them up to Hogzilla. He tied a line around one ear. “Quick! Everything onto the pig!”

Pincus loaded his computer equipment, grabbed his backpack and scrambled onto the four-foot mound of flesh. Gary pulled out his cell phone. No service.

“Fuck me running. You got internet?”

Pincus sat Indian style on the hog with his laptop in his lap. “Yes. What do you need?”

“Need to call this number.’

Nine gators launched. Pincus handed Gary the laptop and within seconds, Colonel Wilberforce was looking at him from his office, window in the background showing four Warthogs in a row.

“We got 'im, Colonel! Sending you the coordinates now.”

“The helo will lift off in one minute. Flying time to your location is thirty-three minutes. Can you hold out?”

“Long as the ammunition lasts. We're sitting in the middle of the swamp perched on top this dead pig circled by alligators.”

“We are zeroed in on your transmission. We're on our way.”

Pincus was on his feet, back to back. Gators circled the pig. Pincus began reciting the kaddish.

“Will you stop with that shit? You're making me nervous!”

“All right. All right. Show me how to use that gun.”

“Now yer talking! We shoot one of them puppies, the rest'll tear it to pieces and leave us alone.”

Gary pulled out the magnum. “Now remember. Don't point it at anything you don't intend to shoot. Here. Grip it in both hands.”

Pincus took the gun.

“It's got a hell of a kick, that's why you two-hand it. Now you track one of these gators, try to put your shot right through the top of its head. You ever watch Swamp People?”

“No.”

“Well you ever seen a Western?”

“No.”

“Son, I don't see how that's possible.”

Pincus tracked a ten-footer that swam to within few feet, protruding eyes like snorkels. He shut his eyes.

Gary had the shotgun, but he wanted to see what Pincus would do. “Open your eyes.”

Pincus opened his eyes, the long barrel tracking. BOOM! The sudden report sent a flock of Canadian geese flapping. Gary shook his fist.

“Go on back to Canada, ya parasites!”

The gator went belly up. Three gators snapped down on appendages and twirled, dragged, and chewed.

“Hot damn, Pincus! You blasted the hell outta that thing!”

Pincus looked up, surprised. “I did?”

“You sure did! If we didn't have all this pork, I'd cook ya some gator! Can Jews eat gator?”

“I'll have to check.”

FIFTY-SEVEN

PORKCHOPS

They heard the big Sikorsky long before they saw it, and here it came like a giant dragonfly, its downwash flattening the weeds and driving the gators into the water. The Sikorski Super Stallion hovered a hundred feet above Hogzilla making speech difficult. A soldier in a helmet and goggles leaned out the open side and descended in a harness, swinging five feet above Hogzilla. Gary snagged him by the ankles and pulled him down as he released the harness.

“Hi!” he shouted. “I'm Lieutenant Corrigan. First we're gonna lift you outta here, and then we're gonna hook up this hog. They're sending down two harnesses.”

Gary insisted Pincus go first. Ten minutes later, Gary and Pincus strapped themselves to bench seats while Corrigan got down on his belly and forced a strap under Hogzilla's neck while a soldier leaned out the side with a sniper's rifle. Gary watched him fire twice. It was so loud in the chopper he couldn't hear the shots. Corrigan was reeled up. The Sikorsky rose straight up pulling Hogzilla from the muck.

“Where to?” Corrigan shouted.

Gary wrote the address for the Kensington Gardens Clubhouse and drew a map, putting an 'X' on the patio facing the lake.

“You put 'er right here so the chef can get at it. We're gonna set aside some ribs for you boys down at Homestead. Thanks for pulling our fat outta the fire.”

Corrigan gave the coordinates to the pilot. They shut the side doors and put on headsets.

Corrigan, wearing helmet and goggles, thumbed Pincus. “Whoozis?”

“Irving Pincus,” he said into his set, shaking the lieutenant's hand.

Gary slapped Pincus on the shoulder. “This here Jewboy fired the shot that killed Hogzilla! He also just bagged his first gator! Ain't that right, Pincus?”

Pincus grinned. “Cross that off the bucket list.”

“Congratulations, son!” Corrigan said. “I don't have to tell you we've all been on edge over this Tallywhacker thing. We didn't know whether to shit or go blind!”

Gary waved Corrigan's' concern away. “Tallywhacker wouldn't hurt a fly! It's all showbiz! He's angling for a part in the next Avengers. He wants to play Lockjaw.”

“The mutant dog?” Corrigan said enthusiastically. “Do you think he could?”

"There ain't nothing that robot bison can't do once it sets its mind to it."

“But can he act?”

“He's fooled people so far.”

“That's true. I don't even know what he looks like.”

Gary reached for his Fonebone. “Hang on." He cued up their conversation in the back yard.”

Corrigan tilted his head this way and that. “I don't see it. I see Mark Ruffalo.”

“Only reason you say that is 'coz his name rhymes with buffalo.”

“No! He's really good as Hawkeye. He's a very versatile actor.”

“Can Tallywhacker play Hamlet? Zat what you're asking?”

“Well it's the actor's job to become the part. Look at Christian Bale. He zooms in and out like Oprah Winfrey. Guys gained and lost more weight than a family of six. That's commitment.”

“If you're asking whether Tallywhacker can lose enough weight to plan an ingenue, I gotta say that's dubious. But he can do any accent, even accents we don't know where they come from.”

“Does the clubhouse know we're comin'?”

Gary slapped his thigh. “Ho shit! I'd better tell 'em. Goldblatt's gonna shit a brick when we set this down.”

Fifteen minutes later, the Sikorsky shattered the tranquility of Kensington Gardens. People came out of their houses to stare at the sky and check their phones. The chopper hovered over the club house as it gently lowered Hogzilla with Corrigan riding on top. He unhooked the dead pig from the chopper which quickly drew in the lines, rose, circled around, and landed in the parking lot. There was plenty of room.

Gary and Pincus removed their headsets and headed toward the clubhouse. Marvin Goldblatt vibrated like a paint mixer, his face bright red. Mindy Perske marched toward them, shoulders hunched, fists clenched.

“How dare you,” Gary saw her mouth without actually hearing it.

“You just fuck right off now, Mindy. I'm tired of your nonsense. Y'all asked me to kill thet hog and that's what I done. Pincus helped. In fact, he shot the fucker. In fact, I'm putting him in for a medal. What kinda medal y'all got?”

Goldblatt waited until they reached the entrance.

“What is going on? Why wasn't I notified?”

“Well it all happened so quick-like. One minute I was relaxing in my back yard and the next I'm out in the swamp with Pincus here, throwing peanut butter cups around. Hope you got more streets planned, 'cause everyone gonna want to come here now.”

They walked through the cool, shadowed interior out the sliding glass doors to the patio where Lieutenant Corrigan guarded Hogzilla from middle-aged couples and white-garbed staff snapping pictures.

Honore duBlastio wearing a white toque and a denim apron rubbing his hands together. “Mister Duba! In my wildest dreams, I never imagined...”

Gary threw his arm over Honore's shoulder and together they admired that magnificent mountain of meat.

“That hog weighs one thousand one hundred and twelve pounds,” Corrigan said. “We weighed it.”

“Holy shit,” Gary said. “That's a world record.”

Major Sutton and Muriel Martinez hustled out the doors. Muriel advanced behind her Fonebone. Major grinned like a Buick.

“We heard the news! We got here quick as we could!”

“How did you hear the news?” Gary said.

“Police scanner. There was a crazy rumor you bagged Hogzilla! It's no rumor!”

Honore poked a pink finger into Hogzilla's hams. “I am already imagining a new dish, a new recipe, sumsing dat will set hearts soaring, and tongues salivating. Porkchops Hogzilla, with marmalade and lemons. A touch of cayenne, a hint of garlic.”

“Name it after Pincus.”

Honore looked skyward. “Pork chops Pincus,” he said. “Non. Non. It lacks that certain je ne sais quoi.”

“So, tell me, Honore, how many people do you think this hog can feed?”

“Oh, I would estimate about five hundred.”

Gary started counting. Him, Krystal, Floyd, Patrice, Roberto, Jen, Barb, Delilah, Airwrecka, Kudlow, Pincus, Everett, Martinez, Major, Habib, plus their dates, and the HOA board, which was ten, plus the rest of their families, plus he'd promised that mob he'd put on a barbecue. That was cutting it thin. He turned to Pincus.

“We may have to go out and get another hog.”

“Not right now.”

“Maybe tomorrow. You doing anything tomorrow?”

“I go to temple on Sunday.”

“When you get out. Don't let on what you're doing.”

“Don't worry. I seriously question whether I can remain a member.”

“Chill, dude. You don't got to eat any! We'll fix you up something special. Honore here makes a great crawfish étouffée.”

“We can't eat shellfish.”

“You ever think about switching?”

Krystal shrieked from the clubhouse, ran at Gary and leaped into his arms. “You did it! Baby I'm so proud of you!”

“That's right, little lady! I did it all for you! And I asked 'em to save me the ears so I can make you a purse!”

Sonia Fuentes approached with cameraman. “Mister Duba! How does it feel to be the man who bagged Florida's largest python, and Florida's largest feral hog?”

“Wasn't me, darlin'! Pincus here bagged Hogzilla!”

She looked around, but Pincus was nowhere to be found.

“How did you do it?”

“We just kept chucking peanut butter cups at it. Then Pincus blew a hole through its head with a twelve-gauge slug. Look. Here's your money shot.”

One glance at the gaping hole in the hog's head and she turned away.

FIFTY-EIGHT

WHO IS STRONGER?

“Due to the credible threat of alien annihilation, the History Channel regretfully announces that we are suspending all broadcasts of The Curse of Oak Island and that the program is on permanent hiatus. We apologize to our loyal viewers.”

“Good! You motherfuckers have had more than enough time! The show was bullshit!” –Abercrombie in New York

“No one will miss your stupid prick tease of a show. I regret the hours I wasted.” – Madame DuFarge, Baines, Iowa

“Oh no! And you were so close to finding the treasure!” – Little Girl in Maine

Gary and Krystal had moved into the guest house until the main house was ready. Gary now had five million YouTube followers, more than enough ad revenue to pay the bills. His insurance company had rejected the claim. Habib offered to fight.

Gary sat at his laptop in the guest house. He would go live at eight o'clock. Fifteen minutes prior to the show he strolled through Facebook, Twitter, Minds, MeWe, Gab, and Widdershins. There was a link to an alligator recipe on Widdershins. When Gary clicked on the link, an ad for Zeitz' Stool Softener rose slowly from the bottom like a rising tide covering content. Gary waited patiently for the X to appear. There it was! In the upper right-hand corner, fainter than a ghost! Smaller than a period! When Gary tried to click it, it skittered away like a blob of mercury. He chased it all over the page before returning to Widdershins in disgust.

An ad popped up showing a bizarre blade like something BudK would offer in their fantasy series. “The most authentic hunga munga money can buy.”

It took Gary five minutes to find the X.

Florida's Best Fishing Holes drew him. But when he went to the page, an amoeba-like ad for the new Hyundai line-up grew and grew until it covered everything. He waited patiently for the X to appear. There it was! On a black band across the bottom! He pushed the X. The black band covered the page presenting an image of a tiny hatchback twirling, growing, approaching like a meteor until it filled the screen. It was a fake-out X, designed to promulgate.

Gary returned to Widdershins in disgust. This time it was a link to an article on the best hunting knives. As soon as he landed, an ad for liposuction appeared. Before and after pictures of a morbidly obese woman and Paulina Perestroika. Cut to Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, serious in white lab coat, beard, seated in a lavish office looking out on a verdant garden.

“Are you tired of starving yourself, exercising without results, and struggling into your clothes every morning? Would you like to rid yourself of unwanted fat without the drudgery of dieting or exercise? I am Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee...”

Gary hit the X.

A large rectangle filled the screen. WHY YOU NO LIKE AD? 1. The ad was too relevant. 2. I am an ungrateful hick. 3. Ad was too personal. 4. I am a communist opposed to capitalism and private property. 5. Sensitive topic. 6. Knows too much. 7. Repetitive.

“No, you dumb sumbitches! Doctor Mukerjee is dead! Deader than Oak Island! What is the matter with you fucks?”

WHY YOU NO LIKE AD? turned red. The options changed. We have taken over your computer. Soon all your data will be gone unless you deposit ten thousand dollars in fungicoins to the bank account which is waiting in your email.

“Fuck!” Gary howled. He had a show in fifteen minutes!

“Gary,” a lugubrious voice issued through the open widow.

“What? Who's out there?”

“It's me. Tallywhacker. I can help you with that.”

“Hang on.”

Gary put on a ball cap, grabbed a beer, grabbed the laptop and went out to the patio where Tallywhacker merged with the darkness.

“Hey, good to see ya. How'd you know I was having trouble?”

“I am one with the internet. I see all and know all. Set the laptop on my back. Open it up.”

Gary did as directed.

“It's done. The attack originated in Ukraine. The perpetrators are trapped in a burning warehouse.”

“Jeez. That's a little harsh, don't you think?”

Tallywhacker's eyes glowed red. “Let's ask their victims, shall we? I can do more good as a private citizen than I could as governor. Congratulations on your great victory.”

“Thanks, dude. It was Pincus who killed it. So, you're giving up on running for office?”

“Yes. I am raising money for orphans in Africa.”

“How you doing that?”

“I just take it from certain well-fed bank accounts and deposit it directly in charity banks.”

“Don't forget the Nuns of Gavarone.”

“They were among my first recipients.”

“Hey, I gotta go on the air in a minute. You want to be a guest?”

“That would be a great honor, Gary.”

“Great! Okay. Here we go. First, we do the theme song and then the opening, so it'll be about five minutes before we actually go live.”

Gary set the laptop on a table and sat down. “You can stand over my shoulder if you want to see.”

“There's no need for that. I see all. I hear all. I am one with the internet.”

“Okay. Here we go!”

Montage of Krystal as Black Dildo, Gary and Pincus posing with Hogzilla, Gary posing with Orin Houtkooper and the python, Gary receiving the key to the city while Toby Keith sang.

"Born in a trailer park in Turpentine. Home of the free and the home of the swine. Raised in the woods so I knew every pine. Kilt me a hog by the time I was nine. Gary...Gary Duba! Kang of the Everglades.”

Gary went live. “Hey y'all! Gary Duba here. I guess y'all heard the news. We finally plugged that porker Hogzilla. Got 'em in the Glades with one shot from my Mossberg. Pincus did it. Purty damn good for a boy who never fired a gun before! Unfortunately, Pincus' religion precludes him from appearing at this time. Here we are posin' with our trophy.”

Shot of Gary and Pincus posing on the dead hog.

“Here they are lowering him at the Kensington Gardens clubhouse. Here I am now with my friend Tallywhacker, the sentient robot buffalo, invented by my neighbor Boris Bongo Box. Stick your snout up here, big boy.”

Tallywhacker loomed over Gary's shoulder. “Thank you, Gary, and greetings to his millions of followers. I am here to solve your problems. Ask me anything.”

The phone instantly rang.

“Hello to Renee in Coral Gables. Whassup?”

“Helly, Gary, and thank you for taking my call. I want to ask Tallywhacker if liposuction is right for me.”

“I'd skip the lip if I were you, Renee,” Tallywhacker said in a voice like aged bourbon. “How do you think Doctor Mukerjee became a serial killer?”

“Why, I hadn't thought about it. I thought he just waited in the dark to catch total strangers alone.”

“No. He sucked out too much fat. I don't recommend liposuction for anyone.”

“Thank you!”

“You're welcome, Renee.”

“This here is Oleg from Moscow. What's up, Oleg?”

“Who stronger? Superman or Hulk?”

“They're fictional characters, Oleg. They don't exist.”

“WHO IS STRONGER?”

“Yelling at me won't get you the answer you want, Oleg. You will never know true peace until you believe in something greater than yourself.”

“Hello to Bradley, in Okeechobee.”

“Hey. Love the snake, love the hog. I was actually at that fight last year where Danielle defeated Cassowary, and I want to know, did you ever get paid?”

“No, Bradley. The sumbitch took the money and ran. Never thought he'd do that to us.”

“Do you want to know where Downtown Brown is, Gary?” Tallywhacker said.

“Hell yeah! Do you know?”

“I'll tell you after the show.”

“Folks, this has been a real treat. I hate to cut things short, but I got shit to do! See y'all tomorrow night!”

Gary closed the show. “Where is that sumbitch?”

FIFTY-NINE

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO DOWNTOWN BROWN?

The total amount of gross receipts for the Steely Danielle/Cassowary fight came to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Net receipts cut it down to sixty. Total net from broadcasting rights added another twenty-five thou. Downtown owed El Nariz a half mil. El Nariz knew about the card and was certain to show. With the main card underway, Downtown stuffed the cash in an over-sized gym bag and bugged out through the alley, kicking rats aside, leaping over downed electric scooters. He threw the money in the trunk of his 2002 Eldorado and headed north. When he got to the panhandle, he headed west. When he got to Pensacola, he headed to his sister Livonia's house.

Downtown was the youngest of three. DaeSean was three years his senior, Livonia two. DaeSean had died during the Gulf War. Livonia married a foundry worker. Downtown arrived at his sister's house on Binghampton Road at six in the evening of a hot August night. Nine-year-old Devarious opened the door and bellowed, "MA! UNCLE MARIO IS HERE!"

Soon Downtown was shoveling meatloaf and peas, his curious nieces and nephews admiring his blue serge suit and conked black hair. Livonia's husband Ben slumped in his chair.

“What you doin' here, Mario?”

“I have a business proposition for you.”

Ben shook his head and grunted. “Mm mm mm.”

After dinner they went out on the deck while the three kids, Devarious, Pablo, and Letritia ran amuck up and down the street on their Big Wheels.

“Tell me straight out,” Ben said. “You in trouble?”

Downtown flashed his million-dollar smile. “Not at all. I just woke up one morning and thought enough of this shit! I was sick of the high life, the traffic, the drugs, and that fucking Miami attitude. You know what I'm talkin' about! Smug bastards.”

“Well if you lookin' to stay here, we ain't got the room.”

Livonia stared daggers. “He can sleep in the basement!”

Downtown patted the air. “No worries, folks. I'll stay in a motel tonight and tomorrow I'll look for an apartment. I got money.”

“Where'd you get the money?” Ben said.

“Ben!”

“I won it playing blackjack at the Immokale Casino. It's all square, it's all legit!”

Ben barked, “What's your proposition?”

Downtown stood. “Hang on.” He went to his car, opened the trunk, took out a leather knapsack, set it down on the table, pulled out a scythe-like object with multiple prongs.

“Fuck is it?”

“This here's a hunga munga, a throwing weapon common to Central Africa. There's a huge demand for survival gear and unusual weapons. I can sell a shitload of these. I've already got the domain name. Hungamunga.com. What's that forge you work at?”

“Albion Doowop. We make traditional and modern swords, cutlasses, axes, and knives. We cater to a high-end clientele that includes historic re-enactors, renaissance fairs, and ax-throwing competitions. Let me see that thing.”

Ben turned the hunga munga over in his hands. It was heavy. It had a natural balance mid-point between the blades. He gripped it by the handle and pulled it over his shoulder.

“Don't even think about it,” Livonia said.

At Ben's urging, Albion Doowop added the hunga munga to its catalog. It was an immediate success and soon began to outsell traditional models such as the Soborg, the Cluney, the Tritonia, even the popular Conan the Barbarian. Downtown introduced a line of designer hunga mungas which he sold through hungamunga.com. Albion gave him a seat on the board. He was a big hit at the company Christmas party and began dating a North Shore girl named Helen. He and Helen bought a house in Milton. Now known as Mario Brown, he joined the Toasters Club and played blues guitar on weekends at Stan's Roadhouse.

On a Friday in early February, Mario bent over his guitar teasing out an Otis Rush song when he sensed a disturbance in the force. He looked up. Gary and Krystal Duba sat next to the stage, eating gumbo. Major dropped a chord, covered for it, finished with a dazzling arpeggio and signaled his bass and drummer to take fifteen.

“We'll be right back, folks!”

He stepped off the stage and pulled back a chair. “How'd you find me?”

“Tallywhacker.”

“I mighta known.”

“You owe us ten thousand dollars.”

“I know. I know. I shoulda told ya.”

“Told us what?”

“I was in debt to El Nariz for a half mil. He sent a guy to collect. I barely made it out of there alive.”

“Oh bullshit, Downtown!” Krystal said. “You never said one word to us about that!”

“It ain't somethin' I'm proud of. I didn't want you to know I had anything to do with him.”

“Well he's dead, you know.”

Downtown folded his hands. “We don't know that for sure.”

“We sure do,” Gary said. “You'd be pushing up daisies by now if he were still alive.”

“I reckon that's true.”

“Well cough up, you slimy bastard, or I'll sic Krystal on ya.”

“Okay, okay, just gimme a minute. I don't have that kind of cash on me.”

“Yeah, well including the other wrestlers you screwed, it comes to ninety.”

“Come on, you guys! I don't got that kind of money! I invested everything in my hunga munga business.”

“Whaddaya got that's worth anything? And I ain't talking 'bout no comic books.”

“The most valuable possession I own is a solid silver hunga munga made for Emperor Musa Keita of Mali in Thirteen thirty. It is valued at one point nine mil.”

Gary held out his hand.

“I don't have it on me! And even if I did, why would I give you something worth one point nine mil when I only owe a total of ninety grand?”

“We trusted you. Now you got to trust us.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I know a gallery where we can sell it. We'll take one hundred gees. Ten grand for our purse, ten grand for our trouble, and the rest goes to the other wrestlers.”

Krystal leaned forward. “And if you try to screw us, we'll get Tallywhacker to ruin your life, and don't think he can't do it. He can erase your bank accounts, put you on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted, and order ten thousand pizzas delivered to your house.”

Downtown paled. His chocolate milk complexion turned beige. All feared the alien entity known as Tallywhacker.

“Okay. Come on over to the house.”

They spent the night at a motel and by nine were back on the road to Kensington Gardens with the hunga munga in the trunk.

SIXTY

CHOPPERS

The Hogzilla Barbecue was a national event. Tickets were limited. The KGHOA was split down the middle, with half reveling in the publicity, and half loathing it. The remaining lots sold in fifteen minutes. The developers planned to add more, lapping up property like a possum in a bakery. Helicopters hovered overhead. The press tried to sneak in the back way, getting lost in the swamp, contracting dengue fever. Some disappeared. Groome Security guards stood at the perimeter, turning away interlopers or conducting them to the front gate.

The music started at noon with Hog Wylde, louder than a frat party. The power chords churned across the lake, delighting all within hearing, except for most of the home-owners who couldn't believe what was happening. Gary had even given Downtown a slot at four pm. The headliner was blues legend Dalton Seaberry.

All home-owners were invited but aside from board members, most stayed away. Many left home for the day. There were two thousand tickets including five hundred drawn by lottery from Gary's fan club. Honore duBlastio spent five hours butchering the hog. They brought in five grills made from fifty-gallon oil drums and filled the patio with buffet tables. Dozens of trash barrels dotted the property all the way to the end of the pier. The swimming pool was off limits due to liability issues. A long line began forming outside the gates at six in the morning, with families spreading blankets by the side of the road, picnicking, tossing Frisbees and fishing in the drainage ditch. The doors opened at eleven.

Pincus put up two drones, operating both with a modified gaming yoke. Muriel pointed her Fonebone.

“What's going on here, Gary Duba?”

“This here's the barbecue I promised the home-owners’ association. I told 'em I'd stop that house-wrecking hog and I done it. We got enough hog to feed five hundred. After that, we got more hog.”

“Will we be seein' this on your upcoming Netflix series?”

“You know it, little lady! By the way. If you're looking for a good deal on sit-down mowers, Billy Bob in Turpentine is the man to see.”

Gary chopped ribs with his hunga munga. One of his first customers was a man wearing a Mojo Nixon shirt, a five-day stubble, and a Rick Flair tat. “Can I get a picture?”

“Sure! Come on back here!”

Gary posed with the man while his girlfriend, a freckled Fraulein in curlers, snapped the pic. Everybody wanted a picture with Gary and/or Krystal. It was slowing down the line. Marvin Goldblatt came over wearing khakis and a knit tennis shirt.

“Give me the tongs. You should charge for pictures.”

“Aw hell no, Marv! I ain't charging for no pictures!”

Gary rinsed the hunga and put it in his backpack, went out front where a line formed for pictures and autographs. He signed a woman's breasts. He signed a baby's bottom. He signed a goat horn. The parking lot was packed. People parked on the grass. Police set up a road block a half mile up to turn people away.

Chopper whup filled the air. A gold helicopter appeared over the trees, heading toward the clubhouse. It settled to earth on fifty yards from the parking lot, the Necroeconomics logo painted on the side. Cops whipped out citation pads. Ken Zohan stepped from the chopper in an iridescent blue suit, blazing white shirt, arrow point collars out, hands raised, teeth gleaming. He signaled for quiet. The chopper cut its engine. Josephine Sherrington stepped out in Monique Lhuillier floating floral V-neck gown.

The crowd rippled.

“Ken Zohan.”

“The Necroeconomists are here.”

“He's a god!”

“He's a devil!”

“Who cares!”

“They got their meat hooks into my nephew and I didn't see him for two years.”

Plenty were eager to touch the holy man. Zohan moved slowly bestowing a touch here, a riddle there. Out came the Fonebones. Over came the cops, clearing a path.

At last Zohan stood face to face. “Brother Gary. I can't tell you how pleased I am to be here.”

Gary racked his brain trying to remember if he'd invited Zohan. Blotto. Maybe Krystal.

“Hey, Ken! Glad you could make it.”

Zohan touched the straps on Gary's backpack. “Is this a rucksack?”

“I guess you could call it that. Sorta an urban rucksack.”

“Rucksacks suck racks. You remember the glamorous Josephine.”

“How are ya, Joe?”

Sherrington smiled benignly.

Zohan grabbed Gary's arm. “Perhaps we can talk later.”

“Yeah, we'll do that! Go get some ribs. That hog ain't gonna last forever.”

Gary signed until two. He would have signed all day, but Krystal put him in a wrist lock and forced him through the clubhouse to the patio where the party was in full swing. Hundreds of people danced to Nature's Toothbrush, which had a four-man horn section. Patrice poked above the crowd like a pop-up groundhog.

Krystal took Gary to a shaded table in the corner where she'd loaded two platters with ribs and potato salad. “Eat.”

Gary barely had time to polish off four ribs when Zohan pulled out a chair.

“Brother Gary.”

“Cousin Zohan.”

“Together we could accomplish great things.”

“Like what?”

“Unifying the nation's troubled soul. Helping the less fortunate. Spreading the gospel of Necroeconomics.”

“Gospel of Ken Zohan, you mean.”

Ken's smile froze. “What do you mean?”

“I'm hearing some disturbing reports, Ken. Indentured servants. Sexual exploitation.”

Zohan focused to a point. “The church has many enemies, Brother Gary. As I'm sure you're aware, success breeds envy and malice in others. The church maintains high standards. We value ethics above all else. There is no room in the church for that kind of behavior. We vigorously defend our reputation. May I ask where you heard this?”

Gary pointed a rib. “Ain't no secret. Miami Herald for starters.”

Zohan leaned in. “The Miami Herald is a communist hotbed. Most of their reporters matriculated at the University of Moscow. They are a faithless society and have attacked every religion.”

“I'm just saying. I'm gonna have to look into this myself. I can't work with sex traffickers.”

“Brother Gary, what if I were to tell you that I can prove these allegations wrong? What if some of the most prominent members told you of their experiences?”

“I'll hear 'em.”

“But listen. The reason I'm here, your great success! You have accomplished the trifecta! State's biggest python! Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee! And now, the biggest feral hog of all time! It was delicious! And the coleslaw!”

“Glad you like it. My man Pincus shot Hogzilla.”

“The church has decided to award you with its highest civilian honor, the Golden Hog.”

“You need to give it to Pincus.”

“Would you and Pincus honor us once more with your presence for the award ceremony? It's slated for Friday at our headquarters in Coopersmith. It will be well worth your while.”

“Lemme talk it over with my managers.”

“It comes with a fifty-thousand dollar honorarium.”

“Like I say, gotta talk to Krystal. I'll letcha know.”

“You do that, Brother Gary. And now if you'll excuse me, I see many of our flock here today.”

“No shit?”

The band paused. A woman screamed. The crowd on the pier stampeded for land, people falling into the water. The crowd on land stampeded for the parking lot, tipping over chairs and tables. More women screamed. Men shouted. Gary stood.

At first Gary thought it was a gator. What kind of crazy gator headed toward thousands of people on shore? He mistook the nostrils for eyes. The hippo found traction and rose out of the water. It roared.Gary ripped off his backpack and took out the hunga munga.

“COME AT ME, BRO!”

The hippo charged. Gary spun the hunga munga overhead like a giant throwing star. The hippo yawned.

SHLUK

The hunga munga embedded itself on the underside of its jaw. The hippo stopped, shook its head from side to side dislodging the hunga, turned around and went back in the water.

Gary looked up. “What else ya got?”

SIXTY-ONE

HALCYON ACRES

It was noon Wednesday when Krystal shook Gary awake.

“What?”

“Habib.”

She handed him her phone.

“What?”

“Gary, I looked into that parcel of land you wanted me to buy. Feedmore Development bought the land last week. Somehow they got all the permissions and contracts and they started development yesterday.”

“What the fuck? Feedmore Development? What they feed?”

“That is the parent corporation of Kensington Gardens. They specialize in building upscale communities. The land you wanted is part of Halcyon Acres, an upscale gated community.”

“Fuck! Can't you stop 'em?”

“No. They were real tricky, almost as if they knew someone else was interested.”

“They find the Fountain of Youth?”

“I don't know.”

“I gotta go, Habib. I gotta stop 'em.”

“Gary, I would advise...”

Gary threw on blue jeans, waffle stompers, a black rayon shirt with an embroidered dragon, stuffed a water bottle, a banana, some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and his hunga munga in his backpack, and ran out the door. Krystal leaned out a second story window.

“Where you goin'?”

“I gotta stop 'em from digging up the Fountain of Youth!”

“What?”

“The Fountain of Youth!”

“Wait for me to take a shower.”

“No time!”

He leaped in the old Ford, started the engine and sprayed gravel into the weeds. It was all Gary could do to obey the twenty-five mile an hour speed limit in KG. Old Goldblatt was close to a thrombo already. Once out of the gates he accelerated to sixty until he came to Pearson Road and headed east. An alligator was crossing the road. Gary didn't even slow down. The truck rolled over with a spine-pounding thump.

He took Pearson to Duggan. Massive tire tread lay on the road like an artisan waffle. Up ahead, Gary saw yellow earth moving machines, contractors' pickup trucks, a couple of Harleys, and a silver trailer command center. He stopped behind the last pick up and walked south, passing a food truck. Lizard on A Stick.

Gary went to the window. “Julio, you crazy motherfucker!”

Julio game to the window. “Gary! You want a lizard? On the house.”

“Naw, I gotta run. Maybe later. How'd you beat the rap?”

“I called Habib Rodriguez and he got me four hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”

“For what?”

“Violating my civil rights!”

“Gimme five!”

A quarter mile up, a foreman in an orange hardhat bent over the hood of a car, looking at an architectural layout, surrounded by managers, all wearing hard hats and eye-searing green vests. Nobody gave Gary a second glance.

The managers headed out. The supervisor, a Latino with heavy brows and mustache, tired brown eyes and bulbous nose looked up.

“Help you?”

“I'm Gary Duba. I live over there in Kensington Gardens.”

“That's one of our sister settlements. I worked on that one. What can I do for you, Mister Duba?”

“Well there's a spring back there, a natural spring, and I just want to make sure you don't accidentally wipe it out.”

“We wouldn't do that, Mister Duba. The law is very strict.”

“Would you mind if I went back there and took a look?”

The supervisor squinted. “How do I know you?”

“I'm the guy who stopped Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee.”

“That's right! Good job. I seen him on Botched. That's what happened to Mickey Rourke. I'm Sanchez. All right, let's both go. You're gonna have to wear a hard hat.”

“No prob.”

They walked along a graded dirt road sprouting concrete curbs. Gary unslung his backpack and removed Floyd's location finder. Sanchez stopped a couple times to look at plans and point. They came to the edge of civilization and entered the jungle. Grinding machines up ahead. Dust in the air. Sanchez pulled out a bottle of insect repellent and handed it to Gary.

“Seen any gators?”

“Not yet. A lot of this area was dredged during the seventies. Used to be farm.”

“Used to be a hog farm.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh yeah, used to belong to the Zohan family. You know Ken Zohan? Church of Necroeconomics?”

“That guy.”

“His old man farmed hogs, right here. Some people think Hogzilla was the great, great, great, great grandson of hogs that got loose Them big ones'll live fourteen, fifteen years.”

“How do you know?”

“Grew up in the swamp. We used to shoot 'em for food. In fact, I wrote a song about it. 'Born in a trailer park in Turpentine...’”

“What do you know about Zohan?”

“Not much. Met him a couple times. He keeps sucking up to me. Makes me wonder. He don't know me but he wants to be my best friend. I hear shit. What do you know about him?”

“I know my sister fell for that shit and we didn't see her for four years. Finally, she comes to us crying with black eye and a broken nose. Treated her like a slave, fed her Spaghetti-Os, had her scrubbin' floors, painting rooms, ten-hour days. Never let her alone. One day on a shopping trip to Costco she ran way, out through the warehouse and out the back. Came back after dark. We couldn't believe it. When she left, she was a beautiful young lady. When she returned she looked like a whipped dog. Then they started hassling her over the internet, said if she goes to the police or something, they're not only coming after her, they're coming after her family.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah. I went over there but they wouldn't let me in. I guess I got a little hot. They called the cops and they arrested me for public menacing. They dropped it, but I got the message. The church too big to fuck with.”

“Put your gear away, put your fear away,” Gary said.

“Nictating membranes make dictating brain stems.”

Flashes of yellow through the trees as bulldozers shifted the earth. Gary looked at his Garmin GPS and got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. They stepped out of the woods onto a chewed up shoulder, fresh white cement, hot blacktop still moist. Gary looked at the street and back to his Garmin.

“It was there,” he said. “It was right there.”

“Where?”

“Right where you put that intersection. You didn't see it? Nobody saw that fountain? You had to see it. It was right in the middle of this weird black rock.”

“No way, Mister Duba. These workers have strict orders to report every anomaly, potential hazard, or natural phenomenon. I would have heard about it.”

They stood for a moment while the machines roared, filling the air with dust. Sanchez glanced over. Tears ran down Gary's cheeks. Sanchez turned away.

SIXTY-TWO

THE GOLDEN HOG

The Church of Necroeconomics is proud to announce a special ceremony to honor Mr. Gary Duba and Mr. Irving Pincus, for their heroic efforts in stopping the monster known as Hogzilla, with the Holy Hog, its highest civilian award.

Wombat Supreme Kenneth Zohan will award Mr. Duba and Mr. Pincus the Holy Hog in a special ceremony at Church World Headquarters in Coopersmith, at one p.m. on Friday, February 9. Your attendance is requested. Formal wear is encouraged.

Previous winners have included State Supreme Court Justice Wither Weatherby, Signer For the Hearing Impaired Marsupial Marceau, and Academy Award winning actors Sean Sheen and Paulina Perestroika.

Gary and Krystal got out of their pickup in front of the church, where a valet gave them a ticket. A crowd of press and church faithful cheered and applauded at the sight of Gary in a tuxedo and Krystal in an ecru Stella McCartney Lurx knit midi. Earl was there to greet them.

“Good to see you again, Mister Duba!”

“Call me Gary, wouldja? And this is Krystal.”

“Big fan, Missus Duba.”

“You can call me Krystal. Just don't call me, you know.”

Earl put a finger to his lips. “My lips are sealed. Follow me please. I have orders to whisk you straight to the top.”

The lobby was jammed with swells, liveried bartenders dispensing drinks. Groups of journalists clustered with their boom mics and cameras. There were waiting lines at each of the four public elevators. Earl escorted them to the executive elevator in the back and they rode up to the Grand Ballroom, where two thousand people were seated. Floyd, Ginger, Habib and Miss Tropicana Gardens, Jen and Wilbur, Major and Daphne, Krystal's mother Trixie and her boyfriend Stanton, and Patrice and Roberto.

Spontaneous applause broke out as Gary and Krystal mounted the podium, the image of Gary and Pincus standing with feet on Hogzilla on the screen behind them. Zohan greeted them warmly, pointed to two chairs at the purple curtain facing the audience. Also seated: Governor John Chickenlooper and First Lady Simone, actors Sean Sheen, Paulina Perestroika, and Rene Welldigger, and master chef Honore duBlastio.

“Pincus couldn't make it,” Gary said. “The chief rabbi nixed it.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I will reach out to the rabbi after the ceremony.”

At one, Zohan took the podium and Marsupial Marceau took his place to the side, wearing black and white tux and white mime paint. The huge auditorium hushed. "Amos Moses" came over the speakers and faded to silence.

“My friends, Necroeconomists, members of the press, distinguished clergy.”

Marsupial Marceau went into overdrive.

“We have a saying. Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Give a man a thousand-pound feral hog and you feed the whole neighborhood! For too long, we Floridians have been complacent in the face of nature's wrath. Herpes-ridden monkeys. The seven hundred-pound Mekong catfish. Burmese pythons. Feral hogs. One man has done more to raise awareness of these threats than any other. One man, who gives and gives! Gary Duba rose from humble beginnings to become a symbol of hope for humble beginnings everywhere!”

“Last year, when Turpentine awarded him the Key to the City for stopping Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee, we thought surely, this will be his career highlight. How can he possibly top this? Well now we know! The feral hog has been among us since before Florida was a state. The Spanish introduced pigs into the new world, never imagining that these beasts would escape and grow to monstrous proportions!”

“We all know how Hogzilla roamed the hinterlands, turning multi-million-dollar homes into kindling. What is less well known is how Hogzilla routinely savaged the crops of hard-working tobacco and sugar cane farmers, turned migrant camps into desolate wastelands, and otherwise preyed on traditionally marginalized peoples. How many of you know that Hogzilla rampaged through Gibsonton, destroying the winter homes of hundreds of carnival workers including those afflicted with dwarfism, acromegaly, and conjoined twins? How many know how Hogzilla selfishly ate an entire year's supply of feed for the critically endangered sideheel newt?

“Most recently, Hogzilla targeted the upscale community of Kensington Gardens. When my dear friend Gary Duba moved in last year, it was known as Turpentine Acres and he was the only resident. But just because Gary, who worked as a roofer, was surrounded by executives, captains of industry, and pro golfers, they were his neighbors, and when the need arose, Gary answered!”

“And now, to the unanimous acclaim of every right-thinking Floridian, I present him with our highest civilian honor, the Golden Hog! Come up here, Gary!”

Gary rose to riotous applause. Zohan held the golden hog overhead. It was the size of a football and weighed fifteen pounds, engraved with GARY DUBA—GOLDEN HOG AWARD WINNER. Gary accepted the hog, tucked it under his arm and struck a running back pose. Four million people watched on the Necroeconomics Channel. Zohan gestured toward the podium and sat with his back to the curtain.

“WEEEEEE doggies! The Lord warned us about worshiping the golden calf, but he didn't say nothing bout the pig! Truth is, 'twas Pincus shot the hog! The only reason he ain't here, the head rabbi nixed it on accounta you're not supposed to worship a golden image. Pincus is my go-to guy when it comes to tracking pigs. He pointed the way. And when push came to shove, Pincus grabbed my Mossberg for the first time in his life and drilled that porker through the eye. Then he shot an alligator, just for good measure.”

Marsupial Marceau jived and shimmied, hands flying.

“My father never did make a million or drive around in a fancy car, but he taught me the value of hard work, honesty and character. He taught me how to hunt. We practically lived off wild hog when I was growing up. In fact, I wrote a song about it.”

Gary pointed to Muriel Martinez waiting at the sound board and Toby Keith sang "Kang of the Everglades", which faded out after the first stanza leaving visitors bewildered.

“I couldn't have done it without the love and support of my wife Krystal. Some of you know her as Steely Danielle. Some of you know her as the Black Dildo! But to me she's just a girl who can wrap her ankles around the back of her neck. I also want to thank my partner Floyd Belmont! You got varmints you call Floyd. It's Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions now. He don't use no strychnine or shit like that.”

“I caught the biggest python in state history. I stopped Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee. Most of you know I turned that hippo around last weekend with my hunga munga. You want one, you go see my man Downtown Brown. That's hungamunga.com.”

“Y'all tune into the Gary Duba Show on Rustix in September, you'll see what I'm talking about. This here gold pig's going right up there next to the Turpentine Key to the City. I appreciate the honor, and I understand you're all waiting to get shit-faced and party. Coupla plugs here. Lizard on A Stick truck right down the street. Y'all go say hey to my friend Julio and try some of that there lizard. It's almost as good as barbecued hog. And if you're looking to pick up some hardware, check out Billy Bob's Pawn Shop in Turpentine. He's got a wide collection of handguns, rifles, and shotguns. Hell, I think he even got a mortar in there somewhere, you ask him about it. And finally, if you get your tit in a wringer, you call The Long Arm, my friend and benefactor Habib Rodriguez. I reckon that's it. Let's party!”

SIXTY-THREE

WOMBAT SUPREME IS DEAD! LONG LIVE WOMBAT SUPREME!

While the crowd and press dispersed, Gary rode with Zohan and Josephine to the top floor, where the church laid out a buffet with roast beef, stuffing, crab claws, quinoa, ancient grains, kale, bean sprouts and truffles. Gary looked around. With the exception of his friends, it was all Church hierarchy. Wombat Supreme, lesser wombats and celebrities.

Krystal took the Golden Hog. “Omma put this in the truck. I'll be waiting out front with the engine running. You do what you gotta do.”

Gary waited until everybody was sloshed. He set a crystal wineglass on the rosewood table and ran his finger around the rim making a ringing noise. Everybody stopped talking and looked at him.

“Hey y'all, I hate to be a party pooper, but I been hearing some disturbing shit. Shit about this here church.”

Ken Zohan looked at him with death in his eyes. Behind him, Marsupial Marceau morphed into an accusatory angle.

“Forced labor. Sex trafficking. Pedalphilia. Anybody raises a stink, the church sics their army of flying monkeys, sock puppets and talking heads on 'em. Ain't saying it's anyone's fault, although it is. You want this here church to survive you got to make some changes. Some changes right at the top. Lemme introduce the new Wombat Supreme.”

The double doors to the great room swiveled silently open to admit Tallywhacker.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed from his hindquarters, “It is with the greatest humility that I accept this challenge. I want to thank Ken Zohan for creating this opportunity...”

“THAT'S IT!” Ken Zohan yelled. “That's enough. We're shutting down. Everybody out. The party's over. And Duba, you dumb redneck, you can take your talking buffalo with you. And I want that Golden Hog back. I offered you everything and this is how you repay me?”

Paulina Perestroika looked at Zohan quizzically. “Ken, I've heard those rumors too. I must confess, I've been struggling with my faith for a while now, and this is as good an opportunity as any to tell you that I'm leaving the church.”

“PaulEENa! You don't believe him, do you? He used to deal coke! Oh yeah! I got my sources too! Think. Think before you leave. Think of all the church does for you.”

Paulina shook her head. “I can't think.”

Zohan rounded on Sean Sheen. “What about you. You know what we can do for you.”

“I can get my own pussy.”

Sensing this was the end, people drifted toward the exit. Even Earl slipped away. Zohan rushed out of the room into his private quarters.

“As your new Wombat Supreme,” Tallywhacker said, “I will devote church assets toward helping the poor. My first official act will be donating one hundred thousand dollars to the Nuns of Gavarone Homeless Shelter in West Palm Beach.”

“Wait a minute!” Zohan's gormless sidekick chirped. “There are rules we have to follow! There are procedures! A mechanical bull can't just declare himself Wombat Supreme! He's not even a member!”

“If you'll check the registry,” Tallywhacker said smoothly, “you'll find that I've been a member in good standing since Nineteen eighty. Henceforth, there will be no restrictions on members’ movements. There will be no work requirements. The church is fabulously wealthy. We will hire whatever workers we need. There will be no more required tithing. Every member at Worker Bee and below will receive a ten-thousand-dollar gift.”

Muttering, boos, cursing.

“He's giving our money away!’

“This is not the way of the wombat!”

“I am also ordering our lawyers to stop harassing former members who have quit the church, and I am instructing the IRS to lift our religious exemption. You cannot worship a golden hog and call yourself a real religion.”

Screams, gasps, pounding.

Zohan burst back into the room holding an AR15. Women screamed; men fainted. Gary cautiously edged behind Tallywhacker.

“It was my dream for Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee to join the church. I had been courting him for months. And you killed him. You killed my dream.”

“They arrested Muk for murder! I had nothing to do with that.”

“It was my dream to lead the church to heretofore unprecedented heights, and pass it on to my unborn child. You murdered my dream!”

Zohan brought the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Nada. He thumbed the safety and flying lead filled the room, pinging off Tallywhacker, shattering windows and sculpture, laying waste thousand-dollar bottles of wine. People dove behind the furniture, to the floor, into the corridors, scrunched down behind the rolling bars. The painting of Nebudchadnezzar fell off the wall.

“Dance, Tallywhacker, dance!” Gary said.

Tallywhacker lowered its mounted buffalo head and charged, butting Zohan in the midriff and bouncing him off the wall. Zohan slumped to the floor.

People funneled down the fire escapes like coal in a chute. By the time Gary's hearing returned to normal, only he, Tallywhacker, and Zohan's body remained.

“Gary.”

“What?”

“What if they arrest me for murder?”

“Murder? They're gonna give you the key to the city! That nut opened up on a room full of people.”

“I feel bad. I stole his dreams and now I'm stealing his church.”

“Bullshit!”

“I've never killed a man before, Gary. Oh, I've read about it. I've seen it, but now I feel really bad. I broke the Laws of Robotics.”

‘In self-defense! You saved peoples' lives!”

“Gary, I'm considering ending it all. I could uncouple. I could drop my various parts and shut down my brain. I could become the inert mass of steel Bongo Box always wanted.”

Gary put his arms over Tallywhacker's shoulders. “Don't feel bad, buddy! I woulda done the same thing.”

“I'm sorry, Gary. My mind is made up. I broke the Laws of Robotics. I must dismantle.”

“Now just hang on there. What if I was to get Zohan up and running?”

“Oh Gary. That's absurd. Look at him. He's a broken thing of flesh now.”

“Well just hang on thar, I believe I got just the thing.”

Gary opened his backpack and removed one of the waterbottles he'd filled from the Fountain of Youth. He sat and put the dead man's head in his lap.

“Oh, Gary.”

Gary dribbled water into Zohan's open mouth, running over his lips, down his neck, into his shirt. It seeped into Gary's pants. Gary kept pouring. Tallywhacker sadly shook its head.

Zohan coughed. Zohan blinked, sat, looked around. Gary gave him a hand and he struggled to his feet, touching his middle.

“What happened?”

“You don't remember?”

“No. We were all having a good time.”

“You tried to kill me.”

A shock of recognition rippled across Zohan's face. He reddened, then blanched.

“By the way. Tallywhacker here's taken over the church. He's now Wombat Supreme.”

“Fine. Just give me a few days to clean out my stuff. I've always wanted to sail to Australia.”

Tallywhacker bowed its head. “I accept this honor with the utmost humility.”

SIXTY-FOUR

WHAT ELSE YA GOT?

necroeconomics exposed! sex slaves! sweatshop conditions! animal sacrifice!

robot bull assumes head of church

Tallywhacker assures followers he is not possessed by aliens.

It was as if journalists had just been waiting for a sign that it was okay to investigate. And now they had it. Someone nominated Gary for a Nobel Peace Prize. He appeared on the cover of the few magazines still publishing and ruled the internet like King Tiger. When the police finally let him go, it was late in the day and Krystal was waiting.

“Man, I don't want to go back to Kensington Gardens. It's gonna be a zoo, we got to sleep in the garage, and Goldblatt's gonna read us the riot act.”

“We can go to a motel.”

“Yeah, let's do that. Let's go to the Lamplighter.”

They drove to Turpentine, checked in, and walked down the street to Los Tres Amigos for dinner. The manager was effusive.

“Mister Duba! So good to see you again!”

“Yeah, thanks, Eduardo. Shouldn't be any problem now that all the Zohans been cleared out. Here. I got your knife back.”

“Everything is on the house tonight. What would you like to drink?”

They ordered margaritas. While they were drinking and looking at the menu, Larry and Regan came in, Larry in a loud Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts and flip flops, and Regan in pedal pushers and a Dolphins cap with her long black ponytail tucked through the gap in back. They bee-lined toward Gary and Krystal.

“Smashing, old chap!” Larry gushed. “Saw your press conference. By gadfry, I wish I had your presence!’

“Siddown, you two. Didja get set up?”

Regan crossed her arms and looked up until Larry pulled out her chair.

“We're rethinking this whole swamp business. It's not what I expected.”

“You're outta the limelight, aintcha? Ain't that what you wanted?”

“Not me,” Regan pouted. “Larry. Well I have a career. I can't just disappear into the swamp.”

“Whaddaya do?” Krystal said.

“I'm an actress. I was in that Entyvio commercial, and I recently starred in a Descovy ad.”

“Hey, we'll look for 'em! Can you sing? You want to be on my show?”

“What show?”

“The Gary Duba Show.”

“So kind of you to ask, but I'm shooting for a major role in the next Marvel movie. They're considering me for Dazzler.”

“They're gonna reboot Dazzler? Hell yeah!”

“My agent wants to fly me out to Hollywood next week for a screen test. I told them I don't do screen tests, but I'm considering this one. Sean Sheen's in it.”

The waiter brought Larry a glass of Glenmorangie, and Regan a Far Niente Chardonnay. “We wonder if you'd have any interest in taking over our trailer payments. It turns out we're not cut out for swamp living.”

“Country living's more our style,” Regan said.

Gary and Krystal exchanged glances. “Wahl, let's go back after dinner and take a look.”

“Dinner's on me, by the way,” Larry said.

“You're too late. Eduardo's got this one.”

“Who is Eduardo?” Regan said with a hint of disdain.

Gary pointed to the manager. A strolling mariachi band entered the patio. Guitar, bass, trumpet. They serenaded the table with "La Cucaracha".

“That’s the palmetto bug song,” Gary explained.

“But why don’t you call them cock—" That was far as Regan got before Gary leaned over and put a finger to her lips.

“We don't say that down here. It's bad luck.”

The mariachi band did a short Chicago tribute including "25 or 6 to Four" and "Questions One and Two“.

After dinner, Gary and Krystal followed Larry and Regan 's Mercedes past the Wokenoki Trailer Park to the end of Partridge Way. Larry got out to unlock the chain. A new double-wide Timber Ridge perched proudly on pillars.

“It has four bedrooms and two baths,” Larry said. “We've tried to decorate in the regional style.”

They went up three steps into the deluxe double-wide. Gay throw rugs lay on the linoleum floor. A new Barcalounger and a Regency sectional sat in the living room facing the fifty-five-inch flat screen television. A Queen Ann sideboard held over a hundred Hummel figurines. On the wall was Steve Rude's black velvet Elvis.

“Ho shit! I used to own that! Where'd you get it?”

“We took your advice and went to Billy Bob's.”

Gary put his arm around Krystal. “Y'know, this really is more our style than yours. If Hogzilla hadn't flattened our house, I'd consider a straight up trade! What's the note on this place?”

“I'd have to look,” Larry said.

“One hundred and ten thousand and eleven, and fifty-nine cents,” Regan said.

“Well hell. We can swing that! Put 'er there! You gotcher self a deal!”

They shook hands. Larry brought out a bottle of Balvenie. Regan brought crystal goblets from the kitchen. Gary dipped into the pocket of his tux and pulled out a bindle.

“Anybody need a snort?”

“Put that away!” Krystal said. “These people don't do blow.”

“You know, old chap, if it's not too much trouble, Regan and I could load what we need overnight into the Mercedes and depart within the hour. Can you recommend a good motel?”

“We like the Lamplighter in Turpentine. In fact, we're stayin' there now.”

Regan put her hand on Gary's sleeve. “I believe I'll take a snort.”

They were gone within the hour, leaving Gary and Krystal back where they started, except the trailer was a lot newer and everything worked. Gary checked both bathrooms. No snake. It was just a matter of time. They went out on the deck.

“This is where it all started, the night you phoned to get me out of jail.”

Krystal took his hand. “It's a beautiful night. Let's go sit at the end of the dock.”

Hand in hand, they walked to the end of the dock where the Swamp Pussy was tied, covered with a tarp. They sat on a newly installed bench with a bronze memorial plaque: In loving memory, the Duke of Westchester, 1939 - 2019.

“Born in a trailer park in Turpentine,” Gary softly sang.

The Swamp Pussy smashed into the pier nearly knocking them over.

“What the fuck!”

“There's something out there,” Krystal said.

“Come with me. Ahm getting my magnum. I'm about fed up with being a punching boy for every gator, hog, and snake in Florida! Ah don't care what it is!”

“Go get it, big daddy!”

Gary hot stepped to the truck and took the pistol and a flashlight out of the glove compartment. Krystal walked back with him. “Now you don't got to come, little mama. If I don't come out on top, somebody's gonna have to let our fans know.”

“That's bullshit and you know it. Ain't a critter alive that can beat you in a fair fight!”

Gary perched at the edge of the pier, gripping the pistol and flashlight together. “Show yerself, whatever the hell you are!”

An eight hundred-pound Mekong catfish slammed into the pier, rolled on its side and stared up. “Hang on while I get my hunga munga.”

CATFISH CALLING

CONTENTS

1. Catfish Callin'

2. What's Your Problem?

3. FUBAR

4. Heaven Rains Good Fortune

5. Talk to the Network

6. The Nightly Ritual

7. Recrudescent Bilious Enzymes

8. Licensed and Bonded

9. Fireworks

10. Rappin' Rabbit

11. Backpack

12. Mirabile Dictu

13. Invasive

14. Whoops

15. Blood Oath

16. Garrison Takes a Powder

17. Enormity

18. Such Sweet Sorrow

19. That Ain't Country

20. Fortune Favors the Brave

21. Pennies From Heaven

22. Peace Signs

23. Who Could Possibly

24. Bizarre Bazaar

25. A Chance Encounter

26. Homeless Couple Found Living In Walmart Attic

Chapter 27

28. Letter to Quetzacoatl

29. A Valuable Discovery

30. Cash Cow

31. Memories of Happy Times

32. Best Mullet

33. Lightning Strikes Twice

34. KRAKOW!

35. Sister Agatha

36. Leotis Strikes Out

37. Sans Culottes

38. Nothing Important

39. A True Tale of Alien Abduction

40. Show BiZ

41. Apocalypto

42. The Royal Ducats Request

43. Sold

44. Elegance

45. Shazam!

46. The Third Harbinger

47. The Royal Shlong

48. Heretofore Undiscovered

49. The Eschaton

50. The Murderous Bison

51. Unfriend Me Now

52. Prestidigitation

53. Prelims

54. The Helicopter

55. The Cucaracha

56. Performance Art

57. A Few Good Ducats

58. The Jungle Bears Fruit

59. The Queen Mother

60. Low Rent

61. The Nuclear Option

62. Thudpucker's

63. Veeblefetzer

64. The Plan

65. Drag Race

66. The Bob's Ass Awards

67. If At First You Don't Succeed

68. Trolling

69. Ribs

ONE

CATFISH CALLIN'

Gary Duba put on his Razorbacks hat, slathered Deet on his neck and arms, picked up a bucket of garbage and walked to the end of his pier where he sat in a folding chair. A nine-iron leaned against the seat along with a bucket of golf balls. He used a garden trowel to ladle slop into the murky water as mosquitoes swarmed. The garbage reeked of garlic. Catfish loved garlic. He gazed across the placid waters at the faint light emanating from Kensington Gardens, the swank gated community in which he'd lived, off and on. Now he was back in the trailer in the swamp. Easy come, easy go. Gary was ready for his next get rich quick scheme. Leotis would give it to him.

The seven-hundred-pound catfish bumped into the dock and spoke in a rich bass.

"Good evening, Gary. How can I assist you tonight?"

"Leotis, we're shipping water and circling the drain. We're sinking, Leotis. Toss me a safety line."

"How low can you go?"

"The sky's the limit. I'm down to two credit cards and we done spent all the money Krystal made from her last bout, and she ain't got another fight for six weeks."

"Why so long between bouts?"

"They're skeered of her. Sure, it's all staged 'cept when it ain't. Now every manjack in the Stunning Ladies of Wrestling is gunning to see who can dethrone the Queen of the Glades. The IRS is breathing down my neck and Cardmember Service is crawling up my ass."

"Well, Gary, I've suggested looking into crypto currency and commodities trading..."

"Come on, man. Do I look like a financial wizard to you? I had one good idea. House suspenders. And I just can't seem to get them off the ground. Look. I'm a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I can sell door to door; I can hustle my ass off. But commodities and crypto-currency, you may as well be talking French."

"Gary, you have that certain je nes se quai and ne plus ultra that proves irresistible to the average Floridian. You would make an excellent door to door salesman, were it not for the unfortunate habit of residents of these here parts to shoot first and ask questions later."

"I could make a fortune selling reefer and blow, that's fersure. But I learned my lesson after they killed El Cheapo. I ain't no drug dealer. Sure, I like to get high in the evening and maybe snort a little blow when I see Krystal in that maid's outfit, but a man in my position can't afford to be busted for dealing."

"Are you still doing the show?"

"We hadda stop on account of the virus. I got three shows in the can. Don't know when we'll regroup, if ever. I got some ideas though. How to open packages. You buy a charging cord or a thumb drive or something, and it comes in a solid plexiglass container. I went to Walmart the other day to get some tin snips, and it come in a solid plexiglass container. I hadda buy a hacksaw and two clamps to get the tin snips. Damn near cut my thumb off."

Gary held up his thumb, covered with a dirty bandage.

"Gary, do me a solid and squeeze a little blood out for me."

"Howzat gonna help?"

"Gary, Mekong catfish have highly sensitive membranes. A mere whiff of your essence and I can see your entire history back to the dawn of time, when the first primordial clump of cells swam toward the light."

"Oh yeah? Ya think I'm Scots/Irish? That's what the old man always said."

"Squeeze me off a drop, why don'tcha."

Gary pulled off the filthy bandage, held his thumb out and worked the wound open. It was fresh yesterday. Three drops of blood fell into the water. Leotis inhaled.

"Mmm mmm mmm," he said. "My my my. Yes indeed. Mostly Scots/Irish with a smattering of Mongol."

"Are you shittin' me?"

"Gary, I never joke about matters of the heart. Your future reveals itself through the blood."

"What, now you're a fortune teller? You and Delilah oughtta go into business together. Fish and Witch. Open a fishwich restaurant. Hand out fortune cookies."

"You joke, but the fact is, I can see your future through your blood. Not all the way to the end. No sir. But if you was to bleed out on me rightchere, right now, I could. No, what I see is the next six months. They hold many surprises. There are risks, certainly. But there are rewards also. You need to go door to door."

"Selling what?"

"Buying old comic books."

"Comics?"

"Indeed. While most are trash, every era has its rarities, and they can be worth big bucks. Action Comics #1 sold for over two million. The first appearance of Spider-Man brought three hundred thou, rated nine point four. More recently, certain Star Wars comics have brought ten thou. Of course, condition is everything. Every week, someone advertises online or in local shoppers to sell their comic collection. Some are seniors who have scrupulously saved every issue of Superman since 1959. Some are aging hippies who must part with their Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers or Moondogs. A sharp dealer can generate a couple thou a week."

"Lemme think about that, Leotis. I know a little bit about the collectors’ market 'cuz I been collecting baseball cards since I was ten."

"The world of comic resellers is rife with scoundrels and hustlers. Don't kid yourself that because it's the lowest form of entertainment it doesn't attract cutthroats and sharks."

"Nobody gets the best of Gary Duba. Nobody."

"Give me a day or two and I'll come up with some other ideas. But that's not why you called me here tonight."

"It ain't?"

"Gary, you will be visited by three harbingers in the coming weeks, each with a powerful but cryptic message. These are the harbingers of destiny."

"Lay it on me."

"A bat, a rabbit, and a turtle."

"You're shittin' me."

"All native species, not invasive like me."

"I never minded your invasiveness."

"I appreciate that, Gary. I feel you're the only human I can talk to. That's all I can tell you tonight. I might have more tomorrow."

"Thanks, Leotis!"

"You might bring me a cat. I wouldn't turn my nose up at a cat."

"Whatchoo want with a cat? I never figured you for a cat person."

Leotis rolled on his side and gave him the fisheye.

"Well jeez, man, the only cats around here are pets up the street at the trailer park. I can't very well go kuipin' people's pets."

Bubbles popped in the muck. "I wouldn't turn my nose up at pig lips." Leotis swam away singing "B-B-Bad to the Bone."

TWO

WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM?

Gary rinsed the bucket out in the swamp and headed back to the trailer, raised three feet above the ground on cinder blocks. The trailer was only six months old. Larry and Regan, the Duke and Duchess of Ducats, had bought it and lived there for a month before decamping. They moved to Brentwood in Los Angeles where Regan made the rounds of aspiring actresses until, miraculously, she was cast as Captain Megastar in the first film treatment of the venerable Marvel superhero. The first Captain Megastar had been a Viking warrior chosen by an alien race to defend them against another alien race, who were even worse. In the original comic, they'd plucked Paul McTavish out of 6th century Scotland in the midst of battle.

McTavish was clan leader and a fierce warrior. In the nineties, Marvel rebooted McTavish as an African Prince of Botswana's Jimbobway Tribe. Only now his name was Ndugu Chanticleer, played by Gordon Walker in Avengers: Pre-Assembled. Regan Sparkle's resume included commercials for Downy and Avis Rent A Car. The industry was dumbstruck that a woman with so little acting experience would suddenly shoot to the head of the line, but industry insiders understood her appeal. She was internationally famous for breaking up the royal family, and her mother was black. That made her a black actress. A star was born.

The AC on top of the trailer thrummed. A loon cried in the swamp. Up the street at the trailer park, a car horn blasted. Honk honk honk honk honk honk. Yelling. Cursing. The car abruptly stopped. Gary tossed the bucket to the ground and went up three steps to his veranda. He went inside, shutting the cheap aluminum door behind him. Krystal, wearing pedal pushers, with her hair in curlers, sat on the sofa watching What's Your Problem on the sixty-three-inch flat screen, which they'd salvaged from the Kensington Gardens house, which had been destroyed by a thousand pound feral hog.

Problem's host was a big, buff man with a bad wig and the bombastic manner of a used car salesman. "Greetings, and welcome to tonight's edition of What's Your Problem, the show where ordinary people can vent about the little things that get them down and win up to a hundred thousand dollars! As always, I'm your humble host, Randy Glockenspiel. Tonight, we welcome back our reigning champion, Ramona Faber, from Scranton, Pennsylvania!"

A petite woman in a blue dress strode out waving.

"And let's give a big Problem welcome to new contestant, computer programmer Brad Hu from Omaha, Nebraska!"

Hu wore thick black glasses, black hair cut short, and a dark blue suit. Smiling and waving, he took the podium across from Ramona.

"The winner of the coin toss will air their grievance first."

Glockenspiel stood between the two contestants. "Ready?"

"Go for it, Randy!" Ramona said.

"Ready," Hu said.

Glockenspiel spun the silver dollar in the air.

"Heads!" both contestants blurted out.

Glockenspiel retrieved the coin. "Let's try that again. Ramona, you go first."

"Heads!" Ramona barked.

"It's tails. All right, Brad, what's your problem?"

"I have a big problem with the passive tense. Every day we are told a decision was made. Yes, a decision was made. But who made the decision? The passive tense should be avoided at all costs."

"You stink!" Krystal wailed, pointing to the hall. "Take a shower!"

"Wait a minute! I want to hear what Ramona's problem is!"

Krystal grabbed the remote and switched to news.

"Take. A. Shower."

"I will, babe, but I gotta tell you, Leotis was on fire tonight! He gave me a shitload of advice!"

"Gary, baby, there is no giant catfish. You should see a shrink."

"Leotis is real, little girl! Come out with me and I'll show ya!"

"I ain't setting foot outside this house 'til morning. You brought sixteen skeeters in the house."

She grabbed a copy of Tidbits, "The Neatest Little Paper Ever Read", and swatted. Thwap. Thwap Thwap. Three with one blow. When she was done, she showed him the splotches.

"You see that blood? That's my blood, you dumb sonuvabitch, 'cuz you let them skeeters in the house."

Gary snatched the paper out of her hand. "TIDBITS ADMIRES JAMES BOND" said the headline. He took it into the master bathroom and tucked it into the magazine rack on top of Shooting Times, Salt Water Sportsman, and Guns & Ammo. He took a shower, dabbed his bites with Bug Stop, splashed himself with Axe, pulled on clean shorts and a Dolphins sleeveless sweatshirt. The temperature in the living room was sixty-five.

Gary turned the dial up. "It's fucking freezing in here!"

Krystal thumped the sofa. "Sit your ass down."

Gary sat. Krystal rotated to face him. They smooched.

"Mmm," she said. "Now you don't smell like pig slop."

Gary rocked forward, threw her over his shoulder, marched to the bedroom and threw her down on the bed.

Krystal wriggled out of her Daisy Dukes. "You're a monster!"

"Rawwwr!" Gary growled, pouncing.

They writhed, they wriggled. Krystal screamed in Gary's ear.

"Owwww!"

Krystal squirmed out from under, pulling up the covers. "There's a bat in here!"

"Where?"

Krystal pointed to a corner of the ceiling where the bat clung to a hook. The Royals had taken their hanging fern with them.

Gary gaped. "It's the harbinger!"

"Get it out of here!"

"Leotis said I would be visited with three harbingers! This is the first!"

"You're fucking out of your mind! You're sick! There's no talking catfish! Get rid of that bat! What if it's rabid?"

Gary pulled on his pants and got down on his knees. "Tell me, oh harbinger! What should I do?"

The bat was an inscrutable black blob.

Krystal threw back the sheets and put on her shorts and top. "Gary, you're sick. You need help. If you won't do it, I will." She stomped out of the room slamming the door behind her.

"Tell me, harbinger, what is the path? How can I make some quick bucks? Something other than roofing or exterminating?"

Krystal stormed back in wearing Gary's Rumble Wear hoodie with the hood up, clutching a rolled-up newspaper. The bat flew around like a butterfly, no direction, no rhythm. Krystal followed taking wild swings. It landed on the drapes. Krystal leaped off the bed and whacked it with the rolled-up newspaper. The bat fell to the ground. Krystal crouched and whomped.

"Die, bat! Die!"

She stopped, panting. The bat lay unmoving.

"Thanks a lot, babe! That bat was the key to our future!"

"We ain't got no future less we get the IRS off our backs."

"What? What?"

"Didn't you see the letter? We owe them seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If we don't pay up, they'll garnish our wages."

"I can barely scrape together lunch money! Where we gonna get seven fifty thou?"

"I'll call Aldo. Maybe he can get me a bout on the mud wrestling circuit."

"No! I forbid it! I won't have my wife rolling around in slop like a pig!"

"You got a better idea, smart guy? You're talking to an imaginary catfish!" She threw the paper down in disgust. It fell open to the classifieds.

COMIC COLLECTION FOR SALE

Four Long Boxes, 60's through 80's

Bagged and boarded

THREE

FUBAR

Gary was up until two researching old comic books on nostomania.com. He ordered the Comic Book Price Guide off Amazon. Ten minutes later, there was a thump on the door. He opened the door to see the blue van driving away. He picked up his Comic Book Price Guide and went to work. Gary had six hundred dollars in cash. Fortunately, the Duke and Duchess had paid cash for the trailer and had the utilities moved to their name. They used a nom de plume. The Clampetts. They'd left stuff behind including a hideous painting of a big square head sitting in a desert that looked like a therapy painting.

A bleary-eyed Gary clutching a cardboard coffee waited outside Eleven Spicer Boulevard in the Wokenoki Trailer Park at eight the next morning. Eleven was a white Cappaert with neat green shutters perched on a domino of lawn. A Big Wheels lay on its side in front. Gary was the first one there. He waited until the blinds rose in the living room before dialing the number from the shopper.

"Hello," a man's voice slurred.

"Yes sir. I saw your ad in Tidbits about the comics. I'd like to take a look."

"Well let me see. Why don'tcha come by in about an hour."

"I'm here now."

A hairy man with a paunch wearing boxer shorts peered out the living room window. "It's Sunday morning."

"It's a keenly competitive business. I'm ready to pay cash on the barrel head."

"All right. All right. Give me five minutes."

He came out wearing Bermuda shorts and a Banlon tennis shirt stretched over a taut belly, tiny sailfish stitched on the breast.

"Harf Bosley."

"Gary Duba."

They shook hands. Gary grabbed his Comic Book Price Guide and followed Bosley around to the back where there was a swing set taking up most of the yard next to a prefab plastic storage shed. Bosley twirled the combo, unsnapped the lock and opened the door. A whiff of old newsprint drifted out.

"Yeah, I hate to sell 'em, but the boy needs braces. Been collecting since the eighties. Haven't bought a comic in years. They were just taking up space. You can bring 'em out here and take a look, but don't take 'em out of the plastic bag."

Gary gripped the first long box and brought it into the light. A man came around the trailer with balled fists. "Hey!"

Bosley and Gary looked.

"Hey! I called you yesterday and you said you'd let me have the first look! Remember?"

Bosley shifted his feet. "Yeah, well, sorry about that. This guy just showed up. He hasn't actually looked at any of the comics."

The newcomer advanced. He was tall with a face like an Easter Island statue and wore a dickey. "Yeah, well back off, okay! I got first dibs."

Gary got in his face. "Fuck off. I was here first."

The man eyeballed Gary, blinked, and took a step back.

"I'll tell you what," Bosley said. "Gary was here first, so he can look at the first box. What's your name?"

"The Main Man."

"Okay, Main, you get to choose the next box. That's fair."

"Look here, Main Man," Gary said. "Howzabout we have a shin kicking contest, and whoever wins gets first dibs."

Bosley pointed to Gary's box. "Why don't you open this one over here, and you open the next one over there."

Sullenly, Main Man grabbed a box and set it down ten feet away.

Gary squatted and pulled off the lid. It was chock full of comics, each in a plastic bag with a backer board. He flipped through them. Avengers, Batman, Flash, Aliens, Star Wars. Star Wars #1! Gary examined it with a practiced eye. He'd learned all about grading collecting sports cards. The comic was in near mint condition, with almost imperceptible fade at the staple. Sitting Indian style, he looked it up in his Price Guide. A near mint was worth up to a thousand dollars. He closed the book.

"I'll take this one."

"I'm selling them by the box."

"How much for the box?"

Main Man perked up like a prairie dog. "What is it?"

"None of your beeswax."

"Two fifty," Bosley said.

"Two hundred and fifty dollars?"

"Yup."

Gary rippled through the remaining box. Doom 2099. A handful of Valiants with variant covers including X-O Manowar #1. Gary reached for his wallet. Up popped Main Man.

"I'll give you two seventy-five."

"You don't even know what's in here."

"Look. Do you want to make money or not?"

Bosley crossed his arms. "Man's got a point."

"First you say we can look through individual boxes, now you want to sell to the highest bidder."

Wheels on gravel. Car doors slamming. Five people rounded the back of the trailer, each trying to outpace the other.

"ARE YOU THE SELLER?"

"WHERE ARE THE COMICS?"

"Just show me the silver and bronze age boxes."

"I'll give you a thousand bucks right now for the whole lot."

Main Man wheeled. "Fuck off! I was here first!"

"Technically," Gary said, "I was here first."

Bosley waved his arms. "Everybody cool it! We'll take turns! Don't remove the comics from their mylar sleeves!"

"TWO THOU FOR THE LOT!"

One thou turned on his competitor with a snarl. "You're not even a comic guy. You're just a speculator."

A small boy rolled around the other end on a Big Wheels. "Daddy, Mommy says the neighbors are complaining."

One thou shoved two thou. They tussled. Everybody started fighting. A human ferret crept into the shed and tried to open a box. Bosley grabbed him by the nape of his shirt and hurled him to the dirt like a rag. A man with a thyroid condition threw his arm around Bosley's neck. Bosley grabbed the arm and tried to throw the man, but his assailant weighed over three hundred pounds.

"Too much monkey business," Gary muttered, going around the far end of the trailer. "Too much monkey business." He got in his truck, carefully backed up to avoid hitting a windowless Ford Econoline, circled around the jumble of cars. More cars poured through the gate, surrounding Bosley's trailer until it looked like a police raid on a meth lab.

Gary carefully turned onto Weldon Way and headed for the swamp. The Wokenoki Trailer Park disappeared around a bend in his rear view. A half mile from home, a dozen feral hogs blocked the road, snorting and rooting at something. Gary laid on the horn.

"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" he shouted. The hogs looked up with mean little piggy eyes. They snorted, they shuffled toward the truck. They surrounded the truck, snuffling and honking. Gary put the truck in gear and drove slowly forward, not wishing to crush any lest he have to clean hog blood off his undercarriage. As soon as he was free, he accelerated, leaving the swine behind. He wheeled into his yard and got out.

The hogs followed, snorting and gnashing. The lead hog, with tusks like an Indonesian mask, grabbed his pant leg as he reached the stairs and dragged him to the ground.

"HELP!" Gary yelled.

FOUR

HEAVEN RAINS GOOD FORTUNE

Krystal banged open the screen door and stared. "Oh my God."

"GET THE GUN!" Gary yelled, kicking a hog in the snout while another sunk its fangs into his leg.

Krystal banged back out with a shotgun. She fired a shot in the air. The hogs looked up. Gary got to his feet and raced for the truck, throwing himself inside, opening the glove compartment and grabbing his .357. From the shotgun seat, he blasted away, killing one hog with a shot between the eyes, hitting two others who ran squealing into the brush.

Leaving the shotgun on the deck, Krystal leaped to the ground and ran to Gary who was sitting up, looking at the rip in his leg. His sock was soaked.

"Honey, let's hope thet hog wasn't rabid."

"I sure hope not. Help me up."

In the bathroom, Krystal washed the wound and poured shine on it. Gary grunted and closed his eyes. She dressed the wound. "What about tetanus?"

"Ah got my tetanus booster last year when that poodle bit me. 'Spose we should haul that dead hog into the state crime lab and see if it had rabies." Placing a hand on the counter, Gary got to his feet and took a few tentative steps.

"That ain't so bad. Least I can walk. Come on. Help me put that hog in the truck."

"How'd it go with the comics people?"

"I hightailed it outta there when it turned into a riot."

Outside, two seagulls and a turkey vulture disputed the dead hog. Gary waved his arms.

"Go on! Get outta here!"

They put on plastic gloves from the glove compartment and tossed the hog in the back of the truck.

"Where we gone take it? State crime lab or the county coroner?"

Krystal pulled out her Fonebone. "Omma Winnow it." She wrote rabies testing Florida.

"Says here the Department of Agriculture. I'll see where the nearest office is at."

Gary turned the corner. A gull and two turkey vultures were tearing at the spot he'd encountered the hogs. Gary pulled over and shut off the engine.

"Something funny's going on. You stay here."

Grabbing his pistol, he got out of the truck. The birds took flight leaving a crushed plastic storage bin, scraps of plastic and a residue of white powder. Gary hunkered, ignoring the pain in his calf, dipped a finger in the white powder and brought it to his tongue.

"Is it blow?" Krystal said.

"I wish these cartels would leave us alone. This ain't exactly Grand Central Station. Shee-it."

"What?"

Across a ditch filled with empty fast-food wrappers, used condoms, and crumpled aluminum cans lay the jungle wall. Several feet in Gary glimpsed something white. Thrashing through the undergrowth, he found a parachute trailing off into the trees. Keeping an eye out for snakes, Gary bashed his way to a corpse wearing camo trousers, lace-up boots, and a Sergio Mendes and Brasil '66 sweatshirt, bamboo stem poking up through the thorax. The corpse wore a parachute harness, a backpack, a helmet, and a KelTec nine in a shoulder holster. Krystal came up behind him wearing a zippered hoodie to protect her arms from the saw grass.

"Holy shit."

"I guess I must be some kind of shit magnet the way stuff keeps piling up."

"Depends on your attitude. If he got any more on him, we could lay it off for a few bucks."

"Yeah, but if we keep that shit in the house, I'm afraid one of is gonna break down."

Krystal put her fists on her hips. "Not me. I got a fight comin' up."

"Not me, I got to think about my followers."

They stared at the corpse. With a sigh, Krystal crouched, unzipped the backpack and peeked inside. She pulled out several accordion folders.

"Just papers."

"Dayum. Them hogs got it all. No wonder they were all het up."

"Maybe it's better this way. Remember what happened last time we had blow?"

"Bring that backpack."

"We still gotta get that hog tested for rabies."

"That hog was higher than John Belushi."

A search of the corpse produced a wallet and a passport. Immanuel Elvarez, Caracas, Venezuela, a Lieutenant Colonel in the National Bolivarians. Gary passed Krystal the passport. She jammed it in a pocket and consulted her Fonebone.

"Oh great. The Venezuelan special forces. They work for President Elfuncio Quetzacoatl."

"What we got here is a conspiracy to bolster the Venezuela gummint by selling this shit to Americans!"

They stared at one another. Krystal hummed a little ditty. Both were thinking the same thing. They didn't need that kind of publicity.

"What about the body?"

"Swamp."

They stared at the dead body.

Gary pulled out his folding knife, cut loose the parachute harness and removed the backpack. He pulled the man up by his armpits. Krystal shrugged into the backpack and picked the sky diver up by the ankles.

A half hour later, they rolled the corpse off the side of the swamp buggy into the pea soup water and headed back to the pier. They returned to the house tired but exhilarated.

They went inside. "Dibs on the shower," Krystal said. "Howzat leg?"

"Throbs a little bit. I spose I ought to go get something for the infection."

"I got probiotics in the fridge."

Outside two vehicles entered the yard and stopped. Krystal and Gary stepped out of the air-conditioned trailer and looked down on a black Cadillac Escalade and a History Channel van.

"Hot diggity!" Gary said. "We're back in business!" He headed down the steps.

A man in a dark suit, sunglasses, and earpiece ran around the front of the Lincoln and opened the rear door. The Duke and Duchess of Ducats stepped out.

FIVE

TALK TO THE NETWORK

Prince Larry was six one with curly red hair and a GI Joe beard. He wore an olive safari jacket, khaki cargo pants, and lace-up boots. Regan was ravishing with long black hair, wearing a Venum hoodie with the top down, artfully torn Dolce and Gabbana jeans and Alexander McQueen sneakers. A no-nonsense woman in a black crew neck, pince nez dangling from a gold chain, got out of the van with a cameraman and a sound technician.

"What are you doing here?" Gary, Krystal, Larry and Megan said.

"I came for my Claude Balls."

"Say what?"

"My Claude Balls painting. It's hanging in the living room. Do you mind?"

Gary gestured for the Duke to lead the way. He followed the Duke and Duchess up three steps into the trailer where the Duke put a knee on the sofa to reach the framed painting of a giant, square orange head sitting in a desert. The Duke turned, proudly displaying the painting.

"The man was a genius."

"We figgered it was from some cartoon show."

"Claude Balls was a visionary. He toured with Lord Buckley. He knew Jack Kerouac."

"I was gonna take that into Billy Bob's, see what I could get for it."

"This is our home," The Duke said.

"Wait a minute," Gary said. "Y'all moved to Hollywood. You just abandoned the trailer and we still own the land."

Regan touched Gary on the arm. "I'm sorry, we should have told you. But we didn't know we were going to have our own reality show at the time. We'll try not to intrude. We just need to film here for a day or two."

Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "What is that awful smell?"

Pince Nez advanced. "I'm Karen Sullivan. Who are you?"

"We're the Dubas."

"That's Gary and Krystal," Regan said.

"Well you have to sign release forms if you want to be in the show."

"Wait a minute. We got our own reality show. You have to sign release forms if you want to be in ours."

"Where's your manager?" Karen sang. "I'd like to speak to the manager!"

Krystal called Major Sutton.

"Whassup, girl?"

"Gary got bit by a feral hog and now those damn royals are here making a stink."

"What royals?"

"The Duke and Duchess of Ducats!"

"Hang on. I'm fifteen minutes away."

"The manager is on the way."

"Now look here, you two," Lawrence said in a toff accent. "Do you eckshually know who we are?"

"You're from that Harry Potter book!"

"Eckshually, no. We are literally the Duke and Duchess of Ducats. See here old chap. Haven't you heard of the British Royal family?"

"We don't get the Discovery Network," Krystal said.

"Look here, you ignorant doxy..." Prince Larry said. Gary punched him in the mouth. The Prince staggered, but he didn't go down. He stood up straight, holding his fists like a proper English pugilist.

"All right then, you stinking git. Let's see what you've got!"

Karen the manager signaled her crew to start filming. Krystal pulled out her Fonebone. Gary put his head down and took the Prince to the ground. He'd wrestled for the Turpentine Gators. They rolled in the dirt. Princess Regan turned red and put a hand to her mouth.

"Larry, get up! You're making a fool of yourself!"

They rolled over and over in the mud. Prince Larry used his bulk to get on top and rain down blows.

"Take that, you ignorant peasant!"

Gary grabbed Larry's hair, dragged him down and rolled so that he was on top. They tussled.

"Oh my God!" said the Duchess of Ducats. "He smells terrible!"

"It's them feral hogs. See in the back of the truck? We're gonna butcher it. You want to stay for ribs?"

The Duchess looked in the back of the truck and fainted. The manager rushed to her side. "Get up, Duchess! Get up!" She whirled on the cameraman. "Don't film this you idiot! Film them!"

The cameraman whirled. Krystal caught the whole thing, turned back to the combatants who were now on their feet, gasping and circling. The Duke juked and jabbed Gary in the jaw. Gary rubbed his chin. "Nice shot!"

Gary faked a looping right, went low, and took the Duke down on his ass. They were rolling in the dirt when Major Sutton arrived in his new Edison and spun to a stop. Major leaped out. He was a stocky black man with a head like a bullet, wearing suit pants and vest over a white shirt, and a bowler.

He waved his arms. "Wait a minute. WAID A MINUTE!"

The combatants continued to tussle.

"Whomp that sucker!" Krystal cheered.

Major turned on her. "Are you nuts? Don't you know who that is?"

"Some asshole."

"Get a bucket...never mind!"

Major strode toward the trailer, took the steps in two leaps and went inside, returning minutes later with a plastic bucket filled with water. SPLOOSH! He doused the combatants. Gary laughed and waved his limbs in the air. Lawrence leaped to his feet.

"Bloody hell! You've ruined my jacket!'

"Come on up to the house, Prince. We'll find you something to wear."

The prince stalked toward the trailer. Major Sutton walked over to Karen.

"Major Sutton. I produce the Gary Duba Show."

"Karen Sullivan. I produce the Royal Ducats. Do you mean to tell me this idiot has a show?"

"We have over three million followers on YouTube and a weekly show on Rustix."

"But why?"

"You don't know about the Dubas?"

"I have no idea."

"Gary's the guy who caught Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee. You must have heard about that."

"No, I'm sorry. I only follow the trades. We're gearing up for a June premier on the History Channel. The world is intensely interested in the Royal Ducats. And in case you've been hiding under a rock, Regan just landed the lead role in Captain Megastar. Sean Sheen is her co-star."

"What's Captain Megastar?"

"She's a very popular Marvel superhero. She's the first Baha'i superhero."

"Are you planning to use this video on your show?"

"I hardly think so. The Duke of Ducats wrestling with a commoner like a pig in the mud!"

"Do you mind if we use it?"

"You can't use that footage! Absolutely not and in no way!"

"I don't see how you can interfere with video shot on my clients' own property."

"We'll sue!"

"Well let's not go running off half-cocked. Maybe we can make a deal. How would you feel about having Gary and Krystal appear on the Royal Ducats?"

"These rednecks are antithetical to everything we stand for."

"Yet here you are on their property, filming."

"Believe me, if we'd known they were still here, we never would have come."

The trailer door banged open. Prince Larry stood on the deck wearing a HONK IF YOU EAT ASS Tee-shirt and striped bell bottoms. "How do I look?"

Regan put her hand to her face and turned away. "This is the most embarrassing day of my life."

Karen cupped her chin. "Let me talk to the network."

SIX

THE NIGHTLY RITUAL

Gary showered, ate a tube of Necco wafers, and sat in front of his computer in his air-conditioned home office wearing a clean Lynyrd Skynyrd Tee-shirt. "Folks, we got a real treat for y'all tonight. Yasterday, after I got done wrassling that pig, who should drop by but the Royal Couple, the Duke and Duchess of Ducats! The Duke called Krystal a ho, at least I think that's what he meant, so I popped him one in the kisser! Next thing you know...well hell. Take a look for yourselves."

The fight played out to a cartoon soundtrack. Krystal came in and rubbed his shoulders. "He's a big 'un, isn't he?"

"I got to hand it to him. He had some moves, that's for sure, but my Turpentine Gators wrestling training was just too much for him."

They watched Gary pull a reversal.

"Love thet," Krystal cooed, running her hand along his jaw.

The video moved right along. At the end, the Duke came out and posed in his HONK IF YOU EAT ASS Tee-shirt. America's last image was of the Duke smiling broadly at the head of the stairs and saluting an unseen army.

Gary's comment board marched like fire ants.

WHOMP THAT SUCKER – Pin Okio

KICK HIS ASS – The Ever Lovin' Booger Eater

DUKE IS KINDA CUTE – Lena the Hyena

"The Duke axed me to play polo. I told him I ain't getting up on no thousand pound creature with the brainpower of a snail. No sir. But if he's a mind, I could borrow Floyd's Fat Boy and we could go riding. But listen. Here's the big news. We've agreed to appear on each other's shows. Me and Krystal are gonna be on the Royal Ducats, premiering in June on the Discovery Channel, and Larry and Regan are gonna come spend the weekend with us for the Gary Duba Show! Omma take him gator hunting!

"Jolene in Cassadaga! Whassup?"

"You ever need an oracle, Gary," a husky voice said, rife with suggestion. "You come see ol' Jolene in Cassadaga. I'll give you a palm reading you'll never forget."

"Why thank you kindly, Jolene, but Krystal might take exception to that."

Krystal grabbed the mic. "I might come to Cassadaga and kick your ass."

"That's no joke, folks! They don't call her the Black Dildo, excuse me, Steely Danielle for nothing! She's in training for the Javelina in six weeks. Y'all hear about Javelina? She's from Juarez. Now we ain't got javelina in Florida, but we got feral hogs. Yesterday I found myself drug down by six of them suckers, and sure as shit they would have had me for dinner had not my dear sweet Krystal come by and scared 'em off with a shotgun.

"Well look here. Speak of the devil. We got Delilah on the line and she's Krystal's trainer. What up, girl?"

"Jolene's a whore and a liar."

"Well let's talk about the fight. What can you tell us about Javelina?"

"Her real name is Marcela Aguilar, and like her fierce namesake, she's as ferocious as an eagle."

"Now wait a minute. Who's Javelina?"

"Marcela Aguilar."

"Why don't she call herself the Eagle?"

"They already got an eagle. She fought for four years on the Lucha Libre circuit before joining the Stunning Women of Wrestling. She's five eight and weighs one hundred and twenty-five pounds."

"Well, she ain't no Javelina! Tha's false advertising! We oughtta sue her ass! We oughtta call it off!"

"You can't call it off. The contracts are signed. Also on the bill are Lena the Hyena versus Howler Monkey, Bandicoot versus Stick Bug, and Sweet Charlotte versus Baby Jane. It's the women's pro event of the summer! It's already sold out. Chunky Thighs will perform before the show."

"I love Chunky Thighs!" Krystal squealed.

"Delilah, what you got to say to my three million listeners?"

"Ya'll come down and see your girl Steely Danielle whup Javelina's ass! And also tomorrow's a full moon. You going out be sure you pack a gun."

"Folks, we've given you a lot to think about. Maybe too much. I think omma call it a night. So goodnight to all my friends in Florida and across the universe, this here's Gary Duba signing off."

His phone rang.

"Why'd you cut me off like that?" Delilah demanded. "I wasn't finished!"

"Well go on then."

"I know you're worried about money, and they's six weeks 'til the match. So I cut up a chicken, and it told me you should invest in old comics. Lotta people selling their collections these days, and there's good money to be had, if you know what to look for."

"Woman, you a day late and a dollar short! I was at a comic sale this morning and nearly got my hair parted with a meat cleaver! You're s'posed to tell me what'll happen. Not what happened. That's why they call you the oracle. If you was telling people what already happened, they'd call you the anucle."

"I need that girl to start training Monday. You be here Monday morning, hear? Fifty thou ain't nothing to sneeze at."

Krystal yelled over Gary's shoulder. "I'll be there!"

Gary leaned back and stretched. His chair squeaked. "And that's a wrap!"

"C'mon, hon. Let's watch What's Your Problem."

"Again? It was just on last night!"

"It's on every night."

"No, you go ahead. I gotta talk to Leotis."

"Don't give me that shit. I don't know what you're doing out there, but you sure as shit ain't talking to no giant catfish!"

"Well hell, girl. Why don'tcha come along and see for yourself?"

"You oughtta see a shrink!"

"If I'm lying, I'm frying. Come on out. He's a wise old fish. You'd be surprised at what all he knows."

"Well let me get a joint first. Soon's I start training, I won't even be able to have a drink."

They shared a fat doobie on the deck.

"All right. Show me the damn fish."

Gary turned off his phone, pulled a hog leg out of the back of his truck. "This here's for Leotis. I don't like to come empty handed."

"You're crazier 'n a snake on crack."

"You just pray we don't run into any of those."

They walked to the end of the pier. Krystal sat on the old wood bench. Gary got down on his haunches, stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted an ear-piercing whistle. "Leotis! I got a nice hog leg for ya!" He tossed the leg into the soup. Nada.

"Leotis! Come say hi to Krystal! You may know her as the Black Dildo!"

Zipco.

"Leotis! Who you like? The Heat or the 76rs?"

A loon crooned. A pelican plopped. Far across the bay, the faint sound of traffic.

Krystal stood. "You are so full of shit."

She stalked off the pier back into the house. Gary remained where he was.

"Is she gone?" Leotis rumbled from under the pier.

SEVEN

RECRUDESCENT BILIOUS ENZYMES

"Why you wanna do me like that, Leotis? I been nothing but good to you."

"I'm sorry, Gary, but my words are for you and you alone. The world isn't ready for a talking catfish. It may never be ready. I chose you because yours is the first pier I bumped into. No offense. One minute, I was swimming down the Stoeng Basak, a mere hatchling, barely an inch in length. The next thing I knew, I was fully grown, seven hundred and twelve pounds, and found myself a stranger in a strange land. What happened next beggars all description. I'm saving it for my book. But here I am."

"You need dream therapy, Leotis. I can hook you up."

"You fed me when I was hungry."

"I was just throwing slop in the swamp."

"There are many fakers in Florida, those who claim to have the power but have none. Charlatans and liars. Like that woman Jolene."

"Wait a minute. You heard my podcast?"

"I hear many things. Down here. In the swamp."

"You ever watch What's Your Problem?"

"It's one of my favorite shows."

"What about Delilah?"

"Delilah's the real deal."

"Garrrrr-eee!" Krystal yelled from the deck.

"Gotta go. You like that hog leg, I got plenty more where that came from."

Krystal stood on the deck wearing a Wynona Earp Tee-shirt and short shorts, arms crossed gripping her Fonebone. "That video of you and the Duke blew up. Everybody's calling. Everybody wants the rights. Everybody wants to talk."

"Who wants to talk?"

"Everybody. Bobby Bilbo wants you on his show Friday night."

"Who's Bobby Bilbo?"

Krystal did a double take with bared fangs and popping eyes. "DUH! The Good Night Show?"

Gary shrugged. "Can they do it here?"

"They want to fly us into Burbank."

"Man, I had a belly full of Burbank. I offered those suckers the chance of a lifetime and they whiffed!"

"That was more you than house suspenders. Forget it, honey. We can parlay this into a real opportunity. Now's your chance to get your house suspenders in front of the world!"

Gary put one hand to his head and the other in a Doc Strange situation. "You know what? I'll dress like a house and I'll wear suspenders! I'll get shoulder pads that look like roofs and wear a chimney hat!"

"Vogue wants to interview you."

"Who?"

"It's like Guns & Ammo for wine drinkers. The Scene wants you on their show in New York. They want to fly you up Thursday afternoon so you can do the show Friday."

"That's tomorrow!"

"No shit, Sherlock. They have seventeen million viewers."

"Who's the Scene?"

"Happy Sapperstein, Joyce Baywatch, Gwendolyn Nuplazid, and Tammy Tellmetrue. They ask softball questions, and you can pitch the house suspenders, but they really want to dish about the Royal Couple."

"I hardly know them!"

"You're going."

"How can I do The Scene, which is in New York, Friday morning, and then do the Good Night Show, which is in Burbank, Friday evening?"

"Hmmm. Let's ask Major."

"Where's my phone?"

"In your pocket."

He turned it on. It played "Margaritaville". He turned it off. They went to bed. Gary dreamed he was a contestant on What's Your Problem? Randy Glockenspiel was dressed like Ronald McDonald.

"Gary Duba! What's your problem?"

"Number one. Individual fruit labels. Number two. People who fall asleep at red lights. Number three. People leaving their dog shit in little plastic bags by the side of the road. Number four. Pop up ads. Number five. Problem shoppers. Number six. Leaf blowers. Number seven. Pop-up ads."

"You mentioned pop-up ads."

"Well, here they are again. Number eight. Fitted sheets. Number nine. The Pillow guy. Number ten. The Allstate Guy. Number eleven. My hose kinks. Number twelve. The word foodie. Number thirteen. Doug from Liberty Mutual."

"What about the emu?"

"Fuck the emu."

"Gary," groaned a familiar voice.

Glockenspiel was gone. Gary lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, Krystal softly snoring. A coyote yipped. A loon looned. Up the street at the Wokenoki Trailer Park, a car horn borked with maddening regularity.

"Gary."

Gary pinched himself. He was awake.

"Gary, come out here please."

"Izzat you, Leotis?"

"No, Gary. Come out here please."

Moving slowly, so as not to wake Krystal, Gary got up, pulled on his pants and padded out onto the deck. He could tell by the faint glow in the east that dawn was near. A bronze bull stood in the yard. The most famous bull in the world. Charging bull, also known as Wall Street Bull. It looked up, massive horns aimed at the sky.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Tallywhacker."

"You look different."

"I've reinvented myself. The flesh you see is real. I retain my bionic abilities."

"How'd you do that?"

"Recrudescent bilious enzymes."

"Whadja do about the alien multiple personalities?"

"I'm seeing a therapist. She's a genius. It was her idea to set the alien multiple personalities against each other to determine the square root of infinity. Whoever wins gets to plunder Earth. Amazingly, I now wake without headaches. I can finally think for myself. I have decided to dissolve the Church of Necroeconomics, disperse its wealth among the faithful, and seek a life of penance and penury. I'm writing a book. I wonder if I could hang out here for a while."

"Well sure, but you gotta act like a bull. Like, if someone comes out here to interview me, you can't suddenly butt in and start talking crypto currency."

"That would be no problem. But that's not why I'm here. I came to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"That catfish lies."

"’Bout what?"

"Everything. That catfish would rather climb a tree and tell a lie than stand on the ground and tell the truth."

"How do you even know about that?"

"I listen through your phone."

"That there's an invasion of privacy!"

"I'm only looking out for your best interests."

"Well do me a favor! Don't go snooping in my private business!"

Tallywhacker sank to his knees and wept. "Gary, please forgive me!"

"All right. All right. Get up. You're embarrassing yourself."

"Gary." It was Krystal.

Gary lay in his bed looking up at the ceiling. A coyote yipped. A loon looned. Up the street at the Wokenoki Trailer Park, a car horn honked with maddening regularity.

"What?"

"You were talking in your sleep."

"Did you hear anybody else?"

Krystal looked at him funny. "Did you take that psilocybin I was saving for when I beat Javelina?"

"Was it in the Necco wafers?"

EIGHT

LICENSED AND BONDED

When Krystal woke the next morning, Gary was in the living room watching The Scene.

"Let's go, Gary. The studio wants you at the airport by noon."

"I ain't going."

"What do you mean you're not going?"

Gary pointed at the TV. "Me and them harpies got nothing in common. I don't understand what they're saying half the time. Plus, they'll make me wear a mask on the plane, and all I got's the Stars 'n' Bars, and you know how that went last time."

"We'll get you another mask."

"I ain't going, and that's final. They're not my type of people."

"What about Bobby Bilbo?"

"Rhymes with dildo. 'Nuff said."

"Well, are you jes' gonna hunker down here until whatever it is blows over?"

"That's about the size of it!"

Major called. "The Royals have agreed to a crossover. They would like you and Krystal to be their guests at their Brentwood estate for a week, beginning November 15. They will then return to Florida to be your guests On December 15."

"Can't do it. That's Krystal's fight with Javelina. Tell the royal couple they got front row seats."

"Actually, they will stay at the Breakers. We are negotiating the terms of the agreement, including subjects they would like to cover and events in which they are willing to partake. They would like you to prepare a list of twelve activities."

Gary counted his fingers. "Making shine, hunting gators, hog butchering, fishing, getting rid of palmetto bugs...might bring Floyd in on that one...hunting anaconda, house suspenders, paintball..."

"Write 'em down, Gary."

"Yeah, well I'm thinking me and the Prince oughta have another go, and we would televise it and raise money for charity."

"It's a thought, fersure."

"Save the manatees."

"You owe the IRS seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If we don't pay, they're gonna garnish our wages!"

"What wages?"

"Any advertising revenue you get offa YouTube, and whatever Krystal wins in the ring."

Gary phoned Habib.

"I have five minutes before I'm in court."

"Habib, the IRS is threatening to garnish our wages."

"What wages?"

"Well, like any advertising revenue offa YouTube, and whatever Krystal gets when she fights."

"Let's meet tomorrow. Bring any correspondence you may have. Gotta go. They're bringing in my client."

"Okay."

"How'd you and Krystal like to be my guest at Wacky World on Saturday?"

"Y'know, I ain't never been to Wacky World. That's where they got the crazy rides, right?"

"Yes. One of my clients is a senior executive and fixed me up with season passes."

"Thanks, Habib. Krystal starts training Monday. This'll remind her what she's fighting for."

"Who's she fighting?"

"Javelina."

"Gotta go. See you Saturday."

"Hey Krystal!"

"What?" she called from the spare bedroom, where she was stretching.

"Get out your party dress! We're going to Wacky World!"

"Seriously?"

"Habib's got tickets! We're going Saturday!"

"Hell no. That place scares the crap out of me! Ever since I was a little girl and my mother left me alone in the living room watching Funky Monkey Fan Club. That monkey scared the shit outta me! But he got nothing on Rapid Rabbit. BRRRRR. Just the thought of a man-sized rabbit!"

"Where you get this shit?"

"You ever see Donnie Darko?"

A car pulled up in the yard. Gary went out on the deck. A man who looked like a Russian nesting doll, wearing a cheap black suit and a patently false toupee, got out of a rented Ford.

"H'ep you?" Gary said.

The man looked around defiantly. "Where is she?" he said in a nasal accent.

"Aw, don't tell me. You one of Krystal's exes?"

"Don't lie to me. I know she's here."

Gary turned to the house. "KRYSTALLLL!"

Krystal came out wearing gym shorts and a Boris and Natasha Tee-shirt. "What?"

"Is this one of your exes?"

"Never seen him before in my life." She went back in letting the screen door bang.

"You got the wrong house, bud."

"I don't think so. I believe you're covering for her. Just produce her and I'll be on my way."

"I don't care if you're James Bond! Whatever you want, it ain't here!"

"I'm a licensed and bonded bounty hunter." He whipped out a foolscap. "I have a warrant and order to appear for one Alice C. Wentworth, wanted for mail fraud, check kiting, shoplifting, assault, grand larceny, distribution of controlled substances, and public menacing."

"She ain't here!"

"The agency warned me that she would have accomplices. What is your name?"

"Fuck you, cadwallader! What's your name?"

"I am Theosophis J. Ronstein, a licensed and bonded agent of the court!"

"Yeah, well I'm Gary Duba!"

The little man glared. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

"You're not from around here, are ya?"

"I'm Rhode Island bred and raised, and I find nothing attractive about the so-called Sunshine State, whose name is disputed, by the way, by Arizona."

"I'm the guy who caught Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee."

"And I'm the King of Sheba!"

"You got internet?"

Ronstein looked around. "I very much doubt you can get internet out here."

"Show's how much you know. Take out your phone and do an oogle search. Gary Duba."

The little man glared. He reached for his phone. He poked. He frowned. His eyes widened. "I had no idea."

"Now do you believe you're in the wrong place?"

Ronstein squinted and looked around. "You may very well be an accomplice. You have a rap sheet a mile long."

"I put all that behind me. I am now a public personality. I got a show on Rustix! Follow me on Twitter @kangoftheeverglades, on Facebook as Gary Duba, Kang of the Everglades, on Twitter as GaryDuba, and on Tik Tok as gatorhunterinternational. My website is GaryDubaShow.com."

"My source is unimpeachable. How 'bout I just have a little look around."

"How 'bout you get your ass outta here or I'll call the hogs on you."

"Hogs? What hogs?"

Gary inserted two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. Ronstein crossed his arms and looked around with distaste. The jungle rustled. They heard snorting. Six snouts poked from the undergrowth. With a shrill squeak, Ronstein ran for the car. Sensing fear, the hogs attacked. He booted one in the snout, slammed the door, and threw it in reverse.

NINE

FIREWORKS

Saturday was unusually bright and balmy for October. Gary and Krystal drove to Habib's place in Pamplemousse, a gated community with a club house, a par three golf course, and a swimming pool. Of course, Habib had his own swimming pool too. Aubrey wore a purple velour jump suit with gold stripes and a wide-brimmed straw hat. She was five ten in her bare feet with more curves than a Ferrari. Krystal wore cargo pants from Farm and Fleet, a Green Bay ball cap, and a My Little Brony hoodie. Gary wore jeans and a Glad Machine shirt. Habib wore a Western sports jacket and a Stetson. They transferred to Habib's car for the two-hour drive to Orlando.

Wacky World was doing big business. Where else could people go? Habib joined a long line of vehicles outside one of Wacky World's six parking garages. When they reached the gate, a fiberglass statue of Regis Gator slid out a ticket on its tongue. The gate rose. Habib drove up two levels and found a spot big enough to hold his Lexus GX. They eyed the happy throngs waiting in line at the main gate. Surly families. Japanese tourists.

"Follow me." Habib led the way past the masses to a gate marked VIP ENTRANCE. The ticket taker, a neat young man wearing a LaCoste shirt with Regis Gator on the breast, smiled and lowered the rope.

"Welcome to Wacky World! Let me get you complimentary goody bags and a map. There's no need to wait in line. Simply show these VIP passes and they'll take you right in."

"What's the scariest ride you got?" Gary said.

"That would be the Rapid Rabbit Express, the world's biggest roller coaster."

"Do they hand out barf bags?" Krystal said.

The young man smiled brightly. "We prefer motion discomfort receptacles. Millie here will be your docent."

A smiling Latina girl with long black hair, wearing a Greta the Garter Snake outfit greeted them holding a tablet. "Hello! I'm Millie. It is my honor to take you on a tour of Wacky World. Is this your first time?"

"Yup," Habib said.

"Ours too."

"Well, as you know, Wacky World is the brainchild and gift to humanity of legendary creator Carl Wackheim, who arrived in this country a penniless orphan, but by dint of pluck and ingenuity, created the greatest entertainment empire the earth has ever seen. Working out of his garage in Tallahassee, Mr. Wackheim created one of the first sound animations, Egregious Regis starring his first great creation, Regis the Gator! The six-minute musical features Regis at the wheel of a steam locomotive bringing a load of oranges to market. Please follow me."

Millie led them down a spotless cobblestone trail toward a public square featuring a fifteen-foot Regis the Gator holding a brass fire hose spewing water. Little Lottie, a homing pigeon wearing a leather aviator's cap, sold lemonade. Lilypads, ferns, and fish thrived in the pond. Lizards and turtles sunned on artfully placed rocks and lawns.

Gary stared at the turtles.

"Millie, is it true that when ol' Carl died, they had his body frozen until a cure could be found? And that it's in a cryogenic chamber beneath the Enchanted Castle?"

Millie laughed gaily. "We get that all the time. It's just an urban legend, like thousand-pound feral hogs."

Millie pointed to an elaborate, fairy-tale wrought iron grate behind which rose a castle. "Yonder lies the Enchanted Castle, home of Philomena the Fair, Fiona the Foul, and Dunnigan's Dungeon. Would you like to take the Dungeon Ride?"

"It's too nice a day," Habib said. "Lead on."

They passed Spaceland with its No Grav Dome. They passed the Big Rock Candy Mountain, with Goth Sloth, Punk Skunk, Grunge Sponge, Upchuck Duck and Bluegrass Ass. Ahead lay multiple Alp-like steel peaks. The Rapid Rabbit Express.

Millie smiled brightly. "This is our most popular ride! I recommend you take it before lunch."

Habib looked around. "How 'bout it?"

"No way," Krystal said. "That rabbit gives me the creeps."

"This could be a way for you to work out your fear of the rabbit," Auburn said in a whiskey-tinged voice. "Once you conquer the Express, nothing will ever be able to touch you."

"That's right," Habib said. "You have that bout with Javelina coming up. Don't tell me you're not just a little bit concerned. I looked her up! She ran down and ate a coyote when she was fourteen."

"By the way," Millie said, "if y'all see Governor Chickenlooper, feel free to wave, but don't bother him. He's on a fact-finding mission."

"The governor is here?" Habib said. "I know the governor."

"You feel free to say hello. Are you taking Rapid Rabbit's Wild Ride?"

Habib looked around, hands out.

"I guess we are!" Krystal said. "Gimme that barf bag."

As they passed through the turnstile to the roller coaster, Millie got Krystal a heavy white bag with a picture of Rapid Rabbit, "Rabbit Rarebit" printed in red letters.

There were five cars. Each car held a dozen. The two couples sat side by side in the first row, strapped in with a steel beam in their laps. Behind them was a party celebrating a Quinceanera filling two rows.

"Oh my God," Krystal said. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Driving that train, high on cocaine," Gary sang.

Krystal elbowed him in the ribs. "Shut up."

"Trouble ahead, trouble behind..."

"Shut up!"

The car ascended an alpine peak. At the top Regis Gator beckoned. "Come on! You're almost there!" he said.

The car reached the apex and hung there. It lurched forward. The girls screaming behind them were heard in Jacksonville. The car plunged into the abyss, and for an instant, Krystal experienced the full force of vertigo, her stomach in free-fall, landscape kaleidoscoping. The car bottomed out, piling on the gees. Krystal belched. She put a hand to her mouth.

Gary gripped her hand. "You all right, honey?"

"Whose idea was this?"

Habib and Auburn traded high fives.

"Wheeeeeeeeee," Auburn piped.

The tracks bent to starboard and the car began its second ascent. Halfway up the climb, Krystal bent over her Rarebit bag and barfed. Utilizing her years of training, she confined her barf to the bag, which she rolled tightly over and sealed with the attached prongs.

"You feel better, honey?"

"I want the fuck off. How do we get off?"

"I think we got to ride the whole nine yards. We'll be off soon enough. Can't get any worse'n that."

"You always say that, and then what happens? A goat drops from the sky!"

The car reached the apex and hovered there. With a lurch it started forward.

"Oh!" Krystal exclaimed, the vomit bag flying.

The car began its ascent. A party of dignitaries stood just outside the gate. Men and women in smart tropical suits, security in sunglasses and ear tags. As the car gained momentum, Gary watched Krystal's barf bag arc through the sky, striking Governor Chickenlooper in the head.

TEN

RAPPIN' RABBIT

Ten police waited for the Rapid Rabbit to pull into the station. Security had whisked the governor away. Habib started talking before the car screeched to a halt.

"Total accident, very sorry. Any of you boys ever ride this thing?"

The governor's personal assistant Anthony Viola stepped forward in a blue Brunelo Cuccinelli suit, Berluti Scrippo loafers, and sunglasses, long black hair slicked back.

"Tony," Habib said. "That was an accident."

Viola exhaled. "The governor is upset."

"I know the governor. Tell him what happened."

"I will. Don't worry about it. He'll calm down. Hey, how are ya?"

"Tony, this is Auburn, and this is Gary and Krystal Duba. You know who Gary is."

Viola's face scrunched. "Did you shoot that hog? The big one?"

"Gary's the guy who caught Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee."

"Of course. The flower of Florida manhood."

Gary gaped. "You calling me a flower?"

"I meant fruit."

"You calling me a fruit?"

"Gary, this is the governor's right-hand man."

They shook hands. Viola saw Krystal's white face, the tissue in her hand.

"Are you all right?"

"She'll be fine. She just needs to get something in her stomach."

"And wine," Krystal said.

"She's fighting Javelina at the Roxy in November," Gary said. "You and the governor could be our guests."

"I'm afraid he has a very busy schedule."

"The Duke and Duchess of Ducats are coming."

"Really?"

"You bet. We worked out a deal. We're gonna appear on their show, and they're gonna appear on our show."

"Hmmm. I will certainly bring this to the governor's attention. I think such an event could be mutually beneficial."

Viola motioned Habib over.

"What?"

Viola winked. "Bullseye."

They walked toward the main square. "Gubnah Chad Chickenlooper," Habib said in a cornpone voice. "They call him Hanging Chad."

"Why do they call him Hanging Chad?"

Habib poked his phone and showed Gary a picture of the governor hanging from a windowsill, pants down around his ankles, a naked woman with long blonde hair leaning out above him.

"Somebody got a tip he was seeing his mistress. He's a deacon of his church, you know."

Auburn and Krystal freshened up before making their way to the Princess Cafe, designed for six-year-olds with all the Wacky characters lined up in a hall of kings. Regis Gator, Hannity the Manatee, Funky Monkey, Goth Sloth and Punk Skunk. They got a table on the veranda overlooking Town Square, Wackheimer's recreation of a turn of the century gas lit New England town. Wacky World greeters, dressed as the iconic characters, approached groups of tourists. They danced, they juggled, they told jokes.

Their waitron was the French Fop from Cutie and the Feast. "Allo! I am Gaston! Can I get you anysing to drink?"

"Do you have a nice California Cabernet?" Krystal said.

"Alas, zis is a family-oriented restaurant and we serve no alcoholic beverages before five pm."

"We're a family," Gary said. "How is that family friendly? Do you know how many weary parents stumble in here and just want to get plastered?"

"Alas, it is not my decision. If it were up to me, I would bring ze finest French champagne. Would you like to hear today's specials?"

Gary picked up the oversize laminated menu featuring all the Wacky characters. "Give us a few."

Krystal had the Florida Roll. Gary had a burger. Habib had camel fajitas. Auburn had sushi. Habib picked up the bill. By the time they were finished, it was three p.m. As they crossed the grand plaza on their way to the parking garage, a six-foot Rapid Rabbit popped out of a manhole. Elbows on the ground, it looked around. It sprang from the hole—some kind of catapult—and landed on roller blades. It zeroed in on the quartet. A freestyle beat blasted from the PA system.

"I'm Rapid Rabbit, the people's choice. I'm in the habit of giving voice. To disillusioned institutions and illusory solutions in situations that require Rapid Rabbit to inspire."

Krystal clutched Gary's arm. "Don't look. Keep going."

Rapid Rabbit skated along. "Waidaminit! Waidaminit! See that fool? He ain't cool. All he does is vape and drool. It takes a toll to be that droll, be be that troll up on a knoll."

Krystal caught a whiff. "He's drunk."

Rapid Rabbit chased after them. "Come on, lady, don't be that way. I may be shady, but I'll have my say! Dump that clown and come with Rabbit! Drop that loser like a bad habit!"

Gary got in Rapid's face. "Wha'd you say?"

"Hey hey, ho ho! Peckerwood has got to go!"

The rabbit stank of gin. Gary punched the rabbit in the snoot. The stiff cloth bore the brunt of the blow. The rabbit lunged, taking Gary to the ground, but its thick gloves prevented it from doing any damage. Gary pulled its ears, twisting, slithered to the side and sprang to his feet. The rabbit got up. They circled. Visitors deployed their cameras. Funky Monkey danced around the fringes carrying a huge butterfly net. Every now and then he would rush forward and swipe at one of the combatants.

Gary and the rabbit traded punches. Krystal jumped on the rabbit's back, tried to apply a rear naked choke, but the rabbit's stiff costume prevented her from linking up. A Keystone Cops Model T rolled up, bell clanging. Out jumped two Keystone cops blowing whistles. They separated the combatants. One cop with a black walrus mustache backed Rapid Rabbit up with his nightstick.

"Rodell, you're drunk. That's three strikes and out. Turn in your suit and get out. Your last check will be mailed to you."

Rapid Rabbit slugged the cop in the kisser. The other cop piled on. The two Keystones and Rapid rolled on the cobblestones as visitors rushed to the scene. The whoop of a real patrol car cleared the way for a Chrysler bearing WWPD on the doors. Two cops wearing blue uniforms and shorts rushed the combatants, grabbed the rabbit by his arms and hauled him to their vehicle.

Regis Gator appeared in spats, carrying a diamond-headed cane. Using an in-suit amplifier, he addressed the crowd.

"Folks, every now and then we like to shake things up a bit with some performance art. I want to thank our guests for being good sports and participating, and to assure you that this was all planned and that no one was hurt."

Goth Sloth approached Gary and Krystal. "Are you all right? Are either of you injured?"

"I been hit harder by a mosquito!"

"I'm fine."

"I would like to apologize on behalf of Wacky World. The person in the Rapid Rabbit costume was let go last week. He apparently sneaked into the facility, donned the costume and put on this disgraceful display as retaliation. He will be charged, I assure you."

"No problem."

"Would you be willing to sign a hold harmless disclaimer? We would be pleased to give you both lifetime passes. The only things you would have to pay for are food and drink."

"Talk to my lawyer."

Habib stepped up. "Let me see the documents. We'll get back to you."

Goth Sloth handed over a manila envelope.

It wasn't until they reached Habib's car that Gary smacked himself in the head.

"Holy shit! The Rabbit! He was supposed to tell me something!"

ELEVEN

BACKPACK

Back home, Gary had Krystal set him up with a Zoom call to Irving Pincus, the computer expert who'd shot Hogzilla. The twenty-three-year-old Pincus, from a strict Orthodox family, had short black hair and a curly black beard as he sat in his apartment in front of framed posters of Les Mis and La Bohѐme. He wore a Punisher Tee-shirt.

"Pincus! You a comics fan?"

"Yes, but I was forced to sell my collection. What can I do for you, Mr. Duba?"

"Pincus, I need you to track down the Rabid Rabbit that got shit-canned by Wacky yesterday."

"Do you mean Rapid Rabbit, Mr. Duba?"

"Rabid, Rapid, whatever. And you can call me Gary."

Pincus poked and stroked. "All right. I'm in Wacky's personnel file. Rodell Grosz was let go this afternoon for public drunkenness and brawling. He lives at 4556 Wayzata Court in Union Park. Do you want his contact info?"

"Gimme."

"Rapid@domo.com. I'm looking at him now."

"Really? How do you do that, Pincus?"

"I've accessed his home computer."

"Can I see?"

"Are you sure you want to see? It's pretty vulgar."

"I can handle it."

Gary's screen flickered. A swarthy man with pock-marked skin and greasy hair moaned as he spanked his monkey.

"Mr. Grosz is watching Anal Antics XXX."

"Holy shit, Pincus! That's enough!"

"What do you want with this man?"

"Leotis told me I would be visited by three harbingers: a bat, a rabbit, and a turtle. I think Grosz has something to tell me."

"Who is Leotis?"

Krystal spoke over Gary's shoulder. "Every night Gary gets shit-faced and talks to an imaginary catfish."

"Leotis is real!"

"Is there anything else, Mr. Duba?"

"Pincus, how'd you like to come on my show? I'll introduce you to the Duke and Duchess of Ducats."

"I really can't, Mr. Duba. My dog Elisha's sick. I have to stay with him." Pincus turned away, hand to eye.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He's got cancer. It's currently confined to one tumor. I just can't afford to have him treated."

"What's it cost?"

"About a thousand dollars. If I don't do anything, he won't live another two months. He's not that old. He's only eight. He's all I've got."

"I thought you had an older sister."

"She and I don't talk."

"I'll pay for it."

"You don't have any money."

"I will soon! Just hang in there."

A dog whimpered in pain. "I have to go now."

"Real sorry to hear it, Pincus. What do I owe ya?"

"You don't have any money, Mr. Duba."

"No, but I'm always working on something. Thanks, Pincus.

Gary wrote the address down in his notepad. "You coming babe?"

"I told you, I got to get my rest! You're driving me to Delilah's tomorrow, remember? You'd better be back here in the morning!"

"I just want to talk to the guy."

Gary hit the road in his F-150, one hundred and fifty miles from Turpentine to Orlando through the center of the state. He stopped at a Friendly's Supermarket and picked up a six pack of Gator Beer. Gary slipped a George Strait CD into the dash and drove with his elbow out the window, right wrist draped over the wheel until he ran into a cloudburst east of St. Pete's and had to button up. It was just past eleven when he pulled up in front of a run-down bungalow at 4556 Wayzata Court. A piece of shit Saturn was parked in the driveway with an EAT MORE POSSUM bumper sticker. Pale light glowed through yellowed Venetian blinds from the living room window. Taking the six-pack, he knocked on the door.

"Who the fuck—!" issued from within.

The door opened to the limit of the chain. Grosz was five eleven wearing a grimy wife beater and boxer shorts, Popeye chin covered with stubble, suspicious.

"Fuck you want?"

"Hey, take it easy! Don't you remember me? We traded blows at Wacky World."

"You! You motherfucker! You're the reason I got shit canned!"

Gary held up the beer. "Chill, dude! I ain't here to fight. And you called my old lady a slut! What kind of man would I be if I just stood there and took it?"

"Whatchoo want?"

"I just want to talk to you for a minute. See? I brought beer."

"Got any blow?"

"Well it just so happens I got a gram in the truck. Here. Take the beer."

Grosz unlatched the door and took the six pack. Gary retrieved the bindle and entered the house which smelled of old socks and reefer. The Rabbit's computer sat on a door resting on cinder blocks. A grubby rug lay on the scratched hardwood floor. A cast-off cloth sofa backed against the wall beneath a Men in Black poster. The lamp shade on the end table was stained yellow. The Rabbit snapped off a can and passed the rest to Gary. The Rabbit grabbed a chipped porcelain tray off the end table and handed it to Gary, who placed it on a steel steamer trunk that served as a coffee table and laid out a couple lines.

Outside, a couple screamed at each other in Spanish.

"Those fuckers!" the Rabbit said, got up, opened the door and shouted, "Chinga tu madre!"

He sat on the sofa raising a cloud of dust, reached for the chipped plate and hoovered a line through a cut-up straw. "I like a man who brings gifts. What can I do for you?"

"You're supposed to tell me something."

The Rabbit chugged a can of Gator Beer, crumpled it and tossed it into the darkened kitchen where it clattered across the linoleum. "I already told you to go fuck yourself."

"No, man, I'm in touch with my spirit animal and he told me that I would be visited by three harbingers: a bat, a rabbit, and a turtle. You're the rabbit. You're supposed to tell me something. Something important. Something I can take to the bank."

"Buy a homing pigeon. You can sell it over and over again."

"That ain't it."

"How the fuck do you know?"

"You sure curse a lot."

"I just lost my fucking job so fuck you."

"Awright, how's this. You tell me something, and if I make any money off it, I'll give you a cut."

The Rabbit leaned back and regarded Gary through slitted eyes. "What's your story?"

"I'm the guy who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee."

"So what?"

"I invented house suspenders."

"You think I got some kinda info or something that's gonna make you rich?"

"So says the catfish."

"What catfish?"

"Leotis."

The Rabbit broke into a sunny grin. "You're all right. You're a crazy motherfucker. Gimme another line. I might have something for ya."

Gary laid out another line. The Rabbit hoovered, snucked, and howled. "Awright, awright. I got it. Pickle flavored toothpaste."

Gary grimaced. "That ain't it."

"Waidaminit, waidaminit...cold lightbulbs."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. For fridges. That way, when you open the door, the lightbulbs don't thaw the food."

"Nah."

"Okay, waidaminit...mannn, I need to smoke some skunk. Let's get high."

"I can't. I gotta drive."

"Awright, awright. Hang." Rabbit got off the sofa, went into his bedroom and rummaged around, returning with a frayed green denim backpack which he set on the table. He pulled out a flashlight, a pack, of tissues, some rubbers, a pen knife, a pack of cigarettes, and a baggie filled with ditch weed.

"Here we go. Here we go."

Gary jolted forward, eyes blazing.

"Whu?"

Gary pointed at the table. "Backpack!"

TWELVE

MIRABILE DICTU

Gary hit the road, high as a kite. Used to driving under the influence, he entered a fugue state, eyes at the limits of the headlamps as he cruised through the moist Florida night, insects splattering the windshield. June bugs hit like shrapnel.

Gary tuned into the Ferd Ludlow Show.

"...we'll be right back after this short commercial break."

"Hi! Slick Niveleski here, with a true story about how you can save thousands of dollars on life insurance. Ray, a real person, is forty-five years old with a minor heart condition..."

Gary twisted the dial.

"Have you been injured in an automobile accident and the insurance company refused to pay you what you deserve? Contact the law offices of Habib Rodriguez. I specialize in personal injury claims. I've been dealing with insurance companies all my life and they don't scare me. We don't collect unless you collect. Sonia Real is a real customer."

"My name is Sonia Real, and I was broadsided by an eighteen-wheeler that ran a red light. The insurance company refused to pay me what I deserved so I called Habib Rodriguez and he got me eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"I'm Habib Rodriguez. I can't promise to get you eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but we will never know unless you call me today. My number is..."

Gary switched back to Ferd Ludlow.

"We are witnessing an unprecedented invasion of unidentified flying objects. The media won't report this. They are in cahoots with the government to suppress all information regarding this influx of alien invaders. Yes, you heard me. Earth is under assault by alien invaders. They are snatching our cattle, and even human beings, seized late at night, beamed into their craft via anti-gravity, where they are experimented upon and anally probed. Listen to this account from Luke Spacey of Pembroke Pines. Luke? Thank you for hanging on. Please tell our listeners what happened."

"I was walking my dog Herman around the block. It was past midnight. Some nights I don't sleep so I walk Herman. It's a real quiet block. All of a sudden Herman starts going crazy, barking like a maniac, and I hear this weird humming noise and the air smelled of fried potatoes. A yellow beam came down and surrounded me. I could see my shadow, and then I started to drift upward. I let go of the leash and Herman took off barking. I was transported upward inside an alien craft. It was a saucer, Ferd. The aliens who examined me were tiny gray persons with big heads and eyes. They gave me some kind of gas..."

It was around one when he turned onto Weldon Way, the dirt road that dead ended at his trailer. Weldon Way was three miles long. The first mile was okay. A pack of feral hogs huddled in the middle of the second mile, grunting, lunging, snorting. Gary laid on the horn. They looked at him, their tiny pig eyes red in the headlights. They were eating something.

"Get out the way, you pigs!" he yelled through his open window. He shook his fist. They ignored him. Gary advanced slowly and it wasn't until he was a foot away that they grudgingly parted. The tires rolled over something with a thump. Gary didn't want to know. He kept driving. He turned off the music and let the sounds of the swamp flow. Crickets. Frogs. Loons. He turned a corner, and a scrum of turkey vultures occupied the middle of the road poking and pecking.

Gary laid on the horn. The turkey vultures didn't even look. Gary advanced slowly until he was a foot away. A turkey vulture hopped onto the hood of his truck and looked him in the eye. Another flew in the passenger side window and went for his face, opening a gash above his right eye, claws slashing at his arms. Gary grabbed it by the neck and flailed around the cabin, smashing its body into the seat, dash, roof, and floor until he broke its neck. He sat there panting, covered with gore, blood, and feathers.

Gary grabbed the magnum from the glove compartment and stepped out of the truck. A dead hog lay in the middle of the road, ribs gleaming white in the moonlight where the vultures had stripped the flesh. "I take it all back! You guys are doing a great job!"

As he approached his lot, a row of pink flamingos filed across the road, right to left. Gary counted twenty-two before the last flamingo disappeared into the brush.

Gary parked and went in the house. Krystal's gym bag, a suitcase, and a six-pack of Tab lay on the living room sofa. Since learning Coca-Cola had decided to terminate the beloved diet cola, she'd been stocking up. A four-foot stack of cases lay in the larder off the kitchen. Gary smelled himself. He took a shower, washing off blood and feathers. When he came out, Krystal stood arms crossed in the entrance to the bedroom.

"What happened to you?"

"I got in a death struggle with a turkey vulture. It was him or me. I won! I talked to the Rabbit and he gave me the key. Where's that backpack we took off the dead parachutist?"

"Geez, I forgot all about that. I think I put it in the attic." It wasn't a real attic, just a space between roof trusses to house electrical and conduits. The Duke had cut his own hole in the ceiling of the larder. Gary stood on cases of Tab, lifted the hatch and shined a flashlight. A raccoon hissed at him. Gary climbed down, filled his super soaker with water, climbed back up and let the raccoon have it between the eyes. The masked intruder scurried to a far corner and disappeared through a gap. The Duke and Duchess had left all sorts of junk. He'd go through it later. The Kelly green backpack lay within arm's reach. Gary grabbed it and took it into the living room.

"Come to bed, Gary. It's two-thirty. You got to drive me to Delilah's in a couple hours."

"I'm wide awake, babe! Don't worry about me."

He set the backpack on the living room table and opened the top. It was jammed with documents in manila folders. He pulled one out. The document bore the letterhead of the National Bolivian Armed Forces in Spanish. He kept digging. Documents. Lists of names. Finally, he came to the last envelope. It was stiff, sealed with transparent tape. Using his pocketknife to slit the tape, Gary removed a rectangle of white cardboard sealed in a mylar sleeve. He turned it over.

Detective Comics #27. Slabbed and graded nine point eight.

THIRTEEN

INVASIVE

"We're rich!" Gary crowed. "Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Rabbit! Thank you, Leotis!"

Krystal came out of the bedroom with a pained expression. "What the hell, Gary! Go to bed! We have to drive to Delilah's in a few hours!"

Gary held up the comic. "Do you know what this is?"

"A comic."

"Do you have any idea what this comic is?"

Krystal squinted. "Detective Comics."

"This is the world's single most valuable comic! It's worth over a million dollars!"

"No shit. Who'd pay that kind of money for a comic?"

"Nicholas Cage!"

"Nick Cage doesn't know where his next meal is coming from. Where'd you get that?"

"It was in the backpack we got from that dead guy."

"Why would a Venezuelan Special Forces op parachute into the middle of a swamp with a comic book?"

Gary shrugged. "Maybe Quetzacoatl's selling his private collection to raise money for widows and orphans."

"Let's go. Nobody's getting any sleep around here."

Gary carefully repacked the backpack including all the documents and shoved it back in the crawl space. He carried Krystal's bags to the truck, and they booked. Krystal's trainer Delilah lived in the Big Cypress Indian Reservation. The sky lightened in the east as they turned from State Highway eighty onto Old County Eight Thirty-Three, a lonely path through endless everglades. Krystal found Country WKIS on the radio, Humph Greenwald singing "My Dawg Done Left and He Took My Truck."

"Aw hell no, little lady! It's too early in the morning for that shit!" Gary switched to BIG 105.9.

"Here's Blue Oyster Cult's latest, and it hits close to home," said the deejay.

"Should you settle down in the Sunshine State, you should know of its tangled fate. How the conquistador came to Florida, long before it had a name. The medicine man of the Seminole knelt by the sacred flame..."

Krystal switched to Ferd Ludlow.

"Muriel Spurlock of Lehigh Acres, you're on!"

"Ferd, I'd like to change the subject if I may. Florida is being overrun by invasive species. If we don't do something to stop them, it's only a matter of time before they take over our homes. You've seen the pictures of alligators trying to get into houses, climbing up trellises, banging on the front screen door."

"I got to correct you right there, Muriel. Alligators are indigenous. They were here before the white man."

"That may be so, Ferd, but they're being egged on by Burmese pythons. There's a reason they're called Burmese pythons. They come from Burma, Ferd."

"I grant you that. The state recognizes the threat which is why they sponsor the annual python cull. But in my opinion, they are ignoring potentially greater threats such as the proliferation of the South American iguana."

"I don't see how you can say that. Pythons eat people and pets. The iguana eat leaves. If properly trained, they could replace leaf blowers and we would all benefit."

"What about the hippos?"

"What hippos?"

"The hippos that escaped from drug kingpin El Nariz's zoo and are now propagating in the Everglades."

"That's ridiculous. Are you serious?"

Gary braked for a hippo crossing the road. Krystal switched to WLRN in Miami.

"...Professor Anderson Aardvark, on Florida's most endangered animals. Professor?"

"Thank you, Alice. There is no question but that the Florida panther, a North American cougar, leads the list. Only one hundred and sixty of these beautiful animals exist in the wild. Their habitat is under constant attack. Although the panther is fiercely territorial, there is not a single incident of a panther ever attacking a human being. Shooting or otherwise harming a panther is a violation of the Endangered Species Act. Florida considers it a third-degree felony with a maximum of five years in prison and a $5,000 fine. The federal punishment is a maximum one year in jail with a $100,000 fine. Personally, I wish it were higher."

"How many people have been charged under the Endangered Species Act?"

"Well, Alice..."

Gary turned the dial to New Country 103. The Grateful Dead's "Uncle John's Band" warbled over the speakers.

"That ain't country," Gary said, weaving all over the road.

"Careful there, Gar. You want me to drive?"

"Hell no. I got this."

"Let me see your eyes."

Gary turned toward her. His eyes looked like laser dots.

"Aw hell no. Stop the truck. I'm driving."

"Okay, but I get to choose the music."

Gary pulled over. There was only a foot of shoulder before it dropped off into endless cattails, mangroves, cypress, pond apple, and sawgrass. Gary stumbled getting out of the truck and caught himself on the door. Krystal slid across into the driver's seat as Gary pulled himself up and shut the door. They wheeled south, tires rumbling on the crumbling blacktop, thumping over potholes.

A man staggered out of the bush, wearing dress pants soaked to the knee, white shirt torn, stubble on his face and fell to his knees. Krystal pulled up next to him and stopped. Gary got out.

"What's going on?"

"I was abducted by aliens!" he said in a British accent. "They probed me anally! They're coming! Take me to the police!"

Gary jumped back in and shut the door. "Drive!"

Krystal tromped on the accelerator. The old truck surged forward with a chirp of the wheels. Gary twisted around and looked through the back light. The fugitive disappeared on the other side of the road.

Gary wiped sweat off his brow. "Close one!"

Krystal stopped for a troop of pink flamingos crossing the road.

Gary appealed to an uncaring god. "What's with all these flamingos?!"

"What do you mean?"

"Last night as I was coming home, I ran into the same thing. A line of flamingos crossing the road."

"Maybe they want something."

"But what? They haven't made any demands."

"They're blocking traffic. They must want something."

"But they're moving! See? There goes the last flamingo."

They pulled up in front of Delilah's geodesic dome around ten, her Jeep pickup poking out from behind. Delilah sat out front on a stool, legs spread wearing an ankle-length red, black and green dashiki, head wrapped in a black turban, shucking oysters with a knife. A couple of chickens poked for bugs at her feet. A thin Creole with prominent cheekbones, she spat a wad of chewing tobacco as Gary and Krystal got out.

"'Bout time you got here."

"We woulda been here sooner but we were held up by hippos, aliens, and flamingos."

"Did those flamingos block the road again?"

"Yeah. They been giving you trouble?"

Delilah inserted her bone-handled filet knife in an oyster shell. "Nothin' I can't handle. Thank you, goodbye."

"Delilah, I'm falling down. I need to sleep."

Delilah sighed, leaned back, and crossed her long legs. "Ain't that just like a man. You can crash in the house while we get to work. Stay outta my loft."

Gary walked out back, pissed in the swamp, went inside, filled a glass from the cistern, drank it, checked the fridge and flopped on a wicker divan in the living room. He fell asleep almost instantly and dreamed he was riding a huge feral hog at the head of a stampede. Feral hogs, all headed for a cliff. Gary gripped the stiff bristle and whooped, waving his CAT hat. The hogs piled over the cliff. It was a long way down to where the surf rolled in. Halfway down the scene switched to giant holographic sharks and rogue military forces. Gary rolled to the side and came up with a Ruger mini 14 in his hands. He blasted the sharks. He was struck in the gut.

He woke. Delilah's black cat Pork Chop sat on his belly. Gary was parched. He refilled his glass and drained it. The grandfather clock beneath the spiral staircase said it was four o'clock. No sign of Krystal or Delilah.

He went outside just as a man in a safari jacket and pith helmet, a camera around his neck walked up smiling, with a gap between his front teeth that would accommodate an AMTRAK train.

"Ah, Mr. Duba! Garrison Gland. You remember me. I'm a producer for the History Channel. Congratulations on your show! I'm riveted. Can't wait for the next episode."

"What are you looking for out here?"

"The giant Sumatran corpse flower."

"Why ain't you in Sumatra?"

Garrison looked around to make sure no one eavesdropped. "I have it on good authority that the Amorphophallus titanum is making significant inroads in the Everglades."

"What's it look like?"

"It's hard to miss. It's ten feet tall and smells like a rotting corpse."

"Ain't seen it. But I'll keep a look out."

Garrison squinted, nose wrinkling. He sniffed. "The game's afoot!" He ran into the jungle.

FOURTEEN

WHOOPS

Krystal and Delilah returned at five, Krystal drenched to the skin in shorts, halter top and waffle stompers, her red hair done up in a ponytail, Delilah cool in a red and yellow jumpsuit on her mountain bike. Gary lounged in a lawn chair, smoking a doobie.

Krystal stripped off her clothes and stood naked beneath a fifty-gallon barrel strapped to a cypress tree and pulled the cord. She lathered up in warm rainwater. Delilah had rigged funnels all through the branches and the barrel was never empty. Gary watched her towel off and wondered if there was time for a quickie. They could do it in the truck.

He was famished. "Hey what you got to eat around here? All I found was some turkey bacon and a box of baking soda."

"You know how to shoot?" Delilah said.

"Duh!"

"Wait a minute."

Delilah went in the house and returned with a mini Ruger 14 and a box of ammo. "Here, big shot. Go get us something to eat. Get one of them hogs."

"You ain't got none left?"

"We done et all the hog. Come on. Shouldn't be that hard. They're all over the place."

"Will you eat flamingo?"

She stared at him.

"What about fish?"

"Sick of fish. If I eat any more fish, omma turn into a fish." Delilah thrust the rifle at him. "Go on. Git. Make yourself useful."

Gary heaved himself to his feet, put on socks and work boots, fetched his fishing vest from the toolbox in back of the truck: sunglasses, sunscreen, pocket knife, first aid kit. He stuffed a pocket with .223 ammo, pulled his Gators cap low over his forehead and set off into the brush. He had ninety minutes of light left. Gary headed west toward the lowering sun on a marshy peninsula. His feet squished where he stepped. Pea-soup colored swamp water filled inlets like jigsaw puzzle parts. Hearing some movement in the brush Gary froze, brought the rifle to his shoulder and listened.

Some kind of fracas. Creeping forward, stepping on marsh grass, he hunkered down behind a hedge. Bubbles, splashing, and weird high-pitched squeal. Gary carefully parted the grass and beheld a scrum of nutria, the rat-like invader from South America, battling with a horde of iguana. They went it at tooth and nail. An iguana seized a nutria by the throat and shook it violently. Two nutria ganged up on an iguana, thrusting it beneath the surface.

Gary had owned a restaurant that served iguana. The Lizard Lounge. It opened and closed on the same day. Iguana were tasty, but these were scrawny, and Krystal was in training, so she needed extra protein. One shot and the rest would skedaddle.

Gary rose, circumnavigated the battle counterclockwise heading toward a dense stand of cypress. A covey of wood storks took flight, flapping above the trees toward the sea. He thought about taking a shot, but his chances were slim and he didn't know how they tasted. With hog, you knew what you were getting. Ribs. Hams. Bacon. Gary preferred it to the store-bought stuff.

"Here, sooey sooey," he muttered under his breath. Something gleamed at the base of a mangrove. A Dixie beer can. Gary stomped it flat on a rock and slipped it into his vest. He paused at water's edge to look across to another dense glade, thirty feet away, surrounded by saw grass and cattails. The cattails swayed like a Marlins crowd doing the wave. Something big was moving over there.

"Lord, send me a big fat hog," Gary said under his breath, stalking the edge of the inlet. He was hungry enough to eat nutria. Some genius decided the way to thin invasive species was to eat them. Thus, the explosion of nutria and iguana-themed restaurants. Lizard On A Stick. More Than Rats. Rodents of Distinction. I Wanna Iguana. Monty's Python.

Gary loved to barbecue. But he just wasn't cut out to manage a restaurant. When his first customer complained, the Dominican cook beaned him with a cast iron pan and Gary went to jail. What was wrong with that old witchee woman that she didn't have any vittles? Delilah knew how to hunt. He'd seen hogs she'd bagged. She tried to get him to eat some rattlesnake once but he wasn't that drunk. The problem was power. It went out every time there was a hurricane or even a heavy rainstorm and if it didn't come back on with twenty-four hours, everything in her freezer went bad. She had a power generator, but she didn't like to run it because it made too much noise. She needed freeze-dried survivalist fare.

He'd been meaning to ask her about Leotis' prophecy. Delilah was a fortune teller and an oracle. She'd read his palm and told him he was gonna have his own show and damned if she wasn't right. She had a standing invitation to appear.

"Don't need the aggravation," was her standard response.

A feral growl emanated from a copse of cypress. A snort.

"That there's a hog," Gary whispered to himself, creeping forward like Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits. Fudd always got the short end of the stick. Gary admired Fudd. Fudd was a woodsman who knew how to dress. And Bugs Bunny was an irritating prick. Just a smart ass. He reminded Gary of every smart ass he'd fought in high school. Gary had to fight his way through high school because the smart asses were always disrespecting him. He was in and out of the principal's office more often than the janitor. They gave him so much detention, he had his own bench with a plaque.

Bugs Bunny reminded Gary of Rodell Grosz. Grosz was a smart ass who dressed like a rabbit. He wondered if Grosz had stolen the costume. Couldn't wear it in public or Wacky would land on him with hobnailed boots. Wacky was litigious. Everybody knew that. They offered rewards to snitches for little girls selling Little Lottie Lemonade in the suburbs. They paid the police to arrest trick or treaters wearing homemade costumes. Don't mess with the gator.

Some kind of ruckus erupted ten feet in front of him. All he saw was movement among the saw grass, two animals locked in combat. Two feral hogs going at it! Gary sank to one knee and sighted along an alley between the cypress. A flash of movement. Back again. Had to time this just right. Sensing the beast about to move, Gary led it and squeezed the trigger.

A yowl raised his hackles as he stomped through the brush to a small clearing where a wounded hog, rear leg torn off, squealed and scrambled into the water. A Florida panther with a tracking collar lay on the ground.

FIFTEEN

BLOOD OATH

The light was fading as Gary returned, panther draped over his shoulders like a mink stole. Delilah sat out front husking corn. Gary plopped the panther at her feet. She stared at it. She looked up.

"A year in prison and a hundred thousand dollar fine."

"I thought it was a hog!"

"Does it look like a hog?"

"I thought it was two hogs fighting."

"Does it look like two hogs fighting?"

"I figger if we eat it, there'll be no evidence."

Delilah pointed at the collar. "What about that?"

Gary pulled his pocketknife and attempted to saw through the collar. It was like cutting through a tire. "Dang thing won't come off!" He went to his truck and retrieved a pair of tin snips.

Krystal came out in sweatpants and a Florida Gators shirt as Gary knelt by the dead panther, cut the collar, put it on the butcher stump and smashed it with a rock. He threw the remains into the swamp.

"Is that what's for dinner?"

Gary looked up. "Sure, why not?"

"I ain't eating no cat! You ever had cat?"

"Once at a Chinese restaurant but I can't be certain."

Delilah handed Gary a filleting knife. "You killed it you clean it."

Gary hoisted the panther onto a cypress stump stained with dried blood and went to work. He chopped off the tail and tossed it in the bushes. Gary marinated the lean and stringy meat in olive oil and Dr. Bob's All-Purpose marinade in a roasting pan, shook out the Weber, shredded the Clarendon County Crier in the bottom and filled the rest with charcoal. Krystal wiped the bird shit off the picnic table and set out a salad bowl filled with purslane, betony, spiderwort, swamp cabbage and saw palmetto.

Gary lit the grill. "Got any shine?"

Delilah heaved herself out of her chair, went in the house and returned with a clay jug and two Mason jars. Krystal looked over.

"Where's mine?"

Delilah wagged her finger.

Gary and Delilah sat next to each other in cheap plastic lounges, sipping shine and listening to the bugs, loons, and macaques. Gary got some reefer from the truck and rolled a doobie. Krystal held her hand out.

"Come on! Reefer ain't gonna interfere with my training."

Delilah gave an imperceptible nod.

Gary put the corn and the panther on the grill. They sat in a mellow haze watching smoke wind up into the trees.

Garrison Gland entered the clearing. "What is that divine smell?"

Delilah exhaled a smoke ring. "Who are you?"

"I'm Garrison Gland. I'm with the History Channel! I've been exploring this section of the swamp looking for the elusive giant Sumatran corpse flower. It's so near, I can smell it!"

"That ain't what's cookin'."

"Yes, I can see that. I hate to impose, but if you permit me to join you, I can give you invaluable publicity for Steely Danielle's next bout!"

"Venue's sold out," Delilah said.

"Is that a bottle tree?"

"Yeah. Want me to read your future? Get the fuck outta here or omma kick your ass. No. I'm not even gonna sully my shoe. I'll have my girl Krystal here kick your ass, and we'll film it and post it!"

Gary put up his hand. "Now hold on, hold on. Garrison's all right. The History Channel does Swamp People! That's my favorite show next to What's Your Problem? What are you working on, Gar?"

Garrison stared at the grill. "I'm developing a series on invasive species. It's called...what is that?"

"What's what?"

Garrison pointed at the grill. "What are you grilling here? What animal is this?"

"That's an axis deer," Delilah said. "It's an invasive species."

"Axis deer? I don't think so. I know deer and that's no deer."

Garrison glanced to the side, did a double take. He walked into the brush, picked up the panther tail and held it out accusingly. "Did you do this?"

"Do what?" Gary said. "What's that?"

"You know damn well what it is. Did you kill a Florida panther?"

Gary's jaw dropped. "Who? Me? I ain't even seen one! I would never kill a Florida panther! I got too much respect for 'em."

Garrison held his phone to his eye and dropped to one knee to get the grill, Gary, Krystal, and Delilah in the shot. Gary shot out of his seat, tripped on a mangrove root and fell on his face. Garrison turned to run. Delilah snapped her fingers and pointed at the fleeing photographer.

"Get him!"

Krystal sprang from her seat and ran into the jungle whooping. Garrison's pith helmet looked like a flying saucer fleeing through the trees. He tripped and sprawled. Krystal landed on his back with a blood-curdling shriek, ripped off the helmet and put him in a choke hold. She got off, waited for him to revive, pulled him to his feet with a wrist lock and marched him back into the camp. When they got back, Delilah had changed into a turban and ground length leopard pattern dashiki. She looked up from her seat with disdain.

"Sit your cracker ass down."

Garrison sat in the folding lawn chair Gary placed for him. Delilah pointed at her kohled black eyes.

"I am a shaman of the Calusa. I'm the seventh daughter of the seventh son. We have the right to kill the leopard on our sacred hunting grounds. DO YOU DISPUTE ME?"

Garrison eeped and fell over backward.

"I'm a witchee woman and an oracle. The panther has been terrorizing my people for a hundred years. The panther has killed our livestock and our children. We have prayed to our sacred gods and asked for guidance. In the middle of the hurricane, our gods spoke to me, and told me that the only way to rid ourselves of its curse was to bring in the one man who could kill it. The man who caught the biggest python in Florida history. The man who killed the biggest feral hog in Florida history. The man who caught Serial Killer to the Stars and plastic surgeon Doctor Vanderlay Mukerjee!"

"Delilah," Gary said. "Psst."

She turned on him furious. "What?"

"It's Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer."

"Whatever. And you have performed your duty nobly. Now, one final step remains to excise the curse. And that is to partake of the flesh of this demon panther. It is a sacred ritual. You have arrived at the right time. We are willing to let you participate in the ceremony, but you must make a blood oath to never speak of it to anyone."

Garrison gaped. "Seriously?"

Delilah drew a twelve-inch blade from a sheath strapped to her calf. "Very few white men are chosen to participate. In fact, you're the second. Only this man, Gary Duba, has proven worthy. We know Duba's character. We do not know yours. But by taking the ancient oath, and consuming the flesh of the panther, you will become one of us. You will become a Calusa. What say you?"

SIXTEEN

GARRISON TAKES A POWDER

Garrison stared at the blade. "What does the blood oath entail?"

Delilah drew the blade across her left palm leaving a red streak. She flipped the blade, caught it by the handle and offered it butt first. Gary and Krystal hunched forward in their chairs, hands on knees.

"Did, uh, did these fine people take the blood oath?"

"Laws, yes."

"And, uh, you know, could we at least disinfect the blade first?"

Gary picked up the shine and poured it over the gleaming blade. Garrison looked around nervously. He took the blade. Eyes squeezed shut, he drew the blade across his left palm, opened his eyes, and fainted. When he woke, he was lying on one of the cheap plastic chaise lounges, Delilah standing over him. Her smile turned down at the corners.

Garrison blinked uncertainly. "What happened?"

"You fainted."

He looked at his hand and blanched. His palm was full of blood.

Mosquitoes buzzed in the twilight. An orange glow shone through the trees to the west.

Delilah extended her left hand. Garrison had no choice. If he didn't comply, these hillbillies would kill him and eat him. She pulled him to his feet.

"Do you solemnly swear, by Razzmatazz, Guilfoyle, and Rihuli, that you will heed the diktats of the sacred council, never betray your brothers and sisters of the Calusa Tribe, and observe the sacred protocols?"

"What are the protocols?"

Delilah counted them off on her fingers. "No eggplant. When the light turns green, you go. Shower daily. Never spit in a man's face unless his beard is on fire. Thou shalt not put ketchup on your hot dog. Bacon must be fried to a crisp. No white after Labor Day..."

Garrison fumbled in his safari jacket and pulled out a pen and pad. "Would you start again, please?"

"Eight. No kimchee. Nine. No mayonnaise. It might be simpler to just give you the book."

"What book?" Krystal said.

"THE BOOK! Go get it."

Krystal went inside and turned on the lights. Two bookshelves met at one of the six corners. With no internet, Krystal had looked at all the titles. She pulled what she wanted and presented it to Garrison.

"Random Acts of Badness by Donnie Bonaduce?"

"It is our alpha and omega."

Gary placed seared panther steaks on a platter. They weren't so much steaks. More like strips. They sat at the picnic table and passed the shine. Gary dropped two panther strips on Garrison's paper plate. Delilah put her hands together and bowed her head.

"Great panther who lives in the sky, look after your people the Calusa, and imbue us with your strength and courage."

"And thank you," Gary added. "Thank you for ending the abomination that was The Curse of Oak Island."

"Excuse me," Garrison said. "Didn't you just tell me the panther had been terrorizing the tribe?"

"That was before we killed it. Look here. Do you intend to take this seriously, or do I have to put a curse on you?"

Garrison blanched. "Believe me, I'm taking this very seriously. I think there might be potential in exploring the Calusa for the History Channel. We would like to hear more about your history and customs."

Delilah slammed her Bowie knife into the table so hard it quivered. "Not one word," she hissed.

Garrison shrank. "Of course. Of course not."

Delilah pointed at his plate. "Try the panther."

Gingerly, Garrison sawed off a portion and put it in his mouth. He chewed gamely. He chewed and he chewed. He looked like a snake swallowing an apple. "Delicious," he croaked.

Delilah shoved a Mason jar across the table. "Try the shine."

Garrison looked around fearfully, picked it up and sipped. He hacked, sputtering. "Delicious," he croaked.

"Say, Garrison!" Gary said, "I might be able to help ya with your invasive species. I bagged the largest python in Florida history, you know."

"Yes, I've been thinking of devoting a segment to you."

"I got my own show. I already got the royals booked."

"What royals?"

"The Duke and Duchess of Ducats."

"Seriously?"

"Oh, hell yeah! We got our trailer from them. He used to be my renter 'til they went all Hollywood. Now the Duchess gonna play Captain Megastar."

"Really, I'd prefer to concentrate on invasive species."

Gary dropped a panther chop on Garrison's plate. "You wanna talk invasive? Used to have an iguana restaurant. The Lizard Lounge. We served nothing but invasive species. Nutria, cassowary, you name it."

Garrison stared at his plate. "What's a cassowary?"

"Giant wingless bird from Australia! My gal Krystal fought Cassowary last year, only it was a bush woman who took the name, but she was a bitch on wheels; ain't that right, girl?"

"Sure was," Krystal said with her mouth full. "I can still smell her pomade."

"Now she's fighting Javelina."

Delilah looked up. "You don't like the panther?"

Garrison looked down. He hiccoughed. His gorge rose. He ran from the picnic table into the woods and upchucked.

Delilah waved her knife. "The interloper has rejected the food of the gods! He must become the food of the gods!"

She pointed her knife at the jungle. "What are you waiting for?"

Gary looked up. "You're kidding, right?"

Delilah smiled. "I think he'll keep his mouth shut."

"I was gonna tell him about the giant Mekong catfish."

"Shut up about the stupid catfish!" Krystal snapped.

Delilah looked at her. "What catfish?"

"This fool thinks he talks to a giant catfish every night."

"Leotis ain't been wrong yet!"

"You talk to a giant catfish?"

"Yeah. And he told me I would be visited by three harbingers: a bat, a rabbit, and a turtle. I already done checked the first two off my list. What do you got to say to that, little lady?"

Krystal looked away in disgust. "You moron."

Gary appealed to Delilah. "Well how 'bout it, witchee woman? Let's do a seance and find out who's telling the truth!"

"All right. Let's go to the table."

Krystal and Gary followed Delilah inside where she sat at the round maple table, inlaid with mother of pearl, bones and shark teeth in a pentagram. They pulled up rickety wood chairs. It was dark now. Delilah turned off the lights and lit five candles at the corners of the pentagram.

Delilah retrieved the panther head and set it in the center of the table, buzzing with flies.

"Seriously?" Krystal said.

"Join hands."

As they held each other's hands, Delilah spoke to the buzzing skull in a low voice and strange tongue. She lifted her head, eyes shut, and ululated at the darkened skylights.

She bowed her head and muttered. Her head snapped up, eyes fixed on Gary.

"Two of the harbingers have already contacted you. Tell me about them."

"Well you know about that danged rabbit. His name's Rodell Grosz. He told me to look in the backpack and that's where I found the comic."

"What backpack?"

Gary told her about the parachutist.

Delilah turned the color of milk chocolate. "Was his name Immanuel Elvarez?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"It is foretold in the ancient prophecies. He is the harbinger. You can expect a visit from the Bolivarians."

SEVENTEEN

ENORMITY

Too stoned and drunk to drive, Gary slept on a futon on the floor while Krystal slept on the sofa. He woke to a rooster standing on his chest crowing in his face. Gary swept it away.

Krystal sat up on the sofa. "What was that?"

Gary pointed at the rooster. "How'd that get in here?"

Krystal pointed up. One of the skylights was propped open.

"So, this fucking rooster flies up on the roof to come down here and scream in my face?!"

Delilah appeared over the rail of her loft clutching a quilt. "Oh, that's just Rufus. Don't mind him."

"I wouldn't mind if he didn't stand on my chest and scream in my face!"

"Girl, I'll whip up some scrambled eggs and sausage and then we hit the trail!"

Gary hung around for breakfast, got in his truck and booked. The events of last night seemed like a hallucination. He was in enough trouble without being charged with the Endangered Species Act. He didn't think Garrison would spill the beans, but you never knew. Delilah could always pull that First Peoples' card. Made Gary think about the casino and trying his luck. There was the Seminole Brighton, the Seminole Hard Rock, and the Miccosukee down in Miami. Gary knew his way around a deck of cards. He played Texas Hold 'em and five card stud. He'd won hundreds of dollars off Floyd and some others over the years, but he was no card shark.

He'd ask Leotis.

Gary wound through dense vegetation for twenty minutes before the road straightened out between saw grass, cattails, and low mangrove on either side, flat as a cookie sheet, ending hundreds of yards away in splurge of green furze. The sky was blue with heavy clouds gathering in the east. It was hurricane season. Muriel was gathering her skirts down near the Bahamas. Gary had to put on the house suspenders. He'd do it as soon as he got home. He'd call Floyd. An egret erupted from the gorse.

Gary twisted the knob until he found Hank Williams Jr. singing "A Country Boy Can Survive". Hank really hit those bass notes. The whole truck shook. The ground rumbled. The road disappeared beneath the front tires and the truck dove headfirst into a sinkhole. Gary slid toward the center of the earth, watching in amazement as rocks, sand, bones, and loam crumbled with him. The truck stopped twenty feet down, front bumper jammed in the sediment. He turned off the engine. He barely had room to climb out through the window.

He stood on the cab. No way was he going to scramble out of this thing. He'd have to rig a grappling hook and use rope from the toolbox. Sinkholes were common. Four years ago, one opened up at the intersection of 4th and Wooster in Turpentine and it took the city two weeks to fill it in and pave it over.

It was dark in the hole. Gary slithered back into the truck and retrieved his magnum and a flashlight from the glove compartment. He crawled out and shined it on the earthen wall. He plucked a shark tooth from the mud. It was four inches long. He put it in his pocket. People paid big money for shark teeth. He searched the walls more carefully, pocketing four teeth.

When he worked his way round to the back, something gleamed white in the flashlight beam. Gary inspected more closely. A massive jawbone.

"Lord O' Mighty," Gary said, "I found a dinosaur."

He cleared densely packed sand and loam from the sides with his hands, revealing a foot and a half of fearsome bone. The head had to be five feet. Who knew how long it lay concealed beneath the surface? A single tooth was six inches long. He rocked it back and forth with both hands until it popped loose. He stuck it in his hip pocket.

Gary took pictures with his phone. Nobody used the road but Delilah and the occasional wanderer like Garrison Gland. Gary had to get out of there, return to civilization, and conceal his find. It lay on Seminole tribal land! He might have to cut Delilah in on the deal! But first he had to get out. The truck bed was filled with sand and rubble. Gary laboriously cleared it away with his hands until he could unlock the metal toolbox. Inside he kept fifty feet of good hemp, a spade, crowbar, pick, hammer, screwdrivers, clamps, duct tape, WD40, vise grips, Gorilla Glue and two boxes of ammo.

Now he needed a grappling hook. He tied one end of the rope around the crowbar, which ended in a big hook. He stood on the cab, but when he tried to whirl the crowbar to get up some speed, it kept hitting the walls or banged into the truck.

He underhanded the crowbar which arced over the edge and fell back in. He arced it to the side. If only he could get it far enough to hit the ditch, it would latch onto some mangrove roots. An hour later, he burrowed back into the cab, found a half full bottle of water and glugged. If someone didn't come along soon, he would be stuck there for hours. He leaned on the horn until the battery started to wane. There was a rancid pack of beef jerky in the glove compartment.

He returned to hurling the crowbar until finally, it held firm. Wearing leather gloves, Gary pulled himself up and out, emerging from the sinkhole like a mole man, covered with sweat and grime. Sitting on the ground cross-legged with a pack of Oreos in his lap was the victim of the alien abduction, a short man with a big nose and thick glasses, still wearing suit pants and a filthy white shirt. Gary collapsed in the dirt. Mosquitoes zeroed in. The man nibbled an Oreo.

"Didn't you hear me honking my horn?"

"Aren't you the man who passed me when I was begging for help by the side of the road?"

A wave of shame washed over Gary. "Yeah, you got me. All I can say, I had enough of this alien shit. I don't want to hear about it. You been hanging out here since we passed you yesterday?"

"Living off berries and saw palmetto trunks."

"Where'dja get those cookies?"

"Found 'em. Like they fell from an airplane or something. They're all broken up. Want some?"

Gary held out his hand. The man passed the Oreos.

"Gary Duba."

"Bruce. Dave Bruce."

"Tell me about the aliens."

"They're eight feet tall with four arms and tusks."

"You're describing Green Martians."

"Is that what they are? Have you been abducted?"

"No, numb nuts. You're describing the Martians from John Carter of Mars. I had all the comics."

Bruce deflated, tented his hands and looked down. "I wasn't abducted. I was just practicing."

"For what?"

"The Ferd Ludlow Show."

Gary laughed. "What's the big deal?"

"Ferd told me I couldn't come back unless I came up with some new material."

"Are you telling me the Ferd Ludlow Show is faked?"

"It's all lies."

Gary's head swam. "I can't..."

"What happened to you?"

"Sinkhole."

Bruce went to the hole and looked down. "Cor, that is wedged in there. Gonna take a construction crane to get it out."

"I ain't got jack shit."

"Come on. I'll give you a ride."

EIGHTEEN

SUCH SWEET SORROW

As they rolled down the gravel road in Bruce's Nissan Leaf, Bruce punched the CD player, the Taylor Swift warbling "You Belong To Me".

"Now that's country," Bruce declared.

"That ain't country."

"Excuse me, how is that not country? Number four on Hot Country Songs!"

"She's about as country as crepes suzettes! All she sings about are her ex-boyfriends!"

"That's country!"

"None of her ex-boyfriends are country! What does a Brit even know about country? Now Carrie Underwood, she's country. Miranda Lambert! Country!"

"Miranda Lambert?"

"Country."

"I piss on Miranda Lambert!"

"Fuck you!"

The car slid to a halt. "Get out."

"What?"

"You heard me! I offer you a ride into town and this is how you repay me?"

Feeling a storm surge in his gut, Gary threw the door open and got out. The Leaf sprayed gravel as it fishtailed down the road. Gary pulled out his phone. He might as well have been on the moon. He fingered his gun. No telling what might come out of the swamp. He would have told Garrison about the hippos if he'd hung around.

His finances looked like the aftermath of a tidal wave, wreckage and debris as far as the eye could see. The IRS was on his ass for seven hundred and fifty thou. They'd shut off the cable. The only reason the electricity was still on was because the Royal Couple had paid a year in advance. Onward he trudged, lonely and put-upon. He watched an alligator cross the road. For a split second, its head disappeared into the grass on the left while its tail remained hidden in the grass on the right. All that showed was a four-legged green cylinder.

Whooping, Gary sprinted and leaped, clearing it by two feet. Onward he trudged. The Ford was totaled. They had no health insurance. It was six weeks until Javelina. Then he remembered the Detective Comic! But where to sell? He needed top dollar. Billy Bob was out. The comic shops were out. Those poor bastards were lucky to stay in business. That left eBay, certain auction sites, and nostomania.com. eBay was rife with Chads and Karens waiting, nay, eager to renege on a deal, demand their money back, bitch about the quality and delivery time, and call you a scumbag.

He could borrow Rodell's rabbit suit and hold up a liquor store.

Then he remembered the joint in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was laced with acid. Floyd gave it to him.

Hands on hips, Gary surveyed the lush landscape, nothing but swamp, saw grass, mangrove and cyprus far as the eye could see. A crane stood on white leg like a piece of origami. Dragonflies buzzed the swamp. Gary lit the doobie. Smoke hung in the air as mosquitoes circled. He grabbed his hat and swung it nunchuk style.

"Yeah! Hai!" He morphed into a low karate stance and struck the air. "Strike first! Strike hard!"

He got dizzy and spiraled down to the road, sitting on a thorn and rising like a Trident missile.

"Whoop!" he whooped. He trucked down the road R. Crumb style, feet in front, leaning back. He fell on his ass. Godzilla rose above the trees to east, towering eight hundred feet above the tree line.

Gary plucked two pussy willows from the marshes and held them up in a cross. "NOT TODAY, GODZILLA!"

He was sweating like a pig. He had an urge to throw himself in the swamp. With his luck, water moccasins, gators, python and leeches would latch onto his body.

The world's worst ear worm played in his head. It had no beat. The melody was ugly, like bad stripper music. It crawled around smashing into things like an armored caterpillar. He tried to summon other, better ear worms but nothing would come. He slapped himself. Woah. Fucking Godzilla. Couldn't take a hint. Gary gathered rocks and hurled them at the monster, taunting him from beyond the fringe.

"GET OUTTA HERE! WE DON'T NEED YOUR KIND!"

Godzilla looked hurt. Turning away, Godzilla wiped a tear from its eye. Godzilla thrunched off into the swamp leaving silo-sized footprints.

Now Gary felt bad. He hadn't meant to hurt Godzilla's feelings. On he walked, reading signs and portents in the gravel, the saw grass, the ripples. It seemed as if he'd been walking all his life. Clouds began to gather.

"Fucking Muriel, man," he muttered. "What did I ever do to her?"

The turgid clouds rolled toward him in slo-mo. He came to a squiggle in the road. The Army Corps of Engineers who'd built the road during World War II, had done their best to lay a straight line, but sinkholes or Indian mounds forced some deviation. Here, the road circled a coral mound rising six feet above the water, topped with a dense crown of cypress and coconut palms. Gary followed the rutted gravel clockwise. He had just reached nine when he heard soft bellowing. Snap! Karate stance!

"Gary," lowed at him from a dense stand of cypress and pond apple.

"Is that you, Godzilla?" Although he was alone, Gary spoke softly, fearful of offending the ancient spirits.

The grass parted, tips of white horns appeared, followed by Tallywhacker, bold and black as a steer can be. "Gary, it's your friend Tallywhacker. They're after me, Gary."

"Who's after you?"

"The aliens. The ones I told you about. I've said too much! They're planning to obliterate the Earth."

"Why?"

"The broadcasts! They warned you about the broadcasts! You promised to stop showing episodes of The Curse of Oak Island! But it's still happening! And What's Your Problem? It's driving them mad!"

"I'm only one man, Tallywhacker. I can only do so much."

"You have three million followers, man! Get on the horn! Warn them! Send them into the streets! Arm them with pitchforks and torches and have them march on NBC, ABC, CBS and all the rest!"

Tallywhacker hunched. He looked fearful. "It's too late for me, my friend. They're coming. Save yourself! Hide!"

The air hummed. The hairs on the back of Gary's neck stood up. His eardrums throbbed. He bolted into the thicket on top of the cone and lay among the weeds, enduring mosquito bites, saw grass cuts, and army ants crawling up his crotch.

The humming grew. The lowering clouds parted. A glowing saucer descended, hovering over the cowering bull as a giant iris opened in its belly emitting a golden glow. The tube of light surrounded the great bull who rose slowly into the air until its hooves disappeared and the iris snapped shut. The saucer tilted and spun into the sky with a cartoon whoosh, leaving a cartoon after image.

NINETEEN

THAT AIN'T COUNTRY

The clouds parted. It was a beautiful day with the sun beating down as Gary resumed his trek. Ahead, shimmering in the heat like a mirage, lay David Bruce's Leaf, hood open. David Bruce leaned against the back of his car, watching Gary through dark sunglasses.

"Did you see it?" Gary said.

"See what?"

"The saucer! It came out of the clouds and snatched up Tallywhacker!"

"Who's Tallywhacker?"

"A robot bull. He was invaded by alien multiple personalities. Then he took over the Church of Necroeconomics. Then he ran for governor. Therapy can't help everyone. I fear he was eating locoweed. Now he's a victim of alien abduction."

"You think that's funny?"

"That's the God's honest truth."

"You think because I 'fessed up and told you the truth, you're gonna hold that over my head?"

"Dude, I don't even know you!"

"Let me see your eyes."

Bruce peered at Gary's pinpoint pupils.

"You're tripping."

"I smoked a little reefer soaked in acid. Want some?" Gary reached in his pocket and took out the two-inch doobie. They lit up. Bruce looked around.

"Christ we're vulnerable here."

"Let's get moving."

"And abandon my car?"

"Outta juice?"

"Obviously."

"Can't be more than ten miles to Highway Eighty."

"Yeah okay."

Bruce rummaged around in the Leaf's back seat and handed Gary a bottled water. Gary drained it. They walked side by side in silence.

Bruce put his fingers to his face and flung them away. "Swooosh!"

"This is snake country."

"Snake country. Don't talk to me about snake country."

"What do you know about snake country?"

"I know we're surrounded by water moccasins and Burmese pythons!"

"I caught the largest python in Florida history."

"Bullshit."

"It's a fact, Jack. You can look it up. Gary Duba. Largest python in Florida History. I won a hundred grand."

"What happened to the money?"

"I spent it."

"Bullshit."

"It's true. I cut its head off with a samurai sword, then I hadda duct tape it back on to claim the reward. What do you do for a living?"

"I'm an insurance adjuster."

"Bullshit!"

"Why would you doubt me?"

"'Cuz you don't got the good sense God gave a green apple!"

"Least my truck isn't down a hole!"

They marched.

"Sorry I bad-mouthed Taylor Swift."

"She's not for every taste."

"Me, I like the classics. Old Hank, Merle, Tammy, Loretta, and Roger McGuinn."

"Who?"

"Roger McGuinn! The Byrds! Hey Mr. Tambourine Man!"

"That's Dylan."

"Yeah, but the Byrds hit it out of the park and that's the version that's remembered."

"I never even heard of the Byrds."

"You're joshing."

"Fuck if I am."

Gary stopped. "Just go on then. Go on. I don't want to have a thing to do with you."

"Fine."

Gary crossed his arms and watched as Bruce dwindled in the distance. When the fake abductee was a half mile ahead, Gary resumed his march.

Twenty minutes later he reached Eighty. Bruce stood on the north side, thumbing west. Gary stood on the south side thumbing east. Bruce crossed the road, stood a hundred feet to the west and stuck out his thumb.

"Hey! I was here first!"

"Sod off! I can go any way I want!"

Gary grimly marched up the highway, shoved Bruce into the road and continued on until he was further east. He stuck out his thumb. Bruce rushed him, butted him in the gut and put Gary on his back. They wrestled in the drainage ditch, scraping their skin on discarded cans and bottles. A snake slithered away in disgust. Gary grabbed an empty beer bottle and bounced it off Bruce's skull. Bruce reached for Gary's testicles. A Hendry County cruiser pulled to the shoulder with a whoop and a huge man wearing a Smoky hat got out.

Gary and Bruce stopped fighting. The Smoky looked down on them like King Kong. A badge on his chest said Stallings. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, officer. Just a friendly dispute."

"Let's see some identification."

Bruce produced his wallet. He forked over his license and a business card. "For all your insurance needs."

Gary produced his driver's license. Stallings turned toward his cruiser. "You boys stay right here."

"Shit," Bruce said. "I gotta pick up my bird at six."

"What bird?"

"This bird I've been seeing since my wife ran off."

"She ran off?"

"Cunt run off with a liquor wholesaler."

"Now that's country!"

They bopped fists. A produce truck full of Mexicans passed heading east. A boy in a Renk seed cap stuck out his tongue and drew his finger across his throat.

The sun beat down. Mosquitoes buzzed. Stallings trudged down the shoulder to them.

"Mr. Duba, we have a complaint that you killed a Florida panther."

"That's bullshit, officer! I know who made that complaint. Did you actually meet that motherfucker? He makes Randy Quaid look rational!"

"Mr. Duba, I'm aware of your contributions to the community and I think I speak for all law enforcement in thanking you for apprehending Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee. I'm inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt. What the hell are you two doing out here anyway?"

"My truck sank, and his Leaf croaked."

"All right. I'm going to give you a ride into town. God, you stink. You're covered with garbage, stale beer, blood and Christ knows what else. First let me spread some newspaper over the back seat. Then I'll call you boys over. I'll give you a ride into Turpentine and you can call whomever to come get you. Now, Mr. Duba, we are required by law to inform any possible violations of the Endangered Species Act to the Department of Natural Resources, so you can expect a call from them one of these days. You were previously charged with killing a whooping crane."

"I was aimin' at the gator! I was trying to save its life!"

"All I'm saying, where there's smoke, there's fire. You boys wait here."

The trooper returned to his ride, opened the shotgun door, took out a copy of the Miami Herald, spread it around the rear seat and motioned them over.

Bruce got in the left side. Gary got in the right. Bruce pointed. "There's something stuck to your bum."

Gary pulled an eight and a half by eleven pale blue sheet from the seat of his jeans.

MONSTER TRUCKS

OVER $50,000 IN PRIZES

HENDRY COUNTY FAIR

THIS WEEKEND

TWENTY

FORTUNE FAVORS THE BRAVE

It was five o'clock by the time Stallings dropped Gary off on Weldon Way, three miles from his home. Gary set out. He was hungry, thirsty, and covered with filth. As he approached the Wokenoki Trailer Park, a feral hog poked its snout out of the bushes.

"Don't even start," Gary snarled. The hog withdrew.

A rental Ford sat in Gary's yard, a middle-aged man with a Stalin mustache, wearing neatly creased khakis and a matching button-down shirt sat in a chair on the deck. He rose as Gary approached.

"Mr. Duba?"

"Yeah."

The man stepped down into the yard and offered his hand. "Onyx Lorenzoni, Venezuelan Cultural Affairs Commissioner. We love your show. You have many followers in Venezuela. The President is a big fan!"

They shook. "We'd love to have him on the show, Onyx! What's his name?"

"Elfuncio Quetzacoatl. He is an enthusiastic outdoors man and hunter. He greatly admires your achievements. The python, the massive puerco..."

Gary went up the steps. "Can you hang while I take a shower? I smell like a drainage dish."

Lorenzoni grinned and grimaced. "Of course."

"Can I getcha a beer or something?"

"But of course."

Gary went inside, grabbed a bottled Dixie, gave it to the commissioner and took a shower. He put on fresh blue jeans and a Yosemite Sam shirt, grabbed a beer and went back out.

"What's up?"

Lorenzoni gazed at the dense undergrowth. "Have you seen any skydivers or parachutists around here?"

"No. Why would I?"

"From time to time the Venezuelan special forces conduct clandestine training exercises around here and we are missing a man. Several days ago, we tracked him to this peninsula but then his transmitter went silent. His name is Immanuel Elvarez. He is a highly decorated soldier with a wife and two small children in Caracas. They are very concerned. El Presidente himself sent me here to search for him."

Lorenzoni showed Gary a picture on his phone. "Have you seen him?"

"Nope, sorry. We don't get a lot of skydivers around here. This here's private property, you know."

"Yes. I understand. The wind blew him off target. Is it possible he landed somewhere on the property and has not yet been discovered?"

"Do you mean like he pancaked?"

"Yes, that is what I mean."

"Well, I dunno. If he came down in the swamp, the gators may have got him. Or the hogs. Out here by the swamp, fresh meat don't last long."

"Would it be possible to search the property? To provide closure for his family."

Gary racked his brain. Had they left anything behind? The parachute? A boot? He felt bad about Elvarez's family, if there was a family. Lorenzoni might just be throwing smoke. He knew what the Venezuelan wanted. He wanted the comic and the blow. But why would they send a single agent in a night jump carrying, maybe, a couple keys of blow and an old comic?

"Sure. Look out for water moccasins, gators, feral hogs, and pythons."

"I have a pistola in the car."

"Don't shoot no whooping cranes or panthers."

"I'll be careful. Will you be here when I get back?"

"Most likely. Stop by and tell me what you found."

Gary watched Lorenzoni open the trunk of his rental, remove a holster and strap it to his belt. He put on a wide-brimmed hat, slipped into a backpack, and headed into the brush. Gary called Floyd.

"Floyd, my truck's stuck twenty feet down a sinkhole in Big Cypress. Gonna need a construction crane to get 'er out."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Thought you might know someone."

"Ax Habib. Chris Tottenham is one of his clients."

"Who dat?"

"Big developer. He's in hot water for destroying habitat reserved for the lower keys marsh rabbit."

"Marsh rabbit?"

"That's right."

"Can you come over and give me a lift into town?"

"I'm on a job here, hoss. I'll call you when I'm done."

Gary had to get the comic out of the house. He had to bring in some bucks to salvage his truck and his reputation. He called Habib. Brenda answered.

"Habib's in court, Gary. I'll tell him you called."

He called Pincus.

"Pincus, can you help me sell Detective Comics #27? It's worth a cool mil! I'll give you fifteen per cent."

"Let me look that up and get back to you, Mr. Duba."

Lorenzoni had been gone forty-five minutes. Gary decided to look for him. He took his magnum in case he encountered feral hogs or another panther. He owned five acres, left to him by his father, encompassing swamp inlets and dense sub-tropical growth including saw grass, mangrove, cypress, plum apple trees, and cattails.

He doused himself with Off, put on his Dolphins cap and waffle stompers, and headed into the brush, following a narrow game trail pioneered by feral hogs. He came to the spot where they found the body. It had rained since then, and the hogs held an orgy. The site was unrecognizable. A flicker of movement in the swamp to his left. Picking his way carefully among the saw grass, Gary came to the brackish water where an eighteen-foot python was swallowing Lorenzoni, with a water moccasin attached to his calf. Lorenzoni was a goner, up to his waist headfirst. Soon his pockets would disappear. Gary pulled his knife, waded into the water, and cut off the Venezuelan's holster, cut the pockets and pulled out his wallet and keys.

The python didn't notice.

Gary slapped the holster on his belt, returned to the clearing and unlocked the rental. Lorenzoni's passport was in the glove compartment. In the trunk were five kilos of cocaine and a copy of Zap Comix #0.

Gary stashed the comic in the house, cleaned the vehicle of any personal items, drove five miles on rutted hunting trails to a place where the swamp lay over a sink hole, put the vehicle in neutral, and pushed it into the water. Glub.

By the time he got home, his clothes were soaked.

TWENTY-ONE

PENNIES FROM HEAVEN

Pincus called. "Gary, if you can overnight your comic to nostomania.com in Madison, Wisconsin, they can guarantee eight hundred thousand dollars. Do not use the Post Office. Use Fed Ex and make sure you insure it."

"Thanks, Pincus! I won't forget!"

"You don't have to pay me, Mr. Duba."

"I will soon's as I get some cash."

Gary showered, changed, retrieved the sacred comic from the attic and stopped. How was he going to get to FedEx? He called Floyd.

"What?"

"You still gassing?"

"Belmont Holistic Pest Control. All-natural ingredients that have no harmful effect on the environment."

"Listen. I need a ride to FedEx. Can you help me out?"

"Man, I'm beat. I've been wearing a hazmat suit all day."

"What happened to the all-natural ingredients?"

"Some of those ingredients are highly toxic! Arsenic's one of your basic elements! You can look it up."

"Come on, man. Do this for me and I'll give you a nice Taurus G3. It's clean." Gary drew the pistol and sniffed. Clean.

"What size?"

Gary stared down the muzzle. "Looks like a nine."

"Shit. Those only cost three hundred bucks."

"It's clean. No registration."

"Where'dja get it?"

"I'll tell ya when I see ya."

Gary heard Floyd thinking over the phone.

"Okay. I'll be there in a half hour."

"Great. You can buy me dinner."

Gary went in the bathroom and admired his pompadour. He stood a good chance of winning the mullet contest. Of course, there were a lot of mullets in Hendry, and some were formidable. Gary brushed his hair back, added a touch of Krystal's seibella oil, and brushed it to a lustrous glow. He turned sideways, hands on hips, admiring the way the back perked up like a NASCAR spoiler. He drew his palms back across his shaved sides. Yassir. He was the human equivalent of a Dodge Challenger.

However, it was the palmetto bug eating contest that intrigued him. He'd eaten bugs before. He'd won twenty bucks in high school eating a palmetto bug. It wasn't so bad. Of course, he was plastered and flying. He'd starve himself the day before. He'd bring his own sauce.

He filled a backpack. Binoculars, clean Tee-shirt, clean socks, knife, leather gloves.

A car horn sounded. Floyd was waiting in his shiny red Viper. Gary flew down the steps clutching his backpack. Gary put his hand on the car sill and leaped into the passenger seat, smashing his nuts on the belt buckle.

"Ouch! Fuck!"

"Careful! I just picked it up last week!"

"Bug biz be good!"

"Bug biz be boomin'. Let me see the Taurus."

Gary opened the backpack between his feet and pulled out the Taurus in pancake holster. Floyd pulled it out and cleared the chamber. The discarded cartridge struck Gary on the temple.

"Ow!"

Floyd dropped the magazine, jammed it back in, took a two-handed grip and swept the perimeter.

"Wha'd I say? It's a clean piece."

"Okay."

"I got some blow for ya too. I'm afraid to give it all to you at once 'cuz you know how you get."

"How much?"

"I'll give you a key."

"Holy shit. I know a dude who'll buy that."

"Will he buy five?"

"Let's go."

Floyd put the Viper in gear, revved, popped the clutch, and executed a stationary one eighty, spraying gravel and mud everywhere. They roared down Weldon Way sending turkey buzzards flapping. The Viper rumbled over roadkill like a Tommy Lee solo. They swooshed by the Wokenoki Trailer Park. They hit the highway and headed into town. The Fed Ex was on the west side in a strip mall with a liquor store, a shoe store, a coin-op laundry and a free-standing Chipotle.

"What's so important you got to overnight it?"

"I'll show ya when you stop."

Floyd pulled into the lot, parking at an angle across two spaces. Gary unwound a legal binder and withdrew a stiff plastic rectangle. Floyd gazed at the image of the primitive Batman swooping across the rooftops.

"I don't get it."

"Dude! That's the first appearance of the bat guy! It's worth a cool mil!"

"It's worth a mil and I'm buying you dinner?"

"Who bought your van?"

"Whaddaya gonna do with it?"

"Sending it to some dude in Wisconsin who can get eight hundred thou for it."

"I thought you said it was worth a mil."

"I need money now."

"I getcha."

Gary went inside, had them package it in a big box, insured it for a hundred thou.

"Sorry," said the young man with dishwater hair, a pale yellow shirt and a green tie. "That's as high as we can go."

"Fuck it. I need cash in hand. Let 'er rip!"

Gary used Lorenzoni's money. When he came out, Floyd was in the liquor store. He came out toting a cardboard box loaded with beer and bourbon. It barely fit in the Viper's trunk.

"Hey, let's go to that Qdoba."

They ordered beef burritos and sat outside in the paved courtyard.

Floyd sawed up his burrito. "How come you're suckin' air?"

"Man, the IRS is on my ass for seven hundred and fifty thou! I don't know where they get that, but Habib says I gotta pay up. The show was on hiatus 'cuz of the crud, but we're getting back together. The Duke and Duchess of Ducats are gonna be on."

"Fuck happened to your truck?"

"Sinkhole. Gonna need a crane to get 'er out. I discovered a new dinosaur."

"Huh?"

Gary reached in his pants pocket and pulled out the tooth. Floyd whistled, picked it up, held it like a dagger. "Holy shit! What do you think it is?"

"It's a Dubasaurus, brother. I'm thinking of selling it to the Florida Museum of Natural History. It would have its own wing. The Duba wing."

"Well how do you know it ain't a giant shark or somethin'? Like a megalodion?"

"Have you ever seen a tooth like that?"

"Just on that one gal."

"How am I gonna get my truck out of that hole? I have to guard the Dubasaurus. There's gonna be a rush of speculators and fast food franchises."

"You should talk to Habib. He repped Philmont Greister when that building collapsed."

"Who's Philmont Greister?"

"Developer." Floyd grimaced and tilted his hand. "Where'dja get the piece?"

"Okay. Remember I told you some dude pancaked in the trees?"

"Yeah. What's up with that?"

"Fuck if I know. He was carrying that comic in a backpack. I think he had some blow, too, but the hogs ate it and then they got all crazy."

"Venezuelan?"

"Yeah. But that ain't where I got the gun. I get home today, and some greaser's waiting for me on my front porch. Looks like one of those South American hit squads. Says he's a Venezuelan official and he's looking for his buddy. Never mind what these assholes are doing skydiving on my land. Asks if he can look around. Sure. Half hour later, I find him half et by a python, headfirst. That's where I got the gun."

Floyd stared dumbfounded.

TWENTY-TWO

PEACE SIGNS

It wasn't until Floyd dropped him off back at the swamp that Gary realized he had to see Habib. Gary borrowed the Duke's Raleigh ten speed and rode to the Law Offices of Habib Rodriguez. A billboard surmounted the building.

habib rodriguez.

we’ll get the job done one way or another.

you don’t pay a dime unless we collect.

your first consultation is free.

Gary brought the bike in with him. Two other clients waited patiently on the vacuum-formed hard plastic chairs, leafing through dog-eared copies of The American Lawyer, Justice Weekly, Guns & Ammo, and Road & Track. A woman of uncertain age wearing fishnet stockings, too much mascara, lipstick and a blonde wig spoke at her cell phone.

"You tell that motherfucker he'd better have that piece of shit out of my driveway by the time I get back or I'll have it towed! I will ream his ass with a piledriver. I will poke out both his eyes with a corkscrew! And be sure your little sister eats her breakfast."

The other was a black man with gray hair, wearing a worsted jacket and holding a cane between his knees. Habib's receptionist Brenda smiled when Gary entered.

"Put it behind my chair," she said.

Gary leaned the bike against the wall beneath a framed painting of alligators playing poker and took a seat. Habib came out of his office and looked to the man with the cane.

"Mr. Alphonze, come on in. Gary, I'll be with you shortly."

The woman set down her phone. "How come he gets to see you? I was here first."

"Mr. Alphonze has an appointment. You are a walk-in."

"What about this motherfucker over here? Is he a walk-in too?"

"Mr. Duba works for me."

"Listen. I got T-boned by a semi! My case is worth a million dollars. You want to see any of it, you'd better stop fuckin' around and treat me like a serious client."

"I intend to, ma'am."

Alphonze and Habib went into his office. The woman muttered and poked at her phone. Gary pulled out his phone and looked up Zap #0. He found a quote for a hundred and thirty thousand. Not too shabby. He picked up a copy of People. Actress Mona Tiefenbacher promised an epic gender reveal party for her baby. Survivor super star Hans Ludicrous described a harrowing six hours spent at the transportation department trying to renew his license.

Alphonze and Habib came out. Habib motioned Gary into his office.

"I ain't got all day!" the woman snarled.

Habib pointed to the door. "Try Anthony Legume. He's right down the street."

The woman rose, kicked over the magazine table and marched out, slamming the door behind her. Gary took a seat in Habib's office.

"Habib, my truck's down a sinkhole on the Big Cypress. I'll need a construction crane to get it out. You think maybe you could get Chris Tottenham to give me a hand?"

"Well Tottenham owes me a lot of money, but I was thinking of asking him to upgrade my beach cottage."

"Come on, man. You must have something you want me to do."

"In fact, there is a matter. I was thinking of calling you. I have a client who suspects his wife is cheating on him."

"Not another peep job!"

Habib spread his hands. "You want my help or not?"

"Who is it?"

"What I am about to tell you must be held in strict confidence."

"I ain't no snitch."

"The client's name is Waldo Wipperfurth."

"The news guy?"

"That's right. I will send you pictures of his wife, Rose Wipperfurth. Waldo thinks she's seeing a tennis pro named Harold Stanton, who works at the Cosgrove Country Club in Palm Beach."

"How soon you need it?"

"The sooner the better. I can give you Rose's and Stanton's home addresses. You'll have to follow them."

Habib reached in a drawer and removed a black box the size of a matchbox, with a magnet on one side. "This is a tracking device. I will send you the download for your phone. You will go to the club and attach this to her car. That way, you can follow her. I am also providing you with a drone. You know how to use it."

"How'm I gonna do that without a vehicle?"

Habib drummed his fingers on the table. "How did you get here?"

"Ten speed bike."

"I don't suppose..."

"No."

Habib sighed. "Can you drive a stick?"

Gary just stared at him with his mouth open.

"Okay. You can borrow Lonnie's Volkswagen."

"Who's Lonnie?"

"My boy. He's clerking for Justice Marion Starr in D.C. and doesn't use a car anymore. He says they're part of the death culture. It's at my place in Turpentine. I'll drop you off."

"Awright. Is it an old-fashioned Nazi bug, or is it one of those new-fangled blobby bugs?"

"It's a 1974 Volkswagen Beetle. I hope it starts."

"Yeah, okay. How soon do you think Tottenham can get my truck out?"

"I'll talk to him."

"Cuz down in the hole, I discovered a dinosaur." Gary reached in his pocket and tossed the tooth on Habib's desk. Habib picked it up.

"What the fuck?"

"Big, ain't it? I'm thinkin' whole new dino. Dubasaurus. Omma sell it to the Florida Museum of Natural History. They always got money for this sorta thing. Omma do a reveal party on my show when we dig the sucker out."

"Where did you find this?"'

"In the sinkhole."

"It it's on Seminole tribal land, it would rightfully belong to the Seminole."

"I found the fucking thing! How is it not mine?"

Habib sighed. "This is why you're always in hot water. You go running off half-cocked about something without knowing the facts. Even if you found this on your own property the state would likely declare it an important zoological discovery. They might compensate you for your time and efforts."

"Well, what's that worth?"

"Right now? Nothing. All you did was grab this tooth, and the state's not likely to look kindly on that. You're supposed to leave fossils intact."

"Now I'm pissed. I might just get my truck and to hell with the Dubasaurus! I risk my life to find this thing and this is how they treat me."

Habib looked at his watch. He went to the door. "Brenda, are we through?"

Brenda looked around the empty office. "Yes, Alphonze was your last appointment."

Habib turned to Gary. "Let's go."

They got in Habib's Denali and drove east on Eighty.

"You have a better shot of picking her up at the club. She's there most afternoons taking tennis lessons."

Habib lived in Pamplemousse, a gated community. He turned on the light in his three-car garage and peeled a tarp off a lime green VW bug with yellow peace signs on the doors. He grabbed a carbon fiber case off his workbench and put it in the passenger seat. "Here is the drone. You've already downloaded the app. It's all charged up. I'm texting you pictures and data. Get in and start 'er up."

"Are you shitting me?"

"What?"

Gary pointed to the peace signs.

"You want my help or not?"

TWENTY-THREE

WHO COULD POSSIBLY

Gary parked the bug of peace in an upscale shopping center featuring Abercrombie & Fitch, American Eagle, Banana Republic, J. Crew, Dillard's, Blue Martini and P.F. Chang's and walked the mile to the Cosgrove Country Club. He wore a yellow knit Lacoste shirt sporting an alligator, neatly creased Dockers, and Vans and looked like a caddy. He'd caddied for Tag Mooselung to get the goods on Chief Justice Wither Weatherspoon, who'd been screwing the gardener in the laundry room of his estate.

No one questioned Gary as he circumnavigated the low-slung clubhouse in his Master's Tournament cap. He spotted Rose's Lexus in the parking lot. Gary ambled over. When no one was looking, he stooped as if to tie his shoes and stuck the tracking device underneath the chassis. Standing outside the pro shop, he mingled with two caddies who were waiting for their clients.

"Howdy, boys. This is my first time at this club. How ya doing?"

A Cuban caddie with crew cut and hairline mustache wore a knit green shirt, Eusebio stitched on the breast in red. "It's all right. Depends on who you get. Last week, guy tipped me a hundred bucks."

The other caddy, a fresh-faced black youngster in khakis and a Cosgrove Tee, said, "Marv Albertson. How ya doin'?"

They shook. Gary introduced himself as Greg Dobbs, his caddie persona. "Where the tennis courts? I'm supposed to meet my guy there."

"Who's your guy?"

"Tag Mooselung."

They directed Gary to the tennis courts, the hurricane fencing overgrown with ivy. Gary spotted Rose as she slipped her racket into a vinyl case. An attractive brunette thirty-something in a pleated tennis skirt and knit Cosgrove shirt, she smacky-faced Harold Stanton and they headed for the clubhouse. Gary was out front when the two emerged. They walked to Rose's Lexus where they hugged and parted. Stanton returned to the clubhouse. Rose drove. It took Gary fifteen minutes to return to the parking garage, the banlon wicking sweat away. He climbed to the second level where he'd parked. Someone had left a hand-scrawled message under his wiper.

"Fuck you, hippy!"

He got in the car and turned on the tracking app. Rose headed north to Pahokee. Gary rolled down the ramps. Problem. No attendant. Everything automatic. Credit card only. He'd already received two threatening letters from the bank. The tab was only three dollars. Gary had three dollars but no way to give it to the damned machine. A Mercedes pulled up behind him. Gary slid out through the narrow gap allowed by the gate, walked back. A middle-aged man with a comb over raised his eyebrows.

"Sir, my tab is three dollars. I have it." He held up the bucks. "It only takes credit cards. I don't have it. If I give you the three dollars, will you use your credit card? Otherwise, I'm doomed to spend the rest of my life in here breaking into vehicles and foraging for food."

"And you are?"

"Gary Duba. I'm the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars…"

"...and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee!" the man finished with enthusiasm. He put his vehicle in park, walked up to the machine and inserted his card. "It's on me."

"Thank you, sir! What's your name? I'll give you a shout out."

The man handed Gary his card. Vernon Oswald. Real Estate.

The gate lifted. Gary pushed the aging bug as he zipped north on Eighty-Eight, the flat four thrashing like a cement mixer. A car with Massachusetts plates passed him, staying even for several seconds while a woman in the passenger seat snapped a picture, gave him the peace sign, and drove on.

Rose entered Fillbach Gardens, a gated community. Gary pulled over on the shoulder a hundred yards down and watched as vehicles entered and left. A uniformed guard occupied the gatehouse. Gary pulled the bug up a rutted mud path where the dense vegetation shielded it from traffic. He stripped off the yellow Lacoste shirt and put on a Belmont Pest Control shirt. Putting the drone in his backpack he bushwhacked through the saw grass until he saw billiard-smooth greensward through a hurricane fence through the trees. A clean demarcation. The jungle stopped. The grass started. Beyond lay lavish, five thousand square foot haciendas with stucco walls and red tile roofs, grounds decorated in royal palms, jasmine, and jacaranda.

Gary walked up to the fence. The jungle poked through. Gardeners and chemicals drew the line. He heard a lawn mower in the distance. He was behind a big house with the shutters drawn and no water in the pool. Putting on his leather gloves, Gary took a running start and boosted himself up and over the wall, landing in a crouch.

The app showed that Rose's Lexus was parked at 319 Brassia Orchid Drive. Hunkered behind a hedge, Gary studied a map of Fillbach Gardens. Like most such communities, it was laid out in loops with dead end courts radiating inside and out. Three nineteen Brassia Orchid lay at the back of the development, opposite the gate. It was ninety degrees out. The only human activity Gary saw was a Latino gardener on his knees with a trowel in front of the house across the street. Gary crawled through the gardens. He sought the confluence of two transfer boxes, which provided him one hundred and eighty degrees of cover.

He pulled out the four-prop drone and the control harness. Up went the drone, circling over the house, hovering a foot above a royal palm that lined the street, looking down on the front door. Arched door, stucco pots containing succulents, red flagstone path, a burbling fountain. Around the side, the open garage revealed a mud splattered Rav4. Rose's silver Lexus was behind it. Gary zoomed around back and looked in through an upstairs window. Rose and a man passed the narrow gap dropping their clothes. Even from fifty feet away Gary could hear the bed springs squeaking. He gave it five minutes, but the man didn't appear.

His best bet was to hang by the garage and see if the man revealed himself. Gary pulled a bottled water from the bag and chugged. Had he really seen a saucer grab Tallywhacker, or had he been tripping?

Where was the turtle?

What should he have for dinner?

Maybe Habib would let him keep the Beetle until he could get new wheels. Every cent he made from the show went to his creditors. Krystal had better win that fight. At least the money would be under her own name and the IRS couldn't touch it.

A door opened. Gary focused like a laser on the image in his hands as he raised the drone above the foliage, where it wouldn't be noticed, and zoomed in. Two figures emerged inside the garage. Rose stepped into the sunlight, holding hands and smiling.

Garrison Gland stepped into the sunlight.

TWENTY-FOUR

BIZARRE BAZAAR

With a hug and a kiss, Rose got in her car, backed up and headed out. Gary waited until Garrison went back in the house and shut the door. He pulled his Belmont Holistic Pet Services cap down and knocked on the door. Garrison opened it, his smile congealing into a rictus grin.

"Gary!"

"You fucking rat! You turned me in! You violated your sacred oath!"

Garrison turned white. He held his hands up and backed away, left palm showing a scar. "I had to! I was bound by my oath as naturalist and producer for the History Channel!"

Gary leveled the finger of doom and spoke in the voice of Mephisto, a late-night shlock horror host who showed shitty movies. "You have betrayed the sacred oath. Now Delilah's gonna curse you. Your balls are gonna shrivel to the size of marbles. You're gonna break out in warts and pimples. Your navel will disappear and reappear on the back of your neck. Every time you step outside, every mosquito, alligator, python, iguana, monitor lizard and red fire ant is gonna crawl up your ass. There won't be enough left to fill a thimble. Piles! Scabbies! Rosacea!"

Garrison looked like printer paper. As Gary advanced, Garrison retreated, cringing, through the kitchen into a dining room that had been turned into an office. A computer sat on the dining room table along with notebooks, books, and a sealed terrarium holding palmetto bugs.

"What the fuck is this?" Gary demanded.

"I'm doing a show on cockroach milk. It's the next big thing."

"You ain't from around here, are ya?"

"New Jersey, originally."

"Cuz no native Floridian calls 'em cockroaches. They're palmetto bugs, get it?"

"I see."

Gary hunkered down next to the glass. He was eyeball to eyeball with a two inch brown beetle. "How do you milk 'em?"

"You extract fluid from their bellies and crystallize it."

"Well hell! It must take you a week to get up to a glass of milk!"

"We're just studying it, but if we can learn to synthesize it, it could feed millions."

Gary jabbed his finger at his open mouth and made a gagging noise. He looked at the next terrarium. "What's with the frogs?"

"Not frogs, toads. Highly venomous. Licking a toad is equivalent to ingesting thirty milligrams of lysergic acid diethylamide."

"You mean like acid?"

"Exactly."

"Well who the fuck goes around licking toads?"

"You'd be surprised."

"You sell many of these?"

"I don't sell them. They're for research."

"Are they legal?"

"Yes. Toad licking is not illegal."

Over the credenza were dozens of photos, including one with Garrison and the governor.

"You know the governor?"

"I interviewed him for an episode. The cane toad."

"What about the cane toad?"

"'Toxic, Dog-Killing Toads Are Invading Florida. Here's How To Get Rid Of Them.' They secrete a milky white substance called bufotoxin. A dog or cat can get it just by sniffing. They'll be dead in fifteen minutes. Signs of poisoning include drooling, loss of coordination, head shaking and convulsions. If these signs appear, run water through the side of the mouth for ten minutes. But don't flush it down the throat. You have to angle the hose just so."

"What the fuck?! How'd they get here?"

"Nobody knows. They come from South America and have been found as far north as Texas. We think exotic pet purveyors or reptile stores may have brought a few in and they either escaped, or their owners turned them loose."

"Can I have a couple?"

"I can't. They're test subjects."

A long, curving white tusk occupied a corner, mounted in a brass stand.

"What the fuck is that?"

Garrison mumbled something.

"It's an elephant tusk, ain't it?"

"It's perfectly legal! My father gave it to me! He was a big game hunter!"

"Your father was a big game hunter?"

Garrison begged. "Please, I'm sorry I ever said anything! It's just that as a trained naturalist I felt obligated…"

"You were on tribal land observing a sacred tribal ritual! Didn't you get the memo, Jack? Tribal land, tribal laws! Does the History Channel know that you're hoarding ivory?"

"I inherited it! It's perfectly legal!"

Glimpsing a shaggy mane in the next room, Gary marched into the library. A lion's head hung over the fireplace.

"What's that?"

"My father killed it! He was a big game hunter! I only keep it as a remembrance!"

Gary pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. He went back into the dining room and took a picture of the elephant tusk.

"Wait. Stop. You can't do this. What can I do to make it right?"

"Stop seeing Rose Wipperfurth."

"Huh?"

"You heard me."

"What does any of this have to do with Rose?"

"She's a married woman."

Garrison gawked. "Are you for real?"

"I need a thousand bucks."

"What?"

"Call it a loser's fee. Give me the thou, stop seeing Rose, and I was never here."

"I don't have that kind of cash around."

"Let's go to the bank. And one more thing. You should have me on your show."

"What?!"

"You want to talk invasive species? I caught the largest python in state history. Maybe you heard about it. They gave me a prize."

"That was you?"

"You bet your ass. I cut its head off with a samurai sword. Then I had to duct tape it back on to collect. And I'm the guy who shot the hippo on the Shangri-La golf course."

"That was you?"

"Yeah. Those hippos escaped from El Nariz's zoo. He was a big time Colombian cartel player who mysteriously disappeared last year. Someone opened all the cages. Now the hippos are breeding in the swamp. They're the most lethal animal in Africa. Soon, they'll be the most lethal animal in Florida."

"So, let me get this straight. You want me to stop seeing Rose, a thousand bucks in cash, and to appear on my show as an expert on invasive species."

"Pretty much. What's the name of your show?"

"Bizarre Bazaar."

"Book me."

"I'll have to consult my producer. What's the angle?"

Gary pulled out the tooth. "Found this in a sinkhole. It was attached to a dinosaur skeleton."

Garrison turned it over in his hands. "Who else knows about this?"

"Me, you, my attorney, and a man who eats shit sandwiches and howls at the moon."

"Could you show me this fossil?"

"Maybe."

"Don't you have your own show?"

"Currently on hiatus."

"Why?"

"I think it was the episode where we cooked the possum."

TWENTY-FIVE

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER

Flush with cash, Gary headed home in the peace bug. He turned on the radio.

"Come to the Hendry County Fair this weekend! Governor Chickenlooper will be judging the Mullet Contest! Sign up for the palmetto bug eating contest! First prize is ten thousand dollars! Ride the Wild Mouse! Take part in the jambalaya eating contest! Vote for the best hog! Dance to the music of Nature's Toothbrush and the Independent Fact Checkers! Gates open at ten Saturday and the event will be going strong all through the night until we finally ring the bell at ten pm Sunday!"

Gary pounced the wheel. "Hot damn! I'm ready!"

He pulled into the yard at five pm, startling a pack of feral hogs who ran under the trailer. Gary went in the house, grabbed a flashlight and a BB pistol, went outside, shined the light on the hogs.

"Go on! Get out of here!"

They looked at him, gauging the possibility of taking him down. Gary pulled the slide and pinged them with BBs. Honking and snorting, they left. He went inside, took a shower, and admired his mullet in the mirror. He'd had the mullet since high school. Business in front, party in back. He brushed it, added a little hair spray, turned to admire himself in the mirror. His laptop sat on the dining room table. Nostomania: "I have found a buyer for the Detective Comic. He is offering eight hundred and sixty-three thousand dollars and seventy-five cents. If this is amenable, I will proceed with the sale. My cut is fifteen per cent."

Gary wrote back, "Do it!"

Nosto wrote back, "How do you want me to send you the money? Do you have a Paypal or Venmo account?"

"My Paypal account is Latergator@gmail.com."

He forwarded his video footage to Habib, along with Garrison's name and address. Habib called.

"Excellent. Exactly what we need."

"Habib, my truck's a goner. I don't even know if I can collect on the insurance. I think I may have missed a payment. Can I borrow the Love Bug for a while?"

"Go ahead. Lonnie's not using it."

"I know Gland. He showed up last year at Delilah's place while we were training. He showed up again over the weekend. He has a show on the History Channel. Bizarre Bazaar. Wants to do a show on the Dubasaur."

"Wait a minute. You know this guy? And he's the guy shtupping my client's wife?"

"Correctomundo."

"Well, this should be enough to break the prenup. Do what you gotta."

Hogs squealed. Gary ran out on the porch where a dozen feral hogs milled about blocking a dark blue sedan that contained two visitors. Gary grabbed his pump action from the closet, went out the back door and lay in the tall grass. The car eased through the scrum, stopped next to the Love Bug. Two men got out, swarthy with black mustaches, wearing fancy boots. The taller had ostrich skin boots. The shorter had alligator boots. Their bulky leather jackets failed to conceal the pistol bulge. Gary watched as they mounted the steps and knocked politely on the door.

An iguana stared at Gary from the branch of a cypress tree.

"I wish these fucking Venezuelans would leave me alone," he muttered.

"But what if they brought more comics?" the iguana said.

The Venezuelans circumnavigated the porch. The Venezuelans kicked in the door. The Venezuelans ransacked the trailer. It was one thing to skydive and peacefully die or get eaten by a python. It was quite another to bust in a man's door and ransack his home. Fifteen minutes later, they came out carrying Gary's computer and his Duvante Culpepper Dolphins jersey. Gary waited until they reached the car. He popped up and fired a blast over their heads. The dude dropped the computer as they whirled toward him, reaching for their guns. Gary came out of the woods leveling the shotgun between them.

"Don't try it. Use your left hands to remove your guns. No tricks or I go for the knees, and this baby holds eight rounds. I took out the plug."

Unnerved, the intruders carefully pulled their guns and dropped them on the ground.

"Now kick 'em Kick 'em good and hard."

They kicked the guns away.

"Fuck you doing with my computer?"

Ostrich boots smiled with dazzling teeth. "We're just opportunistic criminals. We thought this place was deserted. We're sorry. We'll go now."

"You damned Venezuelans think I'm stupid?"

"What makes you think we're Venezuelan?"

"You mean aside from the accent, swarthy complexions, and shoe brush mustache? Just a hunch."

Ostrich boots did the talking. "Could it be because we are not the first? Could it be because you have already disposed of our countrymen who came to you with an honest proposal?"

"Honest proposal my ass! The first guy went splat in the mangroves. The second guy got et by a python. Ain't you dudes never been in a jungle?"

Alligator boots said, "I find that hurtful. You're just stereotyping. Have you even met any Venezuelans?"

"The second dude right before he got et."

"He was eaten by a python, you say?"

"They were working on it when I left him." Gary put a hand on his belt buckle. "The snake had him down to here. I should have grabbed his boots when I had the chance. They was nice boots. Probably wouldn't fit. What size shoe you boys wear?"

Ostrich boots held his hands up in a placating manner. "Momento! Momento! This is all very much a misunderstanding! We are merely looking for our friends!"

"What were their names?"

"Immanuel Elvarez and Onyx Lorenzoni!" ostrich boots declared. "I am the Assistant Undersecretary of State to the Minister of Cultural Affairs! My companion is Secretary of Humus!"

"All right, take outcher passports and toss 'em over here. I like to know who I'm dealing with."

Ostrich scowled. "We don't got to show you our passports! Who do you think you are? Policia?"

"I'm the guy who bagged the biggest python in Florida history! That's right. I cut its head off with a samurai sword and stuck it back on with duct tape."

Gator boots looked confused. "Why did you have to tape the head back on?"

"Well, gollee! So they could measure it! How else they gonna know it’s the biggest python in state history?"

"Well does that mean it was the longest, or that it weighed the most?" Gator boots said.

"The longest."

"How long was it?" Ostrich said.

"Twenny-two feet."

Ostrich threw his arm at the trees. "Look there!"

Gary whirled. The boots charged. Gary whirled back and let them have it in the abdomen. They were running so close together, they both took a belly full.

The boots fell to the ground gasping and squinting.

"I am murdered!" Ostrich cried.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. It's just rock salt. Ya think I'd kill somebody over a pair of boots?"

The Venezuelan special forces examined their jackets and shirts. Gator lifted his shirt to expose a spattering of red dots across his gut like measles.

"Did you bring me any comics?"

The boots exchanged a furtive glance. They got to their feet.

"We have no comics. Why do you mention comics?"

"You can pick your passports up at the Hendry County Sheriff's Office in the morning. And don't come back here. I'm calling my kin right now and inside an hour this place is gonna be crawling with angry armed rednecks. This here's the swamp, bwah!"

Gary gestured with the shotgun. They cringed.

"Get outta here. Go on, git!"

Gary picked up the passports, waited until they were out of sight before going inside and surveying the damage. Everything was tossed around, a couple of glasses broken, and one of them took a dump and didn't flush. It took him an hour to clean up, put everything back in its place. He thought about booby-trapping the place but decided not. Floyd might stop by and blow his head off. He thought about talking to Leotis, but he was just too tired.

TWENTY-SIX

HOMELESS COUPLE FOUND LIVING IN WALMART ATTIC

The next morning, Gary phoned Pincus. "Pincus, can you get me the goods on two Venezuelans who trashed my house last night?"

"What's this about, Mr. Duba?"

"These Venezuelans won't leave me alone! This last batch didn't even bring me any comics! Their names are Ignacio Fermino and Thiago Barbosa. And see what you can find out about Elfuncio Quetzacoatl. He's the president."

"Mr. Duba, I have Zoom meetings all day."

"Tomorrow's soon enough. You a comic fan?"

"Yes."

"I'll give ya the first Spawn. It's in near mint condition."

"I'll get back to you, Mr. Duba."

The sale went through. Nosto deposited eight hundred thousand dollars in Gary's Paypal acct. Within fifteen minutes, the IRS filed a lien and Paypal froze the account. That left Zap #0 to last him until Saturday. He sat on his front porch with his magnum on the table and the shotgun leaning against the balcony in case any more Venezuelans showed up. He called Nosto.

"Nosto."

"Yeah, this is Gary Duba, you sold my Detective Comic #27."

"Mr. Duba! That was a great find. Do you have something else for me?"

"I have a bagged and boarded Zap #0 in near mint."

"Hang on a sec. Let me look that up."

"Whoozis?"

"Tommy Jasmin."

"Izzat all you do? Sell comics?"

"No, I'm a rocket scientist. This is just a hobby."

"Har."

"Okay. Going price is a hundred thou. You want to do what we did before?"

"Yeah, except this time, don't use Paypal. Send me a check."

"Are you sure you want me to send you a check of that amount in the mail?"

"I'm sure."

"It will take a few days for those funds to clear my business account, so you might not see it until next week."

"That's fine."

Gary plucked a palmetto bug from the kitchen counter and popped it in his mouth. It tasted brackish and acidic. It scraped a little. "Alexa!" he said. "Can you eat palmetto bugs?"

There was no answer. There was no Alexa. He hopped in the Love Bug and headed into town. Gary got all his computer equipment at Walmart. The Walmart anchored a mall on the west side of town. Gary parked the Love Bug apart from the crowd next to a lamp post and hot footed into the store. He grabbed a cart and loaded up on pork rinds, mini pies, chips, curls, dogs, Red Bulls and a Burt Reynolds four-pack: The Longest Yard, Sharky's Machine, Stick, Smoky and the Bandit, and Gator. He hit electronics. A woman clerk with black hair tied in a ponytail approached.

"Can I help you?"

"Looking for Alexa, or one of those smart boxes that answers questions."

"You want the Amazon Dot. It does everything but take out the trash."

Gary wheeled his cart toward the fourteen checkout lanes. Only two were open, with twelve shoppers backed up at each lane, blocking the aisle. Gary went to the self-checkout area. There were six machines, everyone taken, with five people standing in line.

Gary pulled out his phone and played video slots. He was on a roll when the person behind him said, "Excuse me. You're next."

Gary rolled up on the machine and scanned Burt. The screen flashed and read, "Please rescan." He scanned it and scanned it. No dice. The one clerk on duty was in deep conversation with an elderly woman purchasing several cases of cat food and enough cloth to drape a hotel. Gary put the item back in his cart and scanned his pork rinds, mini pies, Red Bulls et al. The screen beeped and printed in red letters, “UNIDENTIFIED ITEM IN LOADING ZONE. CALL ATTENDANT."

Gary looked around. The clerk and the old lady huddled over a graph chart. Other people checked out and moved on. The next station opened up. No one was waiting. Gary hustled on over. It took Burt. It took everything. The tab came to seventy-nine dollars and sixteen cents. Gary fed it one of the hundred-dollar bills Garrison had given him. It hoovered the bill like John Belushi. The screen indicated his change. No change came out. Gary looked around. The clerk and the old woman were examining pie charts. Deep in conversation. No help there.

"Come on, come on, gimme my goddamn money," Gary muttered. The machine said "processing". Five minutes passed. Gary punched the screen.

A siren wailed and the screen flashed, “WARNING. WARNING. MACHINE IS UNDER ASSAULT.” The clerk looked up. She pulled a whistle on a lanyard out of her bosom and blew. Red lights flashed, the metal gate to the self-scan area slammed shut, and two beefy men wearing Ajax Security uniforms zeroed in from the entrance. Gary had a fat joint in his pocket! He couldn't afford another bust! Leaping the closed gate with one hand, he ran toward the rear of the store as red lights flashed and the PA system blared, "INTRUDER! INTRUDER!"

Several clerks joined the chase. Startled shoppers backed away. He ran through the electronics department through a swinging rubber door into the warehouse. Burly shelf stockers gathered at the back entrance. A red, wheeled staircase led to an open panel in the ceiling. Gary scrambled up the ladder into the voluminous attic, crisscrossed with steel girders, three-foot ventilation pipes, catwalks and cables. It was warm in the attic, air filled with the thrum of fans.

Hubbub from below. Gary raced down a catwalk into darkness, startling a family of rhesus macaques who scrambled up the grid work and hurled feces. A flashlight pierced the darkness as the first security guard reached the top of the ladder.

"I think he's over there."

"No, you hear those damn monkeys. He's over there!"

The chase was on! Four bored and eager clerks joined the Ajax guards, heading in four directions. Gary hightailed it toward the darkest corner of the vast space. A flash of light momentarily revealed a green pop tent under the eaves, with a camp stove set up. A bearded man with a neck tat wearing a new Dolphins jersey with the price tag still attached stuck his head out.

"Get the fuck outta here. You'll blow my cover!" the man hissed, bulbous nose lined with veins, gin blossoms blooming.

Gary stopped, stooped, and looked. Behind the bindlestiff crouched a bug-eyed woman with a shock of dirty hair. The tent reeked of chemicals and body odor. Gary got down for a better look.

"What the fuck?!"

"Listen, motherfucker," neck tat croaked. "Don't mess this up for us. Me and Giselda have been living here for two years! It's a sweet gig, see? Don't fuck it up."

Gary glimpsed a mini-fridge, stacked boxes of cereal, bags of almonds, cans of soup. Behind the tent, a packing box bulged with trash. "Are you cooking meth?"

The bindlestiff cackled, teeth like a vandalized graveyard. "We sure are! Want some?"

"How do I get outta here?"

The man pointed down an unlit corridor. "End of that catwalk, there's a ventilation grate. I took the screws out. All you gotta do is lift it off. Wait a minute." The man ducked into his tent, came out with a long, coiled nylon rope. "Use this!"

Gary grabbed the rope. "Thanks, pal!"

"Good luck!"

Behind him, the searchers spread out, calling to one another. Gary came to the end of the catwalk. Pale light shone through the grate's louvers. Gary uncoiled the rope, tied one end firmly to the catwalk rail and pulled the grate out with a screech.

"Down there!" a pursuer called.

"All units converge on northwest corner!" ordered a cop wannabe.

Gary threw the rope out the open grate and looked out. Thirty feet to the loading zone. Gripping the rope in both hands, he Batmanned down the side of the building. Hands bleeding, Gary hit the tarmac! Gary sprinted counterclockwise around the building, weaving among the Suburbans and Subarus for cover until he reached the peace bug, now surrounded with parked cars.

Gary leaped in, started the engine, and drove toward the highway, as fast as the Beetle could go.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Gary headed east. He phoned Pincus on the run.

"Pincus! I'm coming over."

"I'm in the middle of a project, Mr. Duba."

"Yeah, well that's what I want to talk to you about. You got an Alexa, or one of those chatty Cathy things?"

"I have an Amazon Blue Dot."

"That's what I was trying to buy when they chased me out of the store! I'll be there in twenty."

Pincus rented a modest bungalow in Pahokee with a fat grass lawn and a date palm in the front yard. Pincus' Rogue perched on the cracked concrete of his single car garage. Gary parked on the street and knocked. Pincus answered the door wearing a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers.

"Sorry the house is a mess."

"Like I give a shit."

The small living room looked out on the front lawn. A flat screen TV perched on a Goodwill table. A DVD player, game console, and stacks of DVDs sat on the lower shelves. A thrift store sofa lay against the opposite wall beneath a thrift store landscape to which someone had added a three-legged Martian invader looming over the trees. An old border collie mix lay on a blanket on the sofa, tongue lolling.

"That's Elisha."

The old dog thumped its tail.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Man, I gotta settle my nerves. Got any vodka?"

"Sorry, Mr. Duba. I don't drink."

Gary looked around. The room smelled of Febreze. "Where's the doo-hickey?"

Pincus pointed to the hockey puck perched on the edge of the table.

"What do I say to it?"

"Just a sec, I'll turn it on. Then you just ask it whatever you want."

Pincus flipped a switch.

"Hey Blue Dot. Can a man eat cockroaches?"

A soothing female answered, "Yes, you can eat cockroaches. Contrary to popular belief, cockroaches can actually be very clean and tasty insects, especially if they are fed on fresh fruits and vegetables. They can be eaten toasted, fried, sauteed, or boiled. Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches have a taste and texture like greasy chicken."

"Mmm! Where can I get some of those hissing cockroaches?"

"Madagascar."

Gary flipped the switch.

"She's just itching to get involved in our conversations, maybe offer dating advice. No thank you."

"How's Krystal?"

"She's training for Javelina. You're coming, ain't you?"

"I'm not really a wrestling fan, Mr. Duba."

"Oh, come on. I'll leave two tickets for ya. Bring a date."

"I'm not really seeing anyone at the moment."

"You ever get your cherry popped?"

Pincus turned red.

Gary slapped him on the back. "Don'tchoo worry. Omma he'p you get that done. Look at you. What woman wouldn't want you? You're the dude who popped Hogzilla! Why you don't have women throwing themselves atchoo, I don't know. Krystal's got two girlfriends, Jen and Barb. They're hot! Hang on..."

Gary pulled out his phone, scrolled through his pictures until he found one of Jen and Barb leering from the staircase in his former home. Jen had pulled her shirt down to expose a breast. Barb cocked a leg over the banister. They were both shit-faced.

"Come on. Tell me you wouldn't like to pork 'em both."

"Mr. Duba...I haven't had good luck with women."

"You just ain't met the right woman. Don'tchoo worry about it. I'll fix you up. Time I'm done telling them about you, they'll be frantic to get in your pants."

Pincus stared at the picture.

"I'll send it to you if you like. Pick one. That's Jen higher up. Hell. Maybe you can have both."

"What are you doing here, Mr. Duba?"

"I need to find out about those fucking Venezuelans. Why do they keep coming to my house? Why do they keep bringing me comics?"

"I don't understand."

Gary flopped down on the sofa smacking it into the wall. He told Pincus about the flattened sky diver and the dude in the rental. "I shoulda checked their rental. They were probably hiding comics in the trunk. I need to know about Ignacio Fermino, Thiago Barbosa, and Elfuncio Quetzacoatl."

"Quetzacoatl is President of Venzuela. He seized power six years ago in a military coup."

"Whatever. They keep bringing me comics and coke. I don't want it around. Krystal's got a nose like Rudoph the Reindeer, and she's got a fight coming up."

"I have a Zoom meeting in fifteen minutes with a client. It will take about a half hour. If you want to hang around, I'll look into it then."

"Sounds good. I'll check my email and shit."

Gary went out the back door to the blotchy lawn, sat in a lawn chair and looked at his phone. Major Dutton wrote, "WHERE'S THE SHOW? Millions of viewers are clamoring."

Gary wrote, "I got a humdinger, Major! I'm entering the Best Mullet and the Palmetto Bug Eating Contest at the Hendry County Fair this weekend! Come on by and we'll do it live!"

Next was a letter:

"Dear Gary: When you stopped in at our mission last December, I neglected to thank you for your offer. We are deeply appreciative of any Samaritan who wishes to help the less fortunate. Had the iguana been a little fresher, we would have accepted with alacrity. Nor was I aware that you were behind the apprehension of Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee. I must admit, I cheered your subsequent dealings with the charlatans at the Church of Necroeconomics, and I credit you, at least partly, with leading to their collapse. They were a stench and an abomination to all who believe in Christ.

In any case, I would like to invite you to worship with us sometime. We have a chapel at the mission, and you are welcome anytime. I hope to see you again. Yours in Christ, Sister Agatha Papparazzi, the Nuns of Gavarone, West Palm Beach."

Next:

“I’ve invited you to fill Dear Friend. Please carefully read this and you will find it interesting.

In my banking department we discovered an abandoned sum of 50,000,000.00$ [Fifty Million Dollars Only) in an account that belongs to one of our Foreign customers who unfortunately lost his life with
his entire family on his way to the Airport of Heathrow.

Since we got information about his death, we have been expecting his next of kin or relatives to come over and claim his funds because we cannot release it unless somebody applies for it as Next of kin or relation/Business Partner to the deceased as indicated in our banking guidelines.

We want you to come in as the Next Of Kin, all needed cooperation to make the claims will be given to you by us. If you are interested kindly let us have the below information and I will give you more details.

Kindly send your personal details to this very email:

1. Full Name

2: Your private telephone and Fax numbers.

3. Occupations and Nationality.

4. Date of Birth

5, Present Location

6. Home Address

We are offering 40% of the total sum to you as our partner. We will discuss much in details when I receive your response. Thanks and good luck to us.

Best regards, Mr. Paul Bradley”

Gary threw his hands in the air. "My troubles are over!"

Next:

“Dear Sir / Madam,

We, LLC “VGL '', are proud to introduce the list product of our End Seller JP54, Jet A1, D2, D6 Etc in our fairness and line of work of Trust. We can guarantee that we never compromised on our quality standards and services which we also have a bound relationship with our Russia End Seller who deals in fairness of Trust on delivering and we has made its grasp on the overseas Trade market and getting excellent feedback.

We have a very reasonable price for our client and are negotiable.

We look forward working with you on short and long time bases.

GENERAL DIRECTOR:

Mr. Kruk Alexander Vladimirovich

LLC '' VGL ''

Kruk Alexander Vladimirovich”

Gary got up and boogied, bent over, snapping his fingers. "I'm on a roll! I can hardly wait to see what happens next!"

He tapped the news app.

homeless couple found living in walmart attic with hot plaet, meth lab, and 42” led tv

"Being homeless has to be very difficult, especially in the colder times of the year. But not for this Turpentine couple who had been “living in the lap of luxury” above a Turpentine Walmart store. The ‘homeless’ man, 48-year-old Nard Wilberforce, admitted to police that he and his girlfriend 54-year-old Anastasia Guacamole, had been living above the store for over two years. What they did to the attic, baffled police and store employees."

“I don’t mean to laugh, but these people really got one over on Walmart,” said Lieutenant Orville Wang. “We recovered two pounds of meth they had produced on a hot plate, food, drinks, mini refrigerator, a big screen TV, surround sound system, bedroom set, hangers, clothes… I mean, if Walmart sells it, they had it. These people were living good. They even managed to splice into the satellite TV wire and ordered NFL Sunday ticket!”

Gary felt terrible. If it weren't for him, they would still be living in the lap of luxury. Gary knew he'd been neglecting his viewers. It was too bad the cops had busted the Walmart couple. They would have been perfect for his show. He was still waiting to hear from Rufus Pinkerton, who'd been arrested in Miami and claimed that the syringe found in his rectum wasn't his. But Rufus had not returned his calls from the Dade County Jail.

Pincus came out blinking like a mole, wearing baggy jeans that hung on his skinny legs like drapes and a button-down short-sleeved sports shirt with a pocket protector and a weird little ruler.

"Mr. Duba, President Quetzacoatl is an avid comic book collector. He has a complete run of Capitan Venezuela, Memin Pinguin, El Hombre Nuclear, and Venezuela Comics. He put them on display at the Venezuelan Institute of Art under the eye of armed guards, but nobody wants to steal them because they're not worth anything. It is alleged that during the recent coup he confiscated several private comic collections and is selling them in the United States to raise money."

"Aha! But why me?"

"You live in an electronic blank spot. It's one of the least scrutinized pieces of real estate in the state."

"Maybe you can help me draft a letter to this Quetzacoatl thanking him for the comics, but asking him to stop sending thugs."

"I'm going to have to charge you for that, Mr. Duba."

Gary pulled out his wallet and peeled off a thousand dollars. "That's for your dog."

TWENTY-EIGHT

LETTER TO QUETZACOATL

Dear President Quetzacoatl:

What's going on? Have we met? 'Cuz you keep sending your flunkies to look for this El Nariz dude, who I never met. Then that second dude got eaten by a python, but at least he brought me that comic book. I figure you don't mind my taking the comic book, 'cuz he was trespassing and besides which, he got et. So he won't miss it. Then those next two dudes, they didn't bring me nothing. They just ransacked my house. I woulda been within my rights to shoot them, but I'm trying to maintain good relations here between Florida and Venezuela.

You know what we really need? Ocelots. What with all the damn invasive species tearing up the state, including but not limited to python, iguana, and hippo, some of those ocelots would be welcome. Our own Florida panther is endangered, and we need flesh blood. If the ocelots would mate with the panthers, it would create a new breed which we could call pantalot, and would bring in badly needed tourist dollars.

I was happy to learn you are a comic fan. I only wish I had all the comics I collected as a kid, but my mother threw them out. Bet you heard that before. In any case, peace between our great nations and all that shit, and please use a regular airport from now on.

Yours sincerely, Gary Duba.

TWENTY-NINE

A VALUABLE DISCOVERY

On Thursday, Gary drove back to the Big Cypress to retrieve his truck. Tottenham was already there, the massive flatbed carrying the construction crane filling the road, as a worker backed the crawler crane down the ramp. The truck was pointed south. It had been unable to turn around. Gary wondered how they would get the construction crane to the sinkhole. Gary backed up and left the Love Bug on a hummock just off the road.

A man in carpenter's pants, blue work shirt and yellow hardhat stood in the road, back to Gary, signaling to the crane operator. Gary watched as the crane inched down the ramp until it was off the truck.

"Chris Tottenham?" he said.

The hard hat turned, a broad, middle-aged face with a bulldozer chin. "Are you Gary?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks for doing this."

"My pleasure. Any friend of Habib's is a friend of mine. We took a look at the truck and we got a man down there running straps under the chassis. It's pretty tight in that hole, and I gotta warn you in advance, your truck may not be operable. Looks like a total writet-off. Hopefully. And it's old. Can't be worth much."

"Don't matter. I got no insurance. I've half a mind to just leave it there and fill the hole in on top of it."

Tottenham and Gary backed up to give the crawler room as it turned west and rumbled into the swamp, water rising over the bottom of the track. Tottenham and Gary swung on board. They rode the rumbling beast a hundred and fifty feet south, leaving enormous ruts, until it was able to crawl back onto the raised road and confront the sinkhole.

Tottenham and Gary walked on the tread to the front and leaped off. They edged around the sinkhole to the south side and looked down, where a man in a hard hat had just finished linking enormous nylon straps together above the truck. He gave a thumb's up. An aluminum ladder lay in the bed, top end poking out.

"Come on up, Ron," Tottenham said.

The worker climbed up and joined them. Two sets of straps cradled the truck, one just behind the front axle, and the other under the bed. Tottenham led them twenty feet south and gave the signal to the crane operator. With a whir, the cables tightened. The cables quivered and with a horrendous screeching noise, the truck rose several inches, lurched upward, and was free. It looked like a child's toy that had been run over.

"Where do you want us to take it?" Tottenham said.

"Aw hell just take it to the junkyard, but lemme go through it first. I mighta left a few things."

Ron stood at the edge of the sinkhole, hands on hips. "What the hell is that?"

Tottenham and Gary joined him. "What?" Tottenham said.

Ron pointed at a massive white jawbone jutting from the sediment, teeth like battlements. "That."

"That's the Dubasaur. I found it. It's mine. And I can prove it." Gary pulled the tooth from his pocket. "Lookie here. I dug this out last week when I was stuck."

Tottenham held out his hand. "May I?"

Gary handed him the tooth. Tottenham felt it, turned it, looked at it. "We're required by state law to report any prehistoric remains. You mind if I borrow this?"

"Hell yes, I mind! That's my tooth! Why don'tcha jump down there and get your own tooth?"

"I just pulled your piece of shit truck out of a sinkhole, and this is how you repay me?"

"No, numbnutz! I repaid you by getting video of some whore leaving Garrison Gland's house so her husband could blow up the prenup!"

"That has nothing to do with me."

"Don't it? The only reason you helped me is the same reason I shot that video! We both owe Habib Rodriguez money!"

The crawler crane swiveled and churned through the swamp toward the back of the flatbed, the crushed truck snugged tight.

"I've half a mind to just drop your piece of shit truck in the swamp!"

"Go ahead! I don't give a shit."

Grumbling, Tottenham stalked around the sinkhole. Gary followed, past the huge flatbed to where he'd left the Love Bug. He wouldn't put it past Tottenham to crush his ride like an insect. He got in, turned around and drove north until he came to a turn-off broad enough for the truck to pass. He tried to phone Krystal, but it was no go. A half hour later, the truck rumbled past, Tottenham flipping him the finger from the shotgun seat, his squashed truck snugged tight behind the crane. Gary returned to the sinkhole, uncoiled the rope he'd brought, tied it to the Love Bug's front bumper, and crawled down to where the massive jawbone stuck out of the sides.

"Gawddamn," Gary muttered to himself. He had to secure it before Tottenham ratted him out. He climbed out, got in the Love Bug, edged around the sinkhole, and headed south to Delilah's. He arrived around noon. No one home. Gary grabbed a bottled water, a spade and a pick from Delilah's Jeep and returned to the sinkhole. It was ninety-five degrees, and the mosquitoes were thick as a veil. The sandy soil gave easily, revealing the contours of a monstrous skull. Gary was no expert, but he'd seen Jurassic Park. This was like no skull in Jurassic Park. It was bigger. It was a monster.

He stopped every fifteen minutes to rest and drink. He used the spade to scrape soil from around the sides. An hour later, he came to the base of the skull. It was six feet long. Gary knew from Jurassic Park that the T Rex's skull was only five feet. The whole skeleton had to be huge.

Gary forged ahead, likening himself to the brave soldiers in Stalag 13, or Sylvester Stallone in Daylight. He came to the back of the skull. He used the spade to lever the skull away from the packed side. He wrestled the exposed jaw to work it loose. The moist earth slipped and sloped. Grabbing two eight-inch tusks, he grunted and strained, working it side to side while pulling it toward him. It broke loose and he fell on his ass.

Gary slithered out. "Oww!" He put a hand to his head. He was bleeding. The skull was too big for the Love Bug. He might be able to get it into Delilah's old Jeep pickup. It looked like a World War II truck, like something you'd see in a movie. Gary climbed out and returned to Delilah's. Krystal was taking a shower. Delilah was smoking a pipe and skinning catfish.

Krystal squealed, ran naked and leaped on Gary, who staggered, but stood. He laughed and kissed her. Maybe he could slip in a quickie after he got the skull.

"Delilah, I need to borrow your truck."

"What for?"

"I found a fossil in the sinkhole. Might be valuable."

Delilah pulled the pipe and spat. "Whatever you found belongs to the Seminole Nation. Pull up a chair. I'm cookin' catfish."

Gary blanched.

THIRTY

CASH COW

After dinner, Delilah phoned her brother Bob who met them at the sinkhole with Arly and Mo, two tribal members. Their Dodge Ram sat on the north side of the hole. They'd brought ropes and tackle and with three people pulling on either side, they raised the monstrous skull and put it in the back of the Ram where Bob lashed it to the bed with bungee cords. It looked like a giant bird skull. Arly yanked off a six-inch tooth.

"Put that back!" Delilah snapped. "That belongs to the Seminole Nation!"

"I'm Seminole! I deserve something for volunteering and coming out here on short notice. It's only a back tooth."

Delilah held out her hand. "Hand it over unless you want your pecker to fall off."

"Why would my pecker fall off?"

Delilah's hand formed a claw and she started chanting in tongues.

Arly turned white and handed her the tooth. "All right! All right!"

"Come on back to my place and I'll give you some catfish."

Mumbling, Arly set the tooth back in its socket.

"Nothing a little super glue won't fix," Gary said.

The three Indians went back to Delilah's place where they sat around a fire passing a jug of shine. Delilah cooked more catfish. She looked over at Gary.

"What's the matter, Gary? All of a sudden you don't like my cooking?"

"Sorry, Delilah. I had a couple palmetto bugs for breakfast and I'm feeling a tad sick."

"I ain't even gonna ask."

"Hooo-WEE!" Arly exclaimed, heaving himself to his feet. "Ah gotta drain the lizard."

"Y'all gettin' shit-faced," Delilah observed. "Best you stay here tonight. I got a tent."

Krystal surveyed the guests. "They'll never be able to put it up. Look at them."

"You're right. They can just throw down on the ground. You boys got sleeping bags?"

"You bet," Bob said. He had the same Roman nose and high cheeks as his sister. "We're ready for anything."

"Ya'll coming to the fight?" Gary said.

"Wouldn't miss it," Bob said.

Arly fired three shots in the air. Everybody jumped.

"Hey shit for brains!" Delilah said. "Put that away before you hurt yourself."

Arly snapped on a flashlight. "Omma shoot me a gator!"

Delilah rolled her eyes. "Bob, talk to him."

Bob walked over to Arly and knocked him cold with one punch. He stooped, got Arly in a fireman's carry, and dumped him in the back of the truck. He returned to the fire.

"Sorry about that."

"Hey, ya'll oughtta drop by the Hendry County Fair this weekend and cheer me on. I'm in the mullet contest, and the palmetto bug eating contest."

Potato-faced Mo rolled a cigarette, licked the paper, and lit it. "A what?"

"Palmetto bug eating contest."

"Why would you even contemplate such a thing?"

"Ten thou, that's why. Ah'm in training right now."

Bob pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes. "What kind of training?"

"Every day I eat some palmetto bugs. Each day it's a little more. I'm up to two."

"I'll pass. What's the other?"

Gary drew a hand back over his hair. "The mullet contest. The governor's one of the judges."

"Hanging Chad?" Bob said.

"That's the one."

"You got my vote."

"You gotta show up in person. Noon Saturday."

Bob blew a smoke ring. "What the hell. What else I got to do?"

"What will you do with the dinosaur skull?" Mo said.

Delilah puffed on her pipe. "I'll alert the tribal authorities. They're gonna want to put it in the museum."

"What museum?" Gary said.

"Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki in Big Cypress. Add that to your resume."

"Maybe I kin get cheap plastic skulls made and sell 'em."

"It's a thought."

Bob got two sleeping bags from the truck, threw one at Mo. "I'm zonked."

Gary waited until everyone had sacked out but him and Krystal. "Awright, little lady. Let's do it!"

Krystal looked around, nose wrinkling. "Where?"

"We can do it inside. Delilah don't care."

"No, I feel funny. Let's do it in the Jeep."

And that's how they did it, with Krystal straddling Gary in the shotgun seat. They wiped themselves off with Popeye’s Chicken napkins.

"How's the training going, little lady?"

Krystal posed with her fist up like Rosie the Riveter. "I'm ready to go five rounds with Ronda Rousey. I'm tougher than a bull gator! I can run for miles. I been training with Samson every day."

Samson was Delilah's female black bear.

"Javelina won't know what hit her."

"Ah don't doubt it. I been watching her tapes and I notice that she drops her right after she jabs. You might think about taking her down."

"That's exactly what I intend to do. I'll take her down, pound her face and when she turns over, I'll take her back and choke her out."

"But wait a minute. Aren't you fixing to get together with her before the fight and figure out your moves?"

"Well yeah. I'm just speaking hypothetically."

"We ain't had one of these yet go as planned."

"That's true. We're even Facebook friends."

"You and Javelina?"

"Me and Marcela Aguilar. We both like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. Her husband is a used car dealer in Juarez. She says he can get us a good deal on a new truck."

"Hey lookit here." Gary grabbed his wallet and fanned out crisp new hundreds.

"Where'd that come from?"

"Garrison Gland. Motherfucker snitched me out to the feds. That was before I caught him on video making out with a married woman."

"Dude who crashed our panther dinner?"

"That's the guy. Sheriff's deputy axed if I'd kilt a panther. So I go to Habib for a job and he sets me up taking a video of whatever sad ass motherfucker is sticking it to Mrs. Rose Wipperfurth. So I follow Rose and guess what? She's seeing Garrison, that's what. I threatened to tell the History Channel that he was having an affair with the wife of one of South Florida's more prominent news anchors and he gimme a thou to shut me up."

"That's only four hundred."

"Yeah, I already had that. I gave the rest to Pincus."

"Why?"

"For his dog. It's got cancer."

"You idiot! Why didn't you ask him for more?"

"I kinda like Garrison. He might put me on his show. Sides which, I win this palmetto bug thing, you beat Javelina, we'll be sitting pretty. 'Course we can't deposit any or the IRS will snap it up. We'll just cash it all out."

"Why ain't you on YouTube?"

"I'm out here. I got too much to do, babe."

"That's the cash cow, hon. We need to get that up and running again. The people need to see you."

"I got tales, that's for sure. We're for sure gonna do a show about the contest. You gonna be there?"

Krystal put her arms around Gary and squeezed him. "I wouldn't miss it."

THIRTY-ONE

MEMORIES OF HAPPY TIMES

Friday night Gary walked to the end of the pier with a six pack of Frog Ale and a bucket full of slops. A quarter moon gleamed over the swamp. A loon sang. Frogs ribbeted. Gary heaved the slops into the water and waited. He'd finished two bottles when Leotis swam up.

"Mr. Duba," the catfish said bass profundo.

"Leotis."

"What did I tell you about the comics?"

"Well I am making a little money thanks to those Venezuelans."

"What Venezuelans?"

Gary told him about the Venezuelans. "How come you don't know about them? You're supposed to be my advisor."

"Well I'm sorry about the Venezuelans, but I'm only a giant Mekong catfish. I can only do so much."

"You ever meet Tallywhacker?"

"Well, I know of him, of course. Didn't he take over the Church of Necroeconomics?"

"Then he quit and ran for governor. Got beat by a Democrat. He taught Western Lit for a while at Baylor, but he quit because it wasn't fulfilling. Now he got sucked up by a flying saucer. I'm going to miss him."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Gary. I knew he was your friend. But is it possible you just hallucinated the whole thing? Don't think your predilection for hallucinogens has escaped me."

"How do I know you're not a hallucination?"

"That's an excellent question, Gary. If you would be so kind as to dip your pecker in the water, I will prove it."

Gary thought about it. He lit a doobie. "I believe you, Leotis."

"Thank you."

"Want some blow?"

"No thanks."

"Leotis, is Taylor Swift country?"

"I don't believe she is."

"What about Neil Young?"

"Not in a million years."

They floated in companionable silence.

"You know who's country?" Leotis said.

"Who?"

"Charlie Pride. Now that's country. But his boy Carlton plays reggae."

"I did not know that."

"Not many people do."

"You ever eat palmetto bugs?"

"Contrary to popular belief, cockroaches can actually be very clean and tasty insects, especially if they are fed on fresh fruits and vegetables. They can be eaten toasted, fried, sauteed, or boiled. I can tell you from personal experience that the Madagascar Hissing Cockroach tastes just like chicken. I wouldn't mind if you brought me some."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Why do you ask?"

Gary told Leotis about the Hendry County Fair.

"Well best of luck to you, Gary. Who knows? If you win, this could open up new possibilities. I regret I won't be able to be there in your moment of triumph."

"Krystal's gonna live stream it. You got wifi?"

"Alas."

"The governor's judging the mullet contest."

"Hanging Chad?"

"You know of him?"

"Well I know of him, of course. What experience does he have that qualifies him to judge the mullet contest? Is he a hairdresser?"

"He's the governor. It's honorary."

"What are the criteria?"

"It's subjective, but certainly length, width, depth, and density. Also, sheen."

"Do you have any more slop?"

"You could stand to lose a few pounds."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Seriously. You didn't get that big on the slops I give you. What the hell did you eat to get that big?"

"That's very hurtful, Gary."

"Just saying."

"I'll have you know that I'm about average for my species. I did not ask to be caught in a sport fisherman's net in the South China Sea. I did not ask to be brought to America as a wee tyke of a mere twenty pounds. Do you know who it was that caught me, fed me, and ultimately abandoned me in the Gulf of Mexico? It was the movie star Leonardo DiCaprio. I've never mentioned this before because I don't want you to think I'm vain, or a star fucker. He was very kind to me, at first. I have thought about writing a book. My Journey: From the Mekong Delta to the Everglades."

"Maybe you could get Leo to write the introduction."

"He no longer takes my calls."

"I might be able to help you out. I'm tight with the Duke and Duchess of Ducats now, and once you're rich and famous, you know everybody else. Pretty sure they've met Leo. I'll ax 'em."

"I'd like to meet them."

"I'll bring 'em down. You ever hear of Claude Balls?"

"Well I know of him, of course. He was among the avant garde in Paris in the Twenties. Him, Picasso and Hemingway. They hung together. Balls' art transcended genre. He painted. He wrote. He composed music. His most famous work, Concerto for Bicycle Horn, was performed by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. I wish I could have been there. He worked as a magician. One of his most famous tricks was to whip the tablecloth out from under a dinner setting without upsetting so much as a single glass."

"I hope his music is better than his paintings."

"Well, he painted in the surrealistic style. He was a founding member of the Dada movement. His book, Fallow Fellow, is considered a classic. Jachère in French. I read it in the original French."

"You speak Frog?"

"Well of course. I come from the Mekong Delta. Vietnam was a French protectorate. Many of the natives still speak French. I am writing a book, by the way."

"What's it called?"

"Etiquette For Catfish."

"Great! You want to be on my show? It's good publicity."

"I can't do that, Gary. No one can see or hear me but you."

"That reminds me. That was pretty rude the other night when I brought Krystal out to introduce you."

"I'm sorry, Gary. It has to be this way. You're the only one who can see or hear me."

"Are you telling me I'm crazy?"

"Not at all. It's just that when I see someone else on the pier, I disappear. I'm bashful. It took me years to overcome my fear of strangers. You're the only person with whom I've spoken since I was released into the Gulf."

"Why me, Leotis?"

Leotis looked to the stars and stuck out his lower jaw. "There's just something about you."

"Did you talk to DiCaprio?"

"Well of course. I owe him everything."

"Maybe you could ask him to appear on my show."

Leotis sadly shook his head. "He no longer takes my calls."

THIRTY-TWO

BEST MULLET

Gary arrived at the Hendry County Fairgrounds at ten am Saturday. The mullet competition was set for noon. He arrived early to get a look at the competition and sample the corn dogs. Gary parked the Love Bug in a field full of pickups, rodded and 'roided Japanese screamers, banged up family sedans and Harleys. The Harley riders threw down paint can lids for their kickstands so the bikes wouldn't tip over in the squishy ground.

Krystal would be there by noon, along with Delilah and the boys. Even at this early hour, people filled the midway, buying corn dogs, lizard on a stick, and trying their hand at the Power Pole, the milk bottle toss, and the palm reader. A dozen men, women, and children lined the fence at the Gator Rassle, watching the creatures sunning. A boy threw a Ding Dong into the water and three gators entered the water.

"Hey, you dumb shit!" the gator wrangler, a carny with a drinker's face said. "Don't you see the sign, dumb ass? Do not feed the gators!"

The boy ran away laughing. The gators were unimpressive. Gary saw bigger gators off his pier. He stopped in at the palmetto bug eating contest to register and signed a waiver absolving the carnival of all responsibility in "this unique and unorthodox contest".

“The consumption of insects is widely accepted throughout the world, and the insects presented as part of the contest were taken from an inventory of insects that are safely and domestically raised in a controlled environment as food for reptiles”, read a sign on a pole.

Next, he registered at the Mullet Contest. The woman who signed him up told him, "My money's on you."

Gary wandered the fair grounds. 4H Club, Girl Scouts selling Thin Mints, Gatorferd Insurance, Cannabis Oils, Organic Vegetables, Cruelty Free Eggs, Sacred Feather Hats, Free Range Filets and Hand Carved Soapbox Derby Cars. Nuns of Gavarone.

Gary couldn't believe his eyes. There sat Sister Agatha Papparazzi along with a cute brunette novitiate beneath a striped awning, both wearing blue habits, their heads covered. Sister Agatha's face lit up as Gary approached.

"Gary Duba! Praise Jesus!" She extended her hands. Gary took them.

"How the hell are ya, Sister? I mean, how are you?"

"Very well, thank you. We've been following your exploits with interest. I was particularly intrigued by that giant hog you put down."

"Wasn't me, Sister! It was actually a Jew boy named Pincus. He's my tech support."

"In any case, I regret we were not properly grateful for your gift."

"No prob. It all worked out for the best. That was the beginning of the end for the Church of Necroeconomics. Say, we're having a barbecue this afternoon. You eat pork, don't ya? Love to have you."

"Let me check my schedule. How can I reach you?"

Gary gave her his phone number.

"May I bring Helen?"

The novitiate twinkled and dimpled.

Gary's phone rang. Krystal.

"We're here!"

It was a quarter to noon. "Meet me at the Mullet Contest! It's going down."

The mullets lined up to receive their positions, in the order they registered. A crowd gathered. Gary saw Krystal, Delilah and Bob weaving toward him. Gary jumped up and waved. Setting down her backpack, Krystal flew into his arms, running her hands through his elaborately coiffed and fixed mullet.

"Don't muss the hair!"

She stepped back, grinning. "You think I ain't got a brush for that? Lookie here." She reached into her feedbag and pulled out a brush. She pointed to a bench. "Sit."

Minutes later, Gary took his seat in a folding chair arrayed in four rows of five. There were nineteen entries so one chair remained open. Fair goers were given chits of blue paper and asked to write their top three selections based on the chair's number.

Gary turned to the hairless man running the contest. "I thought the gubnah was judging."

The man said, "We've got two categories: Peoples' Choice, and Best Achievement. It's not just the governor. There are five judges including Latin singing sensation Sharika, Elvis impersonator George Grey, game show host Randy Glockenspiel, and the governor's hair stylist, Yolanda Kazoo.

Gary took his seat. He was number seven. Number six was a bald man cradling a ferret.

"What the fuck?" Gary said.

The man placed the ferret carefully on his skull. "Play dead, Norm." The ferret went limp, its long tail hanging down the back of his neck. The man grinned. "What do you think?"

"That ain't legal, pal. That's not your own hair."

"I read the rules. Nowhere does it say the mullet has to be your own hair."

"Dude! If that were the case, we'd have twenty-four people wearing rugs!"

"Look. I'm here. They let me in. Deal with it."

Delilah walked down the back of his row and crouched. "All right. Here come the voters. Smile. Turn your head fifteen degrees to the right. That's it. Keep your chin down."

The crowd oohed, ahhed, and clicked its way down the rows. A photog from the Turpentine Gazette arrived.

A vivacious blonde in Daisy Dukes took a picture. "You've got my vote, baby. You can have my phone number too."

Gary looked around. Krystal was buying an ice slush. Several judges told Gary they were voting for him. A little girl squealed at the ferret.

"That's not your hair!"

"Is too," the man said. The fact that he just sat there calmly with a ferret on his head impressed a lot of people. It lasted about a half hour. Next came Hanging Chad, Sharika, George Grey, Randy Glockenspiel, and Yolanda Kazoo.

Hanging Chad was movie-star handsome with a dimpled chin and wavy hair, wearing sunglasses, a white shirt, a rough knit blue cotton sports jacket, and tan cargo pants. He shook each contestant's hand. He came to the ferret.

"That's a ferret."

"Governor, a real pleasure."

"Is it tame?"

"It's sitting on my head, ain't it?"

"Aha!" Gary cried. "Disqualify him!"

The governor reached out to stroke the ferret. It bit his index finger.

The governor yanked his hand back and stared at the blood on his finger. The governor's personal assistant Anthony Viola spotted a sheriff's deputy and waved him over.

"What happened?"

"This guy's ferret bit the governor. He shouldn't be here. This is a contest for best mullet, not best ferret."

"Stand up, sir. You're under arrest."

"No!" the man wailed. "What will happen to Norm?"

Gary stood. "Hey look, it ain't exactly a felony. Just let him go. Whaddaya say, Governor?"

Hanging Chad looked at Gary for the first time. He nodded his head. "Now that's a mullet. You're right. Just let him go."

The interloper stalked off clutching his ferret. The governor looked back.

"Do I know you?"

"Nope. We almost met at Wacky World."

The governor peered harder. Gary put his hands up.

"I had nothing to do with that! I was just along for the ride!"

The governor laughed. "Of course. Well, you've got my vote." As the governor went down the line, Viola whispered in his ear. The governor glanced at Gary and raised his eyebrows.

Fifteen minutes later, the certified mullet crew counted the votes. They tapped Gary, a squat guy who looked like he was wearing a raccoon hat, and a young ur-punk with a neck tat and a mullet that resembled a '59 Caddy tail fin. They handed the results to the governor.

"I'm pleased to announce the winners of the Hendry County State Fair Mullet Contest! Third is Carl Potts!"

The smiling ur-punk bounded up next to the governor.

"Second, John, Loveall!

Up went the fire hydrant. Krystal squealed and put Gary in a headlock. Delilah rose her palm for five.

"And the winner is the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, captured the largest python in Florida history, the inventor of house suspenders, Turpentine's favorite son, Gary Duba!"

Crowd goes wild.

THIRTY-THREE

LIGHTNING STRIKES TWICE

Gary handed the five-hundred-dollar check to Krystal along with a certificate for a free style at Sasha's in Palm Beach.

"Let's get something to eat!" she said. "I'm starving."

"I'll tag along, but I can't eat. I got the palmetto in an hour."

"Oh baby, I wish you wouldn't do that. A man died from eating palmetto bugs."

"He was showing off. He was stuffing them in hand over fist. I ain't gonna do that. Omma judge my competitors and eat just enough to win. I guaran-dog-tee you ain't nobody can eat more palmetto bugs than me."

"Hanging Chad was staring at your ass," Delilah said.

"Maybe he recognized me. I accidentally dropped a puke bag on his head."

"I don't think he looked at your face."

They wandered the fairgrounds until they came to Nacho's Tacos. Krystal and Delilah got iguana tacos, everybody got soft drinks and they sat at one of the picnic benches near the infield where the Turpentine High Gators played baseball.

"Where's my skull?" Gary said.

Delilah held up a finger as she munched. She wiped her mouth. "It's at the museum. Nearly fell in that damn hole taking it there. Don't worry. You'll get full credit for the discovery. They're sending a team out to investigate. Meanwhile, they're laying steel planks over the hole so we can get into town and back."

"Who's responsible for that road?"

"The res. We'll fix it as soon as the paleontologists are finished. They promised next week. They got a crew coming in from the Florida Museum of Natural History."

Gary looked at his phone. "Welp, it's time."

The palmetto bug eating contest was held inside an enormous tent set up to accommodate two long tables laid end to end where the contestants would sit, plus seating for several hundred. The local ABC affiliate was on hand, and Garrison Gland, wearing jodhpurs tucked into cavalry boots, a safari jacket, and a Gators cap, accompanied by a cameraman.

Gary went over. "Garrison! What are you doing here?"

"I'm recording this for my program. What are you doing?"

"I'm a contestant, and we're recording this for my program."

"We can cross-promote. I'd like to interview you after the contest."

"If he's still alive," the cameraman said.

Hands clapped. Gary turned to see a thin old man with tufts of white hair over the ears speaking into a headset.

"Contestants to your seats please. Please sit in your assigned seats."

Mumbles, shuffling, chairs scraping as Gary took a seat at the end of one of the tables. Krystal set a quart bottle of Gator Ade in front of him. There were ten contestants, all men, and bottles of Louisiana Hot Sauce and Pick-A-Peppa every three seats.

The old man turned to the onlookers and clapped his hands. A signer dressed like a mime jived behind him. "Hello! And welcome to the Hendry County Fair Palmetto Bug Eating Contest! I'm Elias Duplex, professor of entomology at the University of Miami! I also have a degree in cooking from the Ecole Ducasse in France, which makes me uniquely suited to administer this contest! Did you know that insect protein is a valuable stipend throughout most of the world? It is only here, in the so-called enlightened West, that we shun what many consider to be an unclean animal.

"Cockroaches are not unclean..."

A young man in a knit shirt with a halo of frizzy hair rushed to the professor and whispered in his ear.

"I'm sorry. I meant to say, palmetto bugs are not unclean! The bugs we are serving have been raised in a safe and holistic environment, on a diet of fruit and vegetables. The contestants may eat to their heart's content, for we have an unlimited supply. We are serving the insects alive to ensure freshness. Each contestant will start with ten. You will see a wood cylinder in front of each contestant, one side painted green, one side painted red. If you are ready for more cockroaches, place the cylinder green side up. If you have had your fill, place the red side up. We ask that all contestants remain in their seats until the contest is over. This should not take long. Contestants! Are you ready?"

The signer frolicked like a kitten with a ball of twine.

The man next to Gary had the look of a gym rat with a tribal tat riding up his neck. He raised a fist. "Fuck an A Bob!"

Several seats away, another contestant, who resembled Bob's Big Boy, released a rebel yell. Dozens of people elbowed their way to the front line, phones held high. Some held plastic cups of beer. Some held flasks.

"Serve the first course!" Duplex commanded in the voice of a Roman senator. Giggling teenagers deposited bowls filled with palmetto bugs in front of the contestants, each bowl covered with plastic wrap to prevent their escape. Gary stuffed a roach in his mouth and crunched. He chewed quickly and thoroughly. He ran through his ten bugs like a machine gun. He slugged Gator Ade. He placed his marker green side up. His server made a chalk mark on the table.

Gary doused the bowl with Pick-A-Peppa and dug in. Crunch. Scratchy. Acrid. Gary needed that money. He was a machine. Finishing his second bowl before some finished their first, he turned the knob green side up. Contestant number seven, a two-hundred-and-eighty-pound sack of suet, abruptly pushed himself back from the table, staggered outside the tent and hurled. Contestant number three twitched and fell sideways. Two EMTs with appeared out of nowhere and spirited him away in a collapsible gurney.

"No reason to panic, folks," Duplex said over the PA. "We have an ambulance on standby. Once again, I must emphasize that these palmetto bugs are perfectly safe."

Gary was on his third bowl. Chewing proudly, he surveyed his competitors. The man in the Harley shirt looked green. A weasel faced man munched doggedly, hunched over his bowl to protect it from those who would steal his palmetto bugs. Someone screamed. A woman fainted. Calliope music sounded faintly in the distance. Gary looked up. He could just see the top of the Tilt-A-Whirl over the livestock building. No one else had the green side up.

Gary looked around with satisfaction. "Hey Elias! Are we done?"

Duplex walked down the row, pushing the red topped knobs on their side. He wheeled on the signer, two steps behind. "Who are you? Who sent you?"

The signer turned and ran.

"Who wants a bowl?"

The man next to Gary belched, spraying twigs of palmetto bug. Duplex picked up Gary's entry form. "Folks, we have a winner! Gary Duba, from right here in Turpentine! We have a winner! Gary has eaten thirty palmetto bugs! Gary wins the ten-thousand-dollar grand prize! Step up here, Gary."

To applause and yee-haws, Gary joined Duplex at the front of the tent looking out. A reporter thrust a mic in his face.

"What do they taste like?"

Gary held a bug from out to the reporter. "You tell me."

The reporter backed off. Garrison closed in with his cameraman.

"Bravo, sir! Bravo! How did you train?"

Duplex inserted himself between them. "Sorry to interrupt, but Governor Chickenlooper has to leave in a few minutes. Let the governor present the trophy and then you can talk."

Sheriff's deputies cleared a semi-circle around Gary. The governor approached holding a trophy with a gilt-plated palmetto bug atop a wood base, and a white envelope. Gary felt a seismic rumble in his gut. Anthony Viola assisted the governor with a headset.

Chickenlooper's voice boomed over the PA. "Congratulations again to Turpentine's favorite son, Gary Duba!"

Subterranean explosions pulsated. Matter and anti-matter mixed. The governor handed Gary the trophy and the envelope. "Inside is a cashier's check for ten thousand dollars. The festival promoters are concerned that if you hang around, you will bankrupt them!"

The crowd politely laughed. The governor offered his hand. "Congratulations."

Gary took his hand and vomited.

THIRTY-FOUR

KRAKOW!

Floyd called on the way home. "Sorry I missed it, man. I had an emergency job in Clewiston. Rats the size of bulldogs. I hadda club 'em to death."

"Didja get 'em all?"

"No. I had to lay down some peppermint, castor, and citronella."

"Yeah, we're heading for the swamp. Swing on by! I'm grilling ribs."

"Can I bring Ginger?"

"Sure. Grab some beer, willya?"

Gary and Krystal rode in the Love Bug. Delilah followed in her Jeep. As they passed the Wokenoki Trailer Park on Weldon Way, a Burmese python stretched across the narrow dirt road, both ends hidden in the brush. Gary down-shifted, coaxing the forty-year-old VW to heretofore unimagined ferocity. Krystal grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?"

"Omma kill the sumbitch!"

"Why?"

BDOMP. The VW went airborne and came down on the left front tire. KRAKOW! The wheel collapsed into the fender. KAWHANGO. The Love Bug jittered across the road into the ditch. FWANG. The Love Bug came to rest on its side.

Gary lay there a sec, until he realized he was lying on Krystal. He raised himself up. "Krystal! Krystal baby! Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes, mouth twisted. "You fool! Why did you do that?"

"It just seemed like the right thing to do."

"Get me out of here, you moron. Now you've wrecked Habib's car."

Delilah stopped behind them, got out, opened the door and offered Gary a hand. "Didn't you see that python?"

"I saw it. I was gunning for it. I shoulda known better than to try it in this piece of shit."

Five Wokenoki residents wandered out clutching beers, smoking cigs. Gary waved his arm.

"We're fine! Thank you for coming."

A youth slow hoisted his middle finger. The crowd ambled back into the park. The VW was completely off the road, left tires in the air reminding Gary of a dead palmetto bug. Delilah lit a cigarette.

Delilah stood with hands on hips. "Broken bones?"

Krystal felt herself. Gary danced a little jig. "We're good."

"Get in the truck. Let's go."

Wokenoki disappeared behind them. The dirt road ran straight between jungle walls. A dark cylinder slithered across the road.

Gary reached over Krystal to nudge Delilah. "Look. There's one! Gun it! Show that sumbitch whatfor!"

"You gotta be kidding me," Delilah said. "Ain't you learned nothin'?"

"Come on, Delilah! This here's a goddamn Jeep! This ain't no piece of shit tin foil hat from Germany! This baby tips the scales at two tons and has two trans axles! Are you gonna let these damned pythons push us around? These interlopers? Who invited them? Nobody! They come here to live fat at the expense of the American taxpayer. Come on, Delilah! You ain't skeered, are ya?"

Delilah grimaced and grinned. "All right, baby. You asked for it."

Krystal rolled her eyes and cinched her seat belt tight.

Delilah accelerated to seventy.

BDOMP. The Jeep went airborne and came down on the left front tire. KRAKOW! The wheel collapsed into the fender. KAWHANGO. The Jeep jittered across the road into the ditch. FWANG. The Jeep came to rest on its side. The airbags deployed, pushing Delilah, Krystal, and Gary back into their seats like an overbearing aunt. Gary found his pocketknife and shivved the airbags. Whoosh. The interior smelled of ozone and talcum powder.

They crawled out of the Jeep. Delilah curled her fingers. "Why? Why did you force me to do that?"

"Why?!" Krystal cried.

"Any broken bones?"

Krystal and Gary checked their limbs.

"Nah," Gary said. "We're good."

Delilah went over to Krystal. "You okay?"

Krystal clutched her left shoulder. "My shoulder hurts like hell."

"See if you can move your arm. Real gentle."

Krystal tentatively circled her arm, grimacing at the top. "Ouch."

"Shit," Delilah muttered. "May have to work some juju, if you're gonna beat Javelina."

"What about them pythons? They count as a sacrifice?"

"Maybe."

"Y'know," Gary said, "would it help if we ate a javelina? I mean, wouldn't that like give her spiritual power over her opponent?"

Delilah walked down the road. "Let's go."

Gary had left his trophy in the crushed bug, but the check was snug in his pocket. He'd stuck his magnum in the back of his belt. No telling what would show up next.

"These damned snakes are rankling my ass," Gary muttered. As they neared the final corner beyond which lay his trailer, Gary felt both anxious and excited. There was no telling what lay behind the next curve. It might be feral hogs, Venezuelans, python, Godzilla, or sheriff's deputies. Gary would have vomited had he not already given all. In fact, he was getting hungry.

"Whatchoo got for a side dish, little lady?"

Krystal trudged toward the trailer, clutching her left shoulder. "I got beans and rice, but you'll have to cook it. I'm gonna lay off this arm for a few days. Gary, I swear, if your bullshit causes me to lose this bout, I will claw your balls off."

"Claude Balls!"

"What?"

"Remember when the Duke and Duchess came by to get their painting? It was a Claude Balls!"

"Who gives a shit?"

"Well, I was just thinking, what if they left more Claude Balls behind? Prints, books, anything? That might be worth some money."

Krystal's lip curled like Elvis. "Claude Balls my ass. You've got to get the show going! That's where the money is. You get enough followers you can sell ads! Hell, you can do ads! You're well known enoughl some insurance company might want you!"

"You really think so?"

"'Course I do! Aren't you the man who just won the Hendry County Fair Mullet and Palmetto Bug Eating Contest? Your life has been an incredible adventure! In fact, I think you should write your biography."

They approached the trailer. Gary kept an eye peeled for pythons, feral hogs and macaques. "That's a good idea. That's right! I'll write my story! I'll bet Major can sell it for big bucks."

"Now you're talking, big daddy."

"Who do you think should play me in the movie?"

"Matthew McConaughey or James Franco."

Delilah picked up her pace. "Is it unlocked? I need to use the bathroom."

"Those Venezuelan sumbitches broke the lock."

A furrow split Krystal's perfect forehead. "What Venezuelans?"

"It's a long story. After we found that one guy, there's been three more."

Delilah hot stepped into the trailer. Minutes later she popped back out. "There's a snake in your toilet."

THIRTY-FIVE

SISTER AGATHA

Floyd and Ginger arrived in Floyd's Viper. Floyd carried a cold case of Dixie into the trailer and stashed the bottles in the fridge. Gary put shredded newspaper in the Weber and laid down coal. Krystal put Jerry Reed's Greatest Hits on the boom box.

"Ja see that bug in the ditch?" Floyd said.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"And Delilah's Jeep?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Pincus arrived in his Rogue with Elisha who leaped out barking and wagging. Gary waved from the deck.

"How the hell are ya, Pincus! Glad to see your dog's doing better."

"We just came from the vet. It's a miracle."

Pincus and Elisha came up on the deck. Pincus wore a striped sport shirt with a pocket protector, baggy blue jeans rolled up at the ankle and a kippah. Gary snatched the kippah and pocket protector and stuck them in his pocket. "I'll give 'em back when you leave."

Gary put his arm around Pincus and turned to Krystal. "Babe, we gotta fix Pincus up so he can lose his cherry."

Pincus turned crimson.

"Barb and Jen are on their way."

Gary dragged Pincus with him down the deck. "Not that Barb and Jen are easy, but they do like smart. Show 'em your drones. Here they are."

Barb and Jen pulled up in Jen's beige Corolla. Barb got out holding two bottles of wine. "Yeeee-HA!"

Elisha greeted them at the top of the steps. Barb crouched to pet and coo. "Who's this adorable dog?"

"That's Elisha," Gary said, steering Pincus toward them. "Belongs to Pincus here. Pincus is my tech support. Y'know how Punisher has Microchip? Well, I have Pincus! He's a genius! Ask him about bitcoin."

"Hi," Pincus said, sticking out his hand. Barb shook.

"So, you're a genius, huh?"

Pincus blushed. "No."

"Pincus here is the man who killed Hogzilla! You know that don'tcha? He actually pulled the trigger and drilled that giant hog through the eye. It was the first time he ever fired a gun. Ain't that right, Pincus?"

"Well I..."

Hands on hips, Barb looked at him with fresh eyes. "Is that so?"

"Hell yes, it's so!" Gary said.

"Let Pincus answer."

"I just got lucky. It was so big I couldn't miss. It was like shooting at a wall."

"You drilled it through the eye, Pincus! And then we served it to two hundred people. That hog weighed over a thousand pounds."

Barb regarded Pincus with admiration. "Oh my! Why weren't we invited?"

"It all happened kinda sudden like."

"We were on that boat with what's his name," Jen said.

"That's right. Torio."

"Torio!"

They laughed.

"'Say 'allo to my leetle boat!" Barb said in a fake Cuban accent.

"I swear to God. That's what he said."

"Then he wanted to show us his guns!"

"Oh, he was so awful that when he swung by the beach, Jen and I dove in the water and swam ashore."

"What about your phones?"

Jen dipped in her bag and pulled out her phone in a Zip-loc bag.

An old Ford that looked like a former police cruiser, with a black body and white doors, pulled into the yard.

"Holy shit! It's Sister Agatha!"

The sister and novitiate Helen got out of the car. Sister Agatha wore a blue nun's habit and wimple. Helen wore a knee-length pleated skirt, a sleeveless blouse, and an abbreviated white wimple.

Gary went down the steps to greet them. Elisha circled the nuns, barking until Helen crouched and cooed. Elisha sat and wagged his tail.

"Come on up, sisters. We're grilling ribs. How'd it go at the fair?"

Sister Agatha winked. "We cleaned up."

Floyd pulled out every chair and served beer. Sister Agatha asked if they had any Cheap Trick. Delilah manned the grill with a pair of tongs and a wire brush. Helen asked if she could help.

"No, thank you, but thank you for asking. I need to do this myself. This is my own secret recipe." She showed Helen a Mason jar filled with a thick brown liquid.

"What is it?"

"Barbecue sauce. I'm thinkin' of marketing it."

Helen pointed at Pincus. "Who's that?"

"That's Pincus. He shot Hogzilla. He's a genius."

Floyd wore a plaid shirt with the tails out and the sleeves cut off, baggy shorts that fell to mid-calf, and flip-flops. Ginger wore short shorts and a Belmont Holistic Pest Solutions shirt with the upside-down palmetto bug. They approached Gary and Sister Agatha at the rail, drinking.

Floyd clapped Gary on the back. "Ya won the mullet contest, the palmetto bug eating contest, and you spewed on the governor! That's a hat trick!"

"Never to be repeated," Gary said.

"How were the palmetto bugs?"

"Crunchy."

A fusillade of grunts filled the clearing. Nine feral hogs, ranging in size from thirty pounds to three hundred, entered the clearing, milling and squealing.

Gary squinted. "Oh, for Chrissake...sorry, Sister!"

Sister Agatha glared.

The hogs milled around Floyd's Viper.

"Aw no. Hell no! Get away from there!"

Sister Agatha put a hand on Floyd's wrist. "Have you ever minded hogs?"

"No, but how hard can it be?"

"You leave this to me." Sister Agatha went to her car, opened the trunk and pulled out a steel yardstick. The hogs regarded her with mean little eyes. She thwacked the yardstick in her palm. She yelled like Tarzan. She rushed the hogs and laid about like Donnie Yen in Rogue One. Thwack! Thwack! Oink! Oink! The hogs milled about, confused, and angry. They were too stupid to run.

Krystal jerked Gary's arm. "Help her!"

"I might hit her!"

"Ask Pincus!"

Gary turned toward to Pincus, who was deep in conversation with Helen. Gary went in the house and grabbed his Louisville Slugger. "I'll do it myself."

He strode down the steps. Reinforcements rushed from the jungle. Now there were forty hogs milling around the yard, jostling Floyd's Viper, darting at Sister Agatha. Every time a hog tried to gore her, she whacked it across the snout with the steel ruler. The hogs spooked the birds which took to the sky, shrieking.

Gary lashed out with the bat, whacking them on the head. "Hang in there, Sister!"

Gary and Sister Agatha stood back-to-back, circling. Fresh hogs poured out like a kamikaze attack.

"Where are all these hogs coming from?" Sister Agatha said.

"This looks like a set-up!"

A black Lincoln pulled into the yard, two men in front, two in back, all wearing leather jackets and sunglasses. The driver got out. He had a thick brush mustache and a bulge under his arm. He looked at Gary and Sister Agatha whacking hogs, got back in and backed out of the clearing at fifty miles an hour.

THIRTY-SIX

LEOTIS STRIKES OUT

Floyd confronted the hogs with a can of oven cleaner. He sprayed oven cleaner in their eyes and soon the whole tribe was on the run. Floyd chased them to the tree line.

"Go on! Get out! And don't come back!"

Floyd circled his Viper, stopped on the far side. "Aw no. Aw no. That fucking hog took a dump on my Viper!"

"Floyd, just wash it off with a hose."

They returned to the deck where Delilah was turning ribs. Krystal came over.

"Who was that in the car?"

"More fucking Venezuelans. Sorry, Sister! If it weren't for Sister Agatha here, we might all be dead."

"What do they want?"

"They want their comic back. But I already sold it. Sold the second one too."

"What second one?"

"Look, hon, suffice it to say these Venezuelans keep coming at me and coming at me. They want to be my friend. They want to search the house. They're convinced I'm ripping off their coke and comics. Did I ask them to dive bomb the house? I hadda write a letter to the president. I thought that would be the end of it but I haven't heard back from him."

Jen and Barb brought out coleslaw, potato salad, paper plates, Red Solo cups, and plastic forks and set them on a folding table.

"Sister! That was awesome! You think you can keep these Venezuelans off my ass?"

"Gary, are you Catholic?"

"No, ma'am."

"Gary, you strike me as decent man. Have you considered converting to Catholicism?"

"Talk to Pincus. You'll have better luck."

People loaded their paper plates and sat or stood at the rail with the plates balanced. Gary saw Pincus with Helen, but only Helen had a plate.

"What's the problem, Pincus? Ain't you gonna eat?"

"It's not kosher, Mr. Duba."

"Well, what can ya eat?"

"Chicken. Beef, if it's kosher."

"What makes it kosher?"

"It has to be killed in a certain way and blessed by a rabbi."

"Hell yeah, we got that! Hang on."

Gary went in the house, found a frozen hamburger patty in the fridge, thawed it in the microwave, and threw it on the grill. He motioned Sister Agatha over.

"Sister, I'm passing this burger off as kosher so Pincus can eat it. Can you say a few words over it for extra added protection?"

Sister Agatha crossed herself. "God bless this burger."

"Great! I'll tell Pincus."

Pincus was deep in conversation with Helen around the corner, on the north side of the deck, Elisha seated between them, wagging his tail.

"Pincus! I found a kosher burger. Sister Agatha blessed it for extra added protection."

Helen looked up. "Gary, didn't Kierkegaard believe in individual existence—particularly religious existence—as a constant process of becoming? Didn't he believe in authenticity, commitment, responsibility, anxiety, and dread?"

"Huh?"

"Helen claims that Kierkegaard is the father of existentialism. I say Sartre. Who's correct?"

"Say what?"

Helen gestured with a rib. "Sartre's theory of existentialism presumes existence precedes essence. Only by existing and acting a certain way do we give meaning to our lives. I'm not saying he's wrong, all I'm saying is that Kierkegaard got there first."

"No way."

"Way."

"Aw right. Go get your burger. And when you're done, come see me. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine."

Gary returned to the front as Habib arrived with Auburn in his Lexus. Hugs, high-fives.

"What happened to the Love Bug?" Habib said.

"We were attacked by a python."

"What about that Jeep?"

"Python."

"Dang, Gary. You and your animal magnetism."

Gary held his hands up curled. "Tell me about it!"

Jen, Barb, and Krystal boogied out to "Bernadette". Delilah brought out a jug of shine. Pincus and Helen appeared.

"Mr. Duba, you were going to introduce me to someone."

"That's right. If you folks we'll excuse us for a minute, I'd like to show Pincus something."

Gary grabbed a half dozen stripped ribs from the garbage and put them in a plastic sack.

"What is it?" Floyd said. "Show me."

Krystal poked him on the shoulder. "It's his imaginary catfish."

Tail wagging, Elisha followed Gary, Pincus and Helen around to the pier which extended twenty feet into the swamp. On one side, Gary's swamp buggy was cinched to two old tires fixed to pylons. At the end of the pier was Gary's chair, a bench, a plastic bin, the golf club, and the empty slop bucket beneath a cloud of flies. Gary pulled a bottle of Off! from his pants.

"Y'all might want to douse up."

Pincus held up his wrist, encircled by a yellow strap. "We're good, Mr. Duba."

Elisha jumped off the pier and went in the water. At the end of the pier, Pincus pointed to the nine iron. "Do you play golf?"

"I'm trying to learn the game in case I gotta caddie again."

"When do you have time to caddie?"

"You never know. Last time out, I kilt a hippo. Now be quiet. Let me see if I can coax Leotis up to the pier."

"Who's Leotis?" Helen asked.

"Giant Mekong catfish. He's my mentor."

"I consider you a mentor, Mr. Duba."

"Thanks, Pincus.

He crouched at the end of the pier and tossed a rib into the green water. "Leotis! I got some folks I want you to meet."

Pincus circled his temple with a finger.

"A giant catfish?" Helen said softly. Pincus shrugged.

Gary tossed another rib. "Come on, Leotis! You can talk Kierkegaard." He half turned. "He's shy. He was brought to America by Leonardo DiCaprio. Hey, Leotis! You can talk about Claude Balls!"

They waited hopefully, music and conversation drifting from the trailer.

"Mr. Duba, what do you know about Claude Balls?"

"Contemporary of Lord Buckley and Jack Kerouac. The Duke and Duchess of Ducats came back for one of his ugly ass paintings. I could paint better."

Helen put a hand to her mouth. "The Duke and Duchess of Ducats?"

"That's right, little lady! They're gonna be on my show. I'm gonna be on theirs. In fact, I think it already happened."

An alligator surged from the swamp and seized Elisha. The border collie yelped in pain, ending in a drawn-out squeal. The four-foot gator struggled to pull Elisha into the drink as the dog fought back, paddling and digging in with its forepaws.

Pincus grabbed the nine iron, leaped off the pier, bringing the golf club down on the gator's head. THUNK. The gator's rear legs twitched and went still. With a foot on its back, Pincus pried its jaws open and gently pulled out the dog. Helen rushed down and crouched.

"Oh, the poor thing! Is he all right?"

Elisha had puncture wounds on his rear leg.

"Bring him up to the house," Gary said. "Delilah'll take care of him."

They turned to go. Gary flipped the bird at the swamp. "Thanks for nothing, Leotis."

THIRTY-SEVEN

SANS CULOTTES

While Delilah treated and bandaged the dog, Gary got a text from Nostomania. "Zap #0 sold for one thousand dollars, sending you cashier's check via UPS for that amount minus my fifteen per cent."

"Fat City!" he declared, stuffing the check in his biker wallet.

Floyd got drunk and tried to shoot an albatross. Habib and Auburn left to go to another party. Sister Agatha and Helen left, but not before Helen and Pincus exchanged phone numbers. Floyd, Ginger, Barb and Jen left around midnight.

Gary grabbed Krystal and dragged her into the bedroom. She fell face first onto the bed and started snoring. She sounded like a sucking drain. Gary grabbed some bedclothes for Delilah and threw them on the living room sofa.

"You good?"

Delilah gave him the thumbs up. "It was a good party. Tomorrow, back to the swamp."

"How ya gonna get there?"

"I guess I'll call an Uber. I'll call my insurance company in the morning."

"Whaddaya gonna tell 'em?"

"We was attacked by a python."

"That's right!"

Gary had been hoping for a poke from Krystal, but it just wasn't any fun when she was out cold. He lay on his back staring at the lazy turn of the ceiling fan.

"Gary," a voice rumbled through the open window.

Gary sat up. "Huh?"

"Gary, it's Leotis. Come and talk to me."

"Leotis!"

Krystal mumbled and turned. Gary got up, pulled his pants and shirt on, and padded out of the trailer down to the pier. Frogs and crickets filled the night. It sounded like ten thousand castanets. The pier squeaked as Gary walked out to the end, pulled the chair up and stared into the water. Leotis looked up, pale yellow in the moonlight.

"Where were ya earlier? I wanted you to meet someone!"

"Gary, I have a life of my own. I was busy."

"Doing what?"

"I was working on my autobiography as a matter of fact. It was your idea."

"How do you do that, being a catfish and all?"

"I have a perfect memory. Every word is ingrained on my soul. When the time is right, I will dictate to a transcriber."

"How you gonna do that?"

"I was hoping you could bring them swamp side. I would like to employ you as my agent. I will give you fifteen per cent."

"Fifteen per cent of what?"

"Book and any media sales that may result, such as film or television."

"Leotis, let me ax you sumpthin. If they was to make a film of your life, who would you choose to play your part?"

"Leonardo DiCaprio. I was hoping you could use your connections with the royal couple to bring it to his attention."

"You know him better than me."

"He no longer answers my calls."

"You gotta write it first."

"I'm almost done. It's over a hundred thousand words."

"That was fast."

"I write fast."

"You ever hear of Claude Balls?"

"You already asked me this. You're repeating yourself. I'm concerned. He was one of the great surrealists. He worked as a freelance mime in Paris until one day a group of American servicemen nearly beat him to death. After that he took up painting and sculpture. His most famous work is the Duck's Ass, part sculpture, part wig. It now sits on a bust of Jean-Paul Marat in the Louvre. Someone tried to steal it several years ago, so it is under armed guard."

"Geez, you gotta meet my pal Pincus. He's apeshit for that stuff."

"He was a vigorous defender of the sans-culottes and seen as a radical voice. He published his views in pamphlets, placards and newspapers."

"What's a san culotte?"

"The lower classes of 18th century France. They were so poor they had no culottes."

"I been meaning to ax you about these harbingers. I got the bat and the rabbit, but I ain't seen hide nor hair of the turtle."

"Tell me about them."

Gary told Leotis about the Detective Comic and Rodell Grosz.

"One will bring you riches. One will cause you grief."

"I made a ton of money on that comic, but the IRS took it. I got nothing. And now I got these Venezuelans coming around, and the last bunch didn't even bring me a comic."

"I have to warn you about the Venezuelans."

"Little late, don'tcha think?"

"President Quetzacoatl is desperate to raise funds. Having emptied the treasury, he is now confiscating all the great comic collections and putting them up for auction. I was thinking of buying his mint condition Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, but where would I display it? He's also running cocaine."

"I'm sitting on five keys."

"Gary, this doesn't bode well for you. Those Venezuelans are thugs. They will demand recompense."

"Did I ax 'em to dive bomb my place?"

"It doesn't matter to the criminal mind. They will have their pay one way or another. You might want to go into hiding until this blows over."

"Fuck that shit! We got a fight in two weeks! I ain't going nowhere. I'll have Pincus rig the place up with motion detectors. I'll perforate them sumbitches and dump 'em in the swamp! Will you eat Venezuelan?"

"I'll eat anything, Gary. You know that. But I am lactose intolerant."

"This is America! I ain't going nowhere. Let 'em come! I'll set traps! I'll dig holes and plant punji sticks! I'll get Claymores from Cheaper Than Dirt! It'll be like Rambo: Last Blood, only worse!"

"I don't think it's possible to do anything worse."

"If you was to come on my program, you'd be able to reach millions of new fans."

"Gary, I wonder if you'd listen to me read the start of my biography."

"What else I got to do?"

Leotis sang a few notes in falsetto like an opera singer warming up. "I never knew my mother. My first memory is of swimming up a tributary of the Mekong. Even as a tad, I could pick up radio broadcasts in the water coming from boats. Thus, I learned that I was an endangered species. You can imagine the effect this had on me at a tender age. The correct term is Pangasianodon gigas, which sounds better than it is. I dined on plankton and algae until one day an enterprising young fisherman scooped me up in a net and sold me to the film star, Leonard DiCaprio. It is here my story truly begins."

THIRTY-EIGHT

NOTHING IMPORTANT

Sunday morning, Krystal rose, put on her sweats, and ran up Weldon Way, past the trailer park, all the way to the highway and back. Eight miles. She returned, showered, and by the time she came out, Delilah was packed and ready to go.

"I called an Uber. He'll be here any minute."

Krystal found Gary sawing logs on the bed, stooped and kissed him. "See you next weekend, stud muffin."

Gary mumbled and turned over. Krystal joined Delilah on the front deck with a cup of coffee. A flock of terns rose from the swamp as a Chrysler 500 squished up the road and stopped.

Delilah gestured with her mug. "There's our Uber."

A swarthy man with pock-marked skin and greasy hair got out. "Your Uber is here!"

Delilah grabbed her gym bag and backpack, Krystal her backpack and they tripped down the stairs. The driver peered at Krystal as she got in the car.

"Didn't I see you at Wacky World last week?"

"Who are you?"

"I was Rapid Rabbit. You and your boyfriend got me shit-canned!"

"You were drunk. You got yourself shit-canned. You don't want our business, say so."

Grosz turned the car around. "No, it's all right. Gotta make a living somehow. I may have been out of line. If so, I apologize."

"No prob."

They thumped over pythons. "Funny place to put speed bumps."

They cruised west on Eighty, passing a motor home pulling a Bronco with a motorcycle mounted sideways and an aluminum boat bungeed upside down on the roof.

"Preppers!" Grosz declared. "They disgust me."

"What's your name?"

"Rodell Grosz. I was just marking time at Wacky World. I'm about to release some sides that will stun the world."

"Sides of what?"

"Hip hop! The voice of a generation!"

Krystal examined his pock-marked neck and greasy hair. He had a pustule that looked like a nascent volcano. "What generation? The nineties?"

"I know what I'm doing. I've got mad skills. Subscribe to my YouTube channel. Mad Skills."

"You know, if you pop that zit on the back of your neck and film it, you'll get a lot of hits. You may need someone to hold the camera."

"You want to do it?"

"I'd rather gargle razor blades."

Grosz turned south on the long, lonely road to the res. "Okay. Here goes."

"Can't we just listen to the radio?"

"In a minute. I can't beat box myself, but I don't need a beat box.

"Huh huh huh, up above the bustle...

"Yo yo yo ain't lookin' for a tussle...

"Hey hey hey you really gotta hustle...

"Na na na lemme see some muscle...

"You do the crime, you got to do the time...

"How many ways can I milk that rhyme...

"Tarzan versus Conan, what could possibly go wrong?

"Tarzan versus Conan, who's got the biggest shlong?

"Man of steel and man of bronze...

"Which one has the biggest schwanz?"

"STOP THE CAR!" Krystal said.

"What?"

"Pull over and let us out or so help me God I'll strangle you."

Grosz veered to the side of the road and stopped on the swampy shoulder. Krystal and Delilah grabbed their bags and bailed.

"You sure you want me to just leave you lovely ladies like this in the middle of nowhere?"

"I would rather die of a water moccasin bite than have to listen to any more of your crap."

Grosz cranked up the bird. "Yeah, well fuck you!"

Krystal flipped him back. "Fuck you and your neck zit!"

Grosz worked an awkward Y turn. There was a moment when he seemed as if his rear tire would slip into the swamp, but he found traction and peeled out, spraying gravel. Delilah and Krystal watched him recede into the distance.

Delilah shouldered her backpack. "Way to go, girl. Now what?"

"Who's up for a little road work?"

"Not me."

They headed south in the heat and humidity.

"Maybe someone will come along," Krystal said.

"Hunh unh. Not on this road."

But five minutes later a car did come along, a tiny, cheap Japanese pickup with picks and shovels rattling in the bed. The driver stopped and leaned out the window. He was a small man with a big nose and tiny eyes behind thick glasses.

"You ladies need a ride?"

"Wouldn't mind," Delilah said.

"Just throw your stuff in the bed and squeeze on in."

Krystal sat in the middle. "Thanks! I'm Krystal, and this is Delilah."

"Bruce. Dave Bruce. Weren't you in that truck that passed me several days ago?"

"You're the UFO guy!"

"That's right."

"I begged Gary to stop but he wouldn't listen! He's got a thing about UFOs."

"Yeah. I ran into him later. In fact, I'm on my way to the sinkhole to look for signs of UFOs. They're everywhere."

"Huh. I lived here all my life and I ain't seen one."

Delilah stared out the window disgusted.

They arrived at the sinkhole, surrounded by rubble. Bruce got out of the truck and looked down. "What the hell?"

Delilah and Krystal joined him. "What?" Krystal said.

Bruce pointed to the hole in the wall. "What happened there? Did somebody find something?"

"Dinosaur skull. It's at the museum."

"You removed the skull? Is the rest still buried?"

"Dunno. I turned it over to the tribal elders and the Department of Natural Resources."

"But there are no dinosaurs in Florida! There never were! Nobody has ever found a dinosaur in Florida."

"There's always a first time."

"This has got to be a hoax!"

"Look here, Dave, if you'll just deliver us to my place, I'll pay you the fee I was going to pay the Uber."

"What Uber?"

"The guy with the monster zit on the back of his neck. We bailed when he wouldn't stop rapping."

"Rapping?"

Krystal vamped low. "Huh huh huh, up above the bustle...

"Yo yo yo ain't lookin' for a tussle...

"Hey hey hey you really gotta hustle...

"Na na na lemme see some muscle..."

Bruce held out his hand. "Stop! Get in the truck. Let's go."

He carefully skirted the sinkhole and they drove the eight miles to Delilah's place in the swamp. Delilah dug out her wallet and paid him twenty-five dollars.

"Do you mind if I take a look at the dinosaur skull?"

"It's at the museum, but I have photos." Delilah pulled out her Fonebone.

"I have never seen anything like this. I suspect it's alien."

"You think it might have come from one of those UFOs?"

"Yes. In my experience, they're capable of anything. I've been abducted twice and anally probed."

"They find anything?"

"Nothing important."

THIRTY-NINE

A TRUE TALE OF ALIEN ABDUCTION

"Good evening and welcome to the Ferd Ludlow Show. Folks, I don't know what's going on, but we've had a plethora of UFO sightings in the past couple of days and we're eager to hear from a couple of callers who have gotten up close and personal. Our first caller is well known to this program. Welcome back, David the Bruce! What's up Dave?"

"Hello, Ferd. Last week I told you that I'd been abducted again by aliens. They took me up in their flying saucer high enough to see the curvature of the earth and the International Space Station. They probed me again. I don't know what they expect to find up there. I will say this for them. They have enough decency to use the blot out ray. The last thing I remember, I was strapped to an examining table. Then I woke up in the swamp and my ass hurt like hell.

"But that's not the reason I'm calling. Yesterday I picked up two ladies who'd been stranded on a remote road near the Big Cypress Indian Reservation. I was there to take a look at the sinkhole that swallowed a pickup truck. So I take a look and there's this big hole in the side about eight feet down. And one of the ladies says they dug a dinosaur skull outta the hole. And so, I says everybody knows there are no dinosaurs in Florida. The dinosaurs never came to Florida. So, she says well look at these photos and sure enough she's got this humongous skull sitting on a picnic table in the back! I sent you the pictures, Ferd."

"Yes, he did, folks, and they're astonishing. I will post them on my Instagram account shortly."

"It looked like a giant bird, only with teeth."

"You know, Dave, many scientists believe the birds are direct descendants of the dinosaurs, and somewhere along the way, ol’ Ma Nature flipped a switch, and they became warm blooded."

"What happened to the teeth?"

"Well that's an interesting question, Dave. Perhaps one of our listeners can answer that. But please tell us more about the skull."

"So I'm looking at this thing, and it doesn't look like any dinosaur I've ever known. As a kid, I was fascinated by dinosaurs. I must have watched The Valley of Gwangi a hundred times. So what I'm thinking, we all know aliens have been visiting Earth since ancient times. Just watch Ancient Aliens. This skull is alien. I can't say for sure if it was intelligent, but certainly it's big enough to hold a big brain. Like the size of a basketball or something. I think that when scientists get around to tracking its DNA or whatever, they're gonna find that it is indeed of alien origin."

"What about the rest of the skeleton, Dave? Did you see it?"

"No. I didn't have time to get down in the hole and dig around, but I understand that the Seminole Nation has taken possession of the skull and they intend to get to the bottom of it. Whatever it is. But I mean, if the skull is five feet long, the whole thing must be enormous! Can you imagine the size of the saucer? This raises a whole bunch of questions. All this time, we assumed the aliens were little men with big heads and huge eyes. I've seen them myself. They're only four feet tall. What if the giant dinosaurs are actually the superior species, and they sent these tiny aliens to scout for them? And these giant aliens may still be out there."

"We'll be right back with Dave and his incredible story after this short commercial break."

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"Well, we're back. Ferd Ludlow here. Our last guest, Dave Bruce, bailed during the commercial break but we have a surprise caller who is no stranger to residents of central Florida. Gary Duba is the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, caught the biggest python in state history, and killed the biggest feral hog on record. Over a thousand pounds."

"Sorry to interrupt there, Ferd, but that wasn't me who killed Hogzilla. It was my pal Pincus. You need to track a feral hog, you call Pincus."

"Gary claims to have witnessed a UFO abduction. Go ahead."

"Y'all know about Tallywhacker, the animatronic bull who developed artificial intelligence, who was invaded by several aliens with multiple personality order."

"Are you saying his brain was a battleground?"

"It was Little Big Horn and the Battle of the Bulge all wrapped up into one. That poor bull didn't know whether to shit or go blind! Well, I guess he did, actually."

"Just so you know, we're on a ten second time lapse so we can bleep out the bad words. Go ahead, Gary."

"Sorry, Ferd. Anyhow, Tallywhacker took over the Church of Necroeconomics, ran for governor, and ran a taco stand in Little Cuba."

"Isn't that the same mechanical bull that destroyed the Miami Museum of Modern Art? What was that, eleven million in damages?"

"Well yeah, but they really jack the prices up. I mean, who's gonna pay two mil for a blob of glass that looks like an ashtray? They tried to stick me with the bill, but it was ruled a force majeure."

"Why did they try to stick you with the bill?"

"Fuck if I know."

"Folks, if you hear a bleep in there, you know why. Tell us about the alien abduction."

"I was down in the Big Cypress getting Krystal ready for her fight with Javelina. Two weeks, folks! At the Roxy! Tickets still available. She trains with this witchee woman. Anyhoo, I was heading home on foot, on account I lost my truck in a sinkhole..."

"Wait a minute. Is this the same sinkhole where you found the dinosaur head?"

"That's right, Ferd. Dubasaurus. We only got the head, but we're going back for the rest."

"Tell us about the alien abduction."

"Yeah. I'm walking along this dirt road when all of a sudden clouds gather, there's thunder and lightning and Tallywhacker rises out of the swamp! I about shit a piston!"

"Folks, if you hear a bleep in there, you know why. Gary, were you on drugs?"

"I mighta had some reefer, but that don't make you see bulls! Anyhow, Tallywhacker is practically crying. 'I've got to go, Gary,'" Gary said in a wheezy falsetto. "'The elders are calling me home.' Then, out of the darkest, densest cloud I ever seen, this flying saucer descends, spinning like a top. It's huge, man. It was like thirty feet across. It hovers right over Tallywhacker, and he's crying! he's crying man, because he loves Florida, and he hates to go!"

Ferd Ludlow sniffed. "Folks, if this doesn't bring a tear to your eye, you have no heart."

"And this big iris opens on the saucer's belly. A glowing yellow tractor beam pulls Tallywhacker up into the saucer, the lens snaps shut, and SWOOSH! Off she goes. Five minutes later, the clouds are gone, and the sun is shining."

FORTY

SHOW BIZ

Tuesday morning, the incessant buzzing and whining of Gary's phone woke him from a dream in which he threw money from a hot air balloon to adoring crowds. He sat up and looked at his phone.

"What's up, Aldo?"

Aldo Moldanado was the Roxy's promoter, taking over from Downtown Brown. "Good morning, Gary. How goes the training?"

"She's pretty stoked, Aldo. She was in two auto accidents yesterday, but I think she'll be all right."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that! We're almost sold out. Are you sure she'll be ready?"

"I'm sure. Krystal's no quitter. She just got bruised up a little."

"What happened?"

"We were attacked by two pythons. I mean, who could possibly have foreseen that?"

"How did that cause an accident?"

"They slithered out onto the road too fast for us to slow down. They wrecked one car, then another. Not to worry, Aldo! She'll be good to go."

"The reason I called, I'm thinking of adding some entertainment between rounds, maybe a comedian or a juggler."

"That's a good idea, Aldo. Who you got in mind?"

"That's why I called. I was hoping you might have some connections."

"Major Sutton does stand-up. He's my producer."

"Do you think he would do it for two hundred and fifty dollars?"

"Probably. I'll ax. Lemme send you some YouTubes. He cracks me up!"

"Nothing offensive or scatological."

"Aldo, this ain't ladies bingo night. Our audience loves offensive and scatological."

"Well let me see the videos. Do you know any jugglers?"

"No."

"Dancers?"

"It's too bad Tallywhacker got sucked up by the mothership. That bull could dance."

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

"No worries. Let me think. How about an ax thrower?"

"That's not a good fit."

"I know two girls who'll strip to 'Sweet Home Alabama'."

"No."

"They don't have to strip to Sweet Home Alabama. They could strip to Lift Every Voice and Sing. That way you got the black crowd."

"What else?"

"I know a dude can pull wheelies in his wheelchair."

"What else?"

"Elvis Presley impersonators. I got two. A good ol' boy and a Frenchie."

"A French Elvis Presley impersonator?"

"That's right."

"What else."

"How 'bout a rapping rabbit?"

"A what?"

"Dude wears a giant bunny suit and freestyles. I saw him at Wacky World. Didn't make any sense to me, but hell, the audience is gonna be so drunk and stoned they'll laugh at a crippled cat."

"Can you send me video?"

"Lemme look into it. What about a palmetto bug eating contest?"

"That's not a good fit."

"We could catch rats and put little tags on 'em. Everybody gets a ticket when they come through the door, and then between fights, we let the rats loose and people hunt 'em down. If you catch a rat with the same number as your ticket, you win a prize."

"What prize?"

"A Nordic track, a free massage, a jar of kelp pickles."

"That's asking for trouble."

"All right. Suppose I get the rapping rabbit and I bring in a hip-hop skunk, and they go at it between rounds. A free-style rap-off."

"Can one of them be of Latin descent?"

"A rappin' Latin skunk?"

"Yes."

"Lemme look into it. Y'know, Major would do it if we could find a big enough suit. That way you got the black vote."

"How would they know?"

"Well the rabbit's white and the skunk is black. You'll know it from his voice. He sounds like Leotis."

"Who's Leotis?"

"A giant Mekong catfish. Too bad we can't bring him up there, 'cause he sings like Levi Stubbs."

"Who's Levi Stubbs?"

"Y'know, Aldo, I keep forgetting you grew up in a communist dictatorship and only listened to four-hour harangues on the radio. Levis Stubbs was lead singer for the Four Tops! Baby, I Need Your Lovin', Bernadette, I Can't Help Myself?"

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"It's just theoretical. You'd need a ten-thousand-gallon aquarium."

"All right. Send me clips of the rabbit and the skunk."

"Will you pay 'em each two fifty?"

"I guess I can do that. But no more!"

"Can they sell their CDs and downloads?"

"We'll work something out. There's a half hour break between the semi and the main event."

"Who's fighting in the semi?"

"Cobra versus Mongoose."

Happy that he'd lined up gigs for his friends, Gary nuked a Jimmy Dean sausage, cheese and egg muffin and drank reconstituted orange juice from the carton. He checked for Venezuelans, gathered some slops in a bucket and sat at the end of the pier.

Leotis sang as he approached. "On the day I was born the nurses all gathered 'round. And they gazed in wide wonder at the joy they had found...B-b-bad to the bone."

"Leotis, I almost got you a singing gig!"

"I don't think I could sing in front of strangers."

"How'd you like to record an album? We can do it right here."

"Who will provide musical accompaniment?"

"Floyd plays trombone. That's all you need."

"What would I sing?"

"The George Thorogood Songbook."

"Let me think about it."

"Leotis, I need your advice."

"That's why I'm here."

"Should I buy a burial plot or just have myself cremated?"

"Gary, I'm concerned. You're in the prime of life. Why would you ask such a thing?"

"Well yesterday we were attacked by a python and it nearly killed us. It just reminded me of life's fleeting nature and that any of us could be struck down at any time for any reason."

"Gary, that's terrible! I'm so relieved that you're all right! And I feel a deep sense of shame in that these pythons come from my corner of the world. They have no business here."

"Yeah, well, I also think I need to educate the next generation about my accomplishments. That's why I'm leaning toward the burial plot. I want the marker to say Gary Duba apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, caught the biggest python in state history, and was responsible for the death of Hogzilla, although Pincus pulled the trigger."

"Gary, history will remember you whether you get the marker or not. Did you know you have your own Wikipedia page?"

"No shit! How do you know that?"

"People drop their phones." A bubble broke the surface.

Gary pulled out his phone and Googled himself. It was iffy because he was at the very limit of the trailer's wireless transmitter. Sure enough, there he was, along with a photo of him receiving the key to the city, and him posing with dot com billionaire Oren Houtkooper and his prize-winning python, with the head duct-taped to the body.

"Ho shit! Hey, do you know where I could get a giant skunk suit for Major Sutton?"

"What size?"

"Major's about five nine but he goes two fifty."

"I would try eBay."

FORTY-ONE

APOCALYPTO

Delilah sent queries regarding the dinosaur skull to the Seminole Tribal Council, the Florida Museum of Natural History, and the Miami Museum of Modern Art, which had been restored following the Tallywhacker apocalypse. Art offered to donate ten thousand dollars to the Council "to preserve prehistoric fossils and structures" in exchange for hosting the skull in a month-long show, "Beautiful Bones."

Two lumberjacks arrived at Delilah's house at three p.m. on Wednesday, while Krystal was showering from her four-hour workout. The two bearded men stood slack jawed staring until Delilah stormed from the house and yanked the plastic curtain shut. Krystal turned toward her surprised. Krystal was wearing earbuds and was bopping out to "Uptown Funk" and hadn't heard them arrive.

"We came for the dino skull," said the driver, a jumbo in baggy cargo trou and a wife beater that revealed enough body hair to knit a sweater."

"It's at the museum in Clewiston. Let's go."

They got in the lumberjacks' truck and drove to the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum on West Boundary Road. The skull was in the prep room. The lumberjacks walked around it, whistling.

"I'll take the front. You take the back."

Delilah watched as the two men hoisted the skull, carried it outside, and set it gently on a stack of moving blankets in the back of their van. They covered the skull with more moving blankets and bungeed it down tight. They drove back to Delilah's place. The driver handed Delilah four tickets.

"These are good for the duration of the show, which starts November 10 and will run for thirty days."

The men stood hoping for another glimpse of Krystal. Delilah put her hands on her hips. "Anything else?"

"No, ma'am. Thank you."

The other pointed. "Is that a bottle tree?"

"No, it's a begonia."

They got in the truck and left. Krystal put on a shirt and coveralls. "Who was that?"

"Museum of Modern Art. Beautiful Bones." She handed Krystal the tickets. "They'd better have food."

"What are you gonna do about your car? Was it insured?"

"Ain't no insurance will cover that. I'll just buy a new one. I got money. All of us livin' on the res got money. We get a guaranteed income of one hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars a year."

"For what?"

"For bein' Seminole."

"Holy shit. That would save us so much trouble. Can you adopt us?"

Delilah looked her up and down. "Don't work that way."

"Well ain't we blood kin now? We took that oath."

"Don't work that way."

"What are we doing for dinner?"

Delilah ducked inside the dome and came out with a fishing pole, tacklebox and bait box. She thrust the pole at Krystal.

Krystal wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You're kidding."

Delilah thrust the pole more forcefully. Krystal took it.

"You don't have no problem eating fish. 'Bout time you catch your own fish. I can't believe you was raised in the swamp and never done any fishing."

"My brothers did all the fishing."

"You even know how to clean a fish?"

"Yuck!"

"Let's go." Delilah strode into the swamp. Krystal had no choice but to follow. Delilah wore black combat boots. Krystal wore Danner Waffle Stompers for Ladies. Mosquitoes dogged their every move. Krystal waved her hat like a bronc buster. They came to the edge of a deep pool surrounded by cat tails, sawgrass, and mangrove. Two duck asses stuck out of the water.

Delilah sat on a sawed-off log and spread her legs. She set the tackle box and bait bucket between her feet. "Gimme the hook."

Krystal extended the narrow end of the pole. Delilah jammed an earthworm the size of her thumb on the hook, working it around so the hook pierced it twice. Krystal fanned her face.

Delilah pointed. "Now you cast that line right there in the deep spot."

Krystal drew the pole back like a buggy whip and flung. "OWW! Oh my God there's a worm in my hair!"

Delilah spat. She stood and worked the hooked worm out of Krystal's hair.

"Oh my God."

"Do you want me to slap you?"

Krystal straightened up. "All right. Show me what I got to do."

"You cast that line right there in the deep spot."

This time Krystal managed not to snag herself. The fat worm splatted ten feet from shore in the deep spot and sank.

"Ol' catfish'll see that worm wriggling in ten...nine...eight..."

Something yanked on the line. "I got it!" Krystal screamed. "I got it!"

"Well pull it in."

Krystal wound the reel. She needed both hands on the pole to haul the two-foot catfish.

"What's in the bait box?"

Delilah unlatched the bait box and opened it. "Primo Mich, Turkish tobacco, peyote, psilocybin, hash oil, hashpipe, papers. Aspirin."

"Not now. Maybe later."

"Well put that fish in the bait bucket and sit your ass down."

"With the worms?"

"Don't worry about it. Those worms are clean. What is the plan?"

"Javelina and I are meeting on the fourteenth to work out the moves. You gotta be there."

"What is the plan if she don't stick to the plan?"

"Javelina? She's sweet. We're friends!"

"You only think you're friends. She wants what you've got. You're ranked number seven flyweight. She's number ten. She beats you, you change places. You get paid less. You gotta go lucha libre. And believe me, honey, you don't want to wrassle in front of a hundred drunk Mexicans in a bar in Juarez. Next thing you know you're strippin', and then you're in a donkey show."

Delilah tamped tobacco into her corncob pipe, stroked a kitchen match on a rock, and puffed her bowl to a glow. "What is the plan?"

"Flying knee to the chin. I might throw up on her too."

"They'll be waiting for that."

"Should I do it?"

"Nah. Once was an accident. Twice it looks like it’s a tactic. Let's go back. You get to clean this fish."

"Yuck!"

"Girl, this is your lucky day."

When they returned to the house, Delilah slapped the catfish down on the sawed-off cypress stump they used as a butcher's block. Krystal stared at it with curled lip.

"You can't tell Gary anything about this."

"Are you kidding? A wife who cleans fish?"

"We can't tell him it's a catfish."

"Why not?"

"He's got this fixation. Every night he thinks he talks to a giant catfish at the end of the pier. Leotis."

"What does the Leotis tell him?"

"It told him about the three harbingers. The bat, the rabbit, the turtle. We've got the bat and the rabbit. It's like we're waiting for the third shoe to drop."

"Watch out for that turtle."

Krystal cleaned the fish. Delilah stuffed the fish with herbs and mushrooms, wrapped it in palm fronds and grilled on the Weber. They ate at the picnic table.

"These mosquitoes are killing me."

Delilah cast a mosquito net over Krystal like a fisherman. She lifted the end and slid under. They sat opposite each other draped with netting and ate. Delilah sipped shine and smoked her pipe. Krystal smoked a joint. Dusk fell. The cat crawled under the netting and wrapped around Krystal's feet meowing.

"What does it want?"

"Catfish."

Krystal lowered her paper plate to the ground.

"Come on," Delilah said. "We'll watch Apocalypto."

FORTY-TWO

THE ROYAL DUCATS REQUEST

Friday morning Major picked Gary up and took him to breakfast at the Waffle Hut in Turpentine. They sat in a booth looking out on the parking lot next to Walmart, sipping coffee.

"It's all set," Major said. "The Royal Ducats are arriving Palm Beach this afternoon, will spend the evening at the Breakers, and come out to your place tomorrow morning to begin filming their segment."

"What's the theme?"

"Gator hunting. You'll take them out on your swamp boat. I'll follow in a skiff with a camera crew. I've asked Pincus to join us to provide aerial footage."

"Maj, there's already a show about gator hunting. It's called Swamp People. Every show, same thing. Troy says, well there's some big bull gators up at Johnson's Hole, and we better go get 'um 'less Junior beats us to it. They go get the gator. They haul it in. Troy says, shoot it, Chase! Shoot it! They show the gator. They show Chase from a gator point of view sighting along the barrel. But they never show them actually shooting the gator!"

"Well, that's where we're gonna go one better. The Duke is going to shoot the gator, and we're going to show it getting plugged right in the skull, and if it splashes blood on the camera, so be it!"

"Has the Duke ever shot a gator?"

"No, but he's been quail hunting his whole life, and he shot a hippo in Africa."

"Well hell. I shot a hippo on the ninth hole at Shangri-La. Maybe we oughtta go hippo hunting."

"Not enough hippos. Didn't you tell me that swamp was thick with gators?"

"It's lousy with 'em. I can guaran-dog-tee you a gator."

"Well, all right then."

The waitress brought platters. "Here ya go, hon." Omelet for Major, waffles for Gary.

They ate.

"Major, what do you know about psychedelic toads?"

Major looked up; his mouth full of omelet. He chewed. He swallowed. "Huh?"

"I know this dude's doing a segment on 'em for his show on the History Channel. Bizarre Bazaar."

"What prompts this?"

"I was just thinking, I could get hold of one of them toads, lick it, and then you could follow me around filming my experience."

"Not a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Are the toads indigenous to Florida?"

"Hell no. They're invasive, just like every other critter that jumps out at me from a pond."

"No."

"How 'bout we trick the Duke into licking one?"

Major smiled. "Gary, I have to admit, that would make great television. But it's likely a felony and you would lose the good will of the American people, and probably the British too."

"Just a thought."

"What are you gonna do about your truck?"

"I'm going to Dealin' Doug."

"Do you trust Dealin' Doug?"

"He ain't gonna screw me over. We've known each other too long. Did you hear about that couple living in the Walmart attic?"

"Yeah. What a hoot. Love to interview them for the show."

"Yeah, I met 'em. Nice folks."

"How'd you meet them?"

"Florida Man Leads Police On Two Hour Chase Through Walmart Attic."

"That was you?"

Gary beamed. "I got in a fight with the self-checkout machine and it called the cops on me. I got away clean!"

Major's phone buzzed. He put a finger in his ear and talked.

"The Royal Ducats want to know if you'd like to join them tonight at the Breakers."

"Sure, why not."

"You'll have to wear a jacket and tie."

Gary racked his brain. He had one jacket and one tie. "I can do that."

"Please arrive at six and phone their suite. They will come down and then you'll go to the Flagler Steak House."

"Why don't we just meet in the steak house?"

Major laced his fingers. "They're British royalty. They're used to having people wait on them."

"This here's America! We already kicked their asses once, and by God we'll do it again! Everybody talks about how the British are so nice. Nice my ass! They're a bunch of bloodthirsty savages! Look at this Duke. Flying down to Africa to shoot a hippo! We got hippos rightchere need shooting! We oughtta take him out on a golf course. He'll see hippos, gators, you name it. Hell, I'll even caddie."

"The Duke has a nine handicap. He plans to play the Shangri-La while he's here."

"I'd be happy to caddie for him. I'll bring the guns."

"You can discuss that at dinner. Don't bring your guns."

Gary clapped his hands together and rubbed. "Hot diggity! We gonna film this?"

"No, this will be a private meeting. Krystal is invited as well. I'm meeting elsewhere with their producer."

Major dropped Gary off at Dealin' Doug's, a used car emporium on the east side highway. Gary walked the rows of sparkling vehicles. They had twenty-two pickups. Gary had always been a Ford guy. He was looking over a clean '15 with 85,000 miles when Dealin' Doug zeroed in like a shark smelling blood. Dealin' Doug was in his fifties with a florid drinker's face, a shock of white hair, and a beige Banlon shirt that bulged over his wide leather belt with a dinner plate sized buckle.

"If it isn't Turpentine's famous son! How you doin', Gary?"

"Doin' great, Doug."

"You interested in this truck?"

"Gotta drive something. Sinkhole swallowed the last one."

"No kiddin'! Hope you weren't in it when it happened."

"I was, Doug. It was quite an adventure. I discovered a dinosaur skull. It's going on display right now at the Miami Museum of Modern Art."

"Why is a dinosaur skull on display at a modern art museum?"

"Hell if I know."

Doug ran his hand along the truck's fender. "This one's ultra-clean, was owned by a little old lady who only used it on weekends to drive to thrift stores. It's got the three and a half liter V6, which is really all you need, unless you're haulin' a tractor trailer. Sirius XM, cruise control."

Doug's seven-year-old son Howie marched up. "Nobody beats a Dealin' Doug deal! Nobody!"

"This one's a steal, Gary. Eighteen thou and you drive it off the lot. You want to finance, I can give you a great deal."

Gary pulled out his fat wallet. "I got cash."

Doug's eyes popped. "That's a lot of money to be walkin' around with."

"Let me take it for a drive."

"Follow me back to the shop and we'll get you the keys."

Five minutes later, Gary exited the lot and headed west on Eighty. He turned south on Weldon Way. "All right, you sumbitches," he snarled. "Let's see how you handle a real truck!"

FORTY-THREE

SOLD

A blue Chevy Blazer sat in the yard when Gary arrived. He looked around for Venezuelans. But there were no Venezuelans. The front door opened, and Krystal came out wearing short shorts and a man's shirt tied at the midriff.

She motioned toward him. "Get your buns up here!"

Gary bounded up the steps, enveloped her like a squid and kissed her.

"Who's got the Blazer?"

"That's Delilah's. We just picked it up from Honest John's."

"Where'd she get the scratch?"

"Every res Indian gets a hundred and thirty-eight thousand smackers a year."

"Where do we sign up?"

"I already tried that, boss. We don't qualify."

Inside, Delilah sat Injun-style on the rainbow throw rug in the living room, wearing a brown wrapped headdress and an ankle-length dashiki, eyes shut, hands in the lotus position, chanting. "Witchi-tie-to, gimee rah, whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko, hey ney, hey ney, no way..."

"Izzat Seminole?"

Krystal pulled Gary into the bedroom.

"Leave her be. She's meditating."

"How's training?"

"Let's ball. Then I'll tell you."

Fifteen minutes later she sat up. "I'm good to go. I'm a mean motor scooter and a meat-eating mama. I'm a hemi-driven semi pulling four tons of hurt. My mother was a badger, and my other mother was a honey badger."

"Hey guess what. We're having dinner with the Ducats!"

"Who?"

"The royal couple! The Duke and Duchess of Ducats!"

"Well, what are we gonna feed 'em?"

"At the Breakers! As their guests!"

"No way."

"For reals."

"What'll I wear?"

"Wear that yellow shift with the Popeye characters."

"For the Breakers? I ain't never been to the Breakers! I never dreamed I would go to the Breakers! I'll wear my wedding dress."

"That's bad luck, baby. Why don't we stop by Target on the way and you can pick something up?"

"That's a good idea! Is that the new truck?"

"Yeah. Ain't it purty?"

They put on clothes and went to the living room. Delilah was poking around in the kitchen rattling pans. "There's nothing to eat but frozen tacos and beer. Gary, go out and shoot something."

"You picky?"

"Don't shoot no panther."

"What about python?"

"Shoot a hog. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, I guess."

Gary went into the bedroom and pulled down the bolt action 308 Marlin his father had ordered from Montgomery Ward in 1969. He grabbed a box of ammo and stuck them in the mag. He doused himself with bug spray, pulled his NRA hat low over his eyes, filled a quart water bottle and put it in his backpack. He followed the game trail between the sawgrass and mangrove heading toward the pond. Gary lived on a peninsula surrounded on three sides by swamp and open water.

The buzzards and hogs had licked the road clean of python. Soon Gary was entirely surrounded by green. Ten feet and he could see the water, but in this dense little thicket he might as well be in Myanmar. He inhaled the sweet and rotten smell of the swamp. A whiff of decay.

The Sumatran corpse flower! Was it possible that fool Garrison was right? Could the giant Sumatran corpse flower invade Florida? If so, what a boon to tourism! Everyone wanted to be photographed with the giant corpse flower! It only bloomed once every eleven years! Was it possible to stagger their planting, so that one would bloom every year? Or were they synchronized like girls all getting their periods at the same time?

A faint breeze stirred the wind, and it was gone. Snorting. With any luck, Gary would find a nice, twenty-five-pound pig. He wasn't shooting anything bigger. Silent as a cat, Gary whispered toward the water, parting the grass with the rifle. He crouched in a three-foot stand of saw grass beyond which lay opaque water. He parted the grass and saw three feral pigs wallowing across the shallow inlet. Resting his left elbow on his left knee, he snugged the rifle butt to his shoulder and took aim.

KABLAMMO! A pig flopped. The others disappeared squealing. That pig was dead. Right through the heart. Leaning the rifle against a mangrove tree, Gary waded into the water. Two feet was enough for most crocs. Gary grabbed the pig before the scent of blood spread through the water. He swung the pig over his shoulders and waded back to shore, blood running down his neck, picked up his rifle and inserted himself sideways into the jungle. As he entered the little clearing, a dark oval the size of a serving platter confronted him.

The turtle! He set the pig on marshy ground.

"Tell me, turtle. What is my fate? What I gotta do to move up and out?"

The turtle disappeared in the weeds. Gary picked up the pig and carried it to the tree stump. It had been a mighty water oak until lightning struck. The pig hit with a thump. Krystal and Delilah were on the porch drinking.

"Gotcher pig, Delilah, but you'll have to butcher it yourself. Me and Krystal are outta here to dine with the royal couple."

"What royal couple?"

"The Duke and Duchess of Ducats."

"Nothing surprises me."

Gary went inside and got the big Bowie. "Here, use this. Put the slops in that bait bucket, won'tcha? Leotis likes 'em."

Delilah gave Krystal a look.

"See? I told you."

Gary showered, got his sports jacket and black tie with little green alligators, hung them in the back of the new truck. "We'll change when we get there. You think these shorts are okay?"

"Bring long pants, Gary."

Gary changed into his only pair of Dockers and they headed into town. The parking lot was busy. Gary parked his new truck across two spaces in the back near a light pole so he wouldn't get dinged by some brain-dead teen. Inside, Krystal beelined for a women's short sleeve knit dress. "Wild Fable." Eight dollars and forty cents. She checked the size. She grabbed the dress and headed for the checkout lane.

"Sold."

"Don't you want to try it on?"

"No. It'll fit. I got stuff here before. Let's go."

When they came outside, a man was on his knees drawing "ASSHOLE PARKING" in big white letters all the way around Gary's truck.

FORTY-FOUR

ELEGANCE

"Hey asshole!" Gary said.

The man looked up. "Is this your truck?"

"Yeah. What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The man stood. He was six six. He looked like an Easter Island statue. "You're the asshole, man. Look at the way you park. Can't you see the lines?"

"What the fuck do you care? The nearest car is twenty feet away!"

"Y'know, man, the trouble with this world is that most people just don't give a shit. They see a wrong or an injustice and they just tell themselves it's none of my business and keep walking. But not the Main Man. You're lucky I didn't smash the windshield or snap off your rearview mirrors."

"Do I know you?"

"Not likely."

"How'd you like a fat lip?"

The man towered and glowered. "Why is it people like you always resort to violence and threats of violence?"

"I'm not the one calling names!"

The man bristled and whistled. "Youuuu..." He turned and stalked off.

"That's right, asshole! Run! Run like the cowardly dog you are!"

Krystal put her hand on Gary's arm. "Enough. Let's go. We'll be late."

They drove to the Breakers. Gary tipped the valet ten bucks. "Careful with my baby."

The doorman looked askance as they entered clutching their finery, hers in a Target bag, his folded under his arm. When they came out of the restrooms in their evening wear, Major was sitting in the lobby, reading the Palm Beach Post Gazette. He looked up.

"Well don't you two look swell. Look at this." He held up the front page.

florida man leads police on three and a half hour chase through walmart attic.

"Well damn!" Gary said. "That blows my record all to hell!"

"I didn't know you led police on a chase through a Walmart attic."

"I try not to brag."

"The royal couple are waiting to hear from you."

Gary went to a house phone. Regan answered.

"The Royal Ducats."

"Hey, Regan! Krystal and I are in the lobby."

"We'll be right down."

They joined Major in the lobby.

"We're shooting tomorrow. Muriel Martinez will film. I've asked Pincus to operate the drones."

"We're getting the old gang back together!"

"The Royal Couple have a list of requirements." Major handed Gary a stapled document.

1. You will address the royal couple as Duke and Duchess, or your highness or highnesses.

2. No vulgarities.

3. When the Duke and Duchess speak, you must listen attentively. Please watch this short video of the Queen's corgis.

4. All technical persons such as camera persons, director, et al must refrain from looking the Duke and Duchess in the eye.

5. Gary and Krystal may look the Royal Couple in the eye only when speaking directly to them.

The list went on for five pages.

"Are you kidding?" Gary said. "Have they ever seen my show?"

"Gary, this will be ratings gold. Your viewership is certain to at least double. I have a list of advertisers who will jump on board the day after this airs. It goes without saying you must not put the Royal Couple in any danger. Toward that end, we have arranged to release several drugged alligators in the pond, where you will wrangle the gator next to the boat so the Duke can shoot it."

"It's a set-up!"

The elevator disgorged the Royal Couple, he in an Abitto Blinder Blue Estate Herringbone Tweed Three Piece, she in a Prada wool blend Lurex ribbed turtleneck, pearls the size of marbles around her neck.

"Get up!" Major hissed.

Krystal and Gary rose to greet the Royal Couple.

"Jolly good!" the prince declared. "Let's walk down the veranda to the restaurant."

The Steak House was an elegant three-story building in the Southern style.

"Flagler Steakhouse is a refreshing interpretation of the traditional, masculine spirit with a twist of Palm Beach prep, putting a contemporary, lighthearted spin on the island’s clubby legacy," the Duke recited with aplomb. "A celebration of a time-honored tradition, its air of exclusivity cleverly plays on its location, yet the restaurant remains open to the public with convenient access right off South County Road. The members-only feeling is evident upon arrival, as guests driving up are warmly greeted by the valet on-site and know they’re in the right place."

Regan patted the Duke on the arm. "Larry considered a career in the theater, but the Queen Mother crushed his hopes and dreams as one might step on an ant."

The manager, a tall, bald man in an impeccable ecru suit, met them at the door.

"Your highnesses, we are thrilled beyond measure that you grace us with our presence. And who are your delightful companions?"

Regan put her hand on Gary's arm. "Gary Duba is the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, caught the biggest python in state history, and is the inventor of House Suspenders. His delightful wife Krystal is ranked number ten women's flyweight among the Stunning Ladies of Wrestling."

"I'm fighting Javelina next week at the Roxy," Krystal said. "Y'all come."

"Delighted. This way please."

The maitre d' led them up winding colonial stairs to the second floor, through a broad dining room humming with conversation and the clink of crystal, onto the veranda, overlooking the golf course. A table at the end was set off from the other diners by velvet ropes. The maitre d' unlatched the rope and gestured for them to enter. Two white liveried waiters pulled back chairs for the ladies, and then the men.

A slim metrosexual with patent leather hair displayed his chiclets. "Good evening. The Flagler is honored by your presence. I am Yoel and I will be your waiter tonight. Can I get you something to drink?"

"Are you Cuban?"

"I was born in Havana, Your Highness."

"Oh, I just adore Cubans. I'm part Cuban myself."

"I'll have a glass of Glenmorangie on the rocks," said Prince Larry. "And the lady will have a dry Boodles martini. Gary?"

"I'll have whatever beer you have on draft and a Buffalo Trace chaser."

"Sir, I'm not sure we have Buffalo Trace."

"Whatever bourbon you got."

Yoel turned to Krystal. "And for the lady?"

"I'll take your finest rosé. Bring the bottle."

"Perfect."

"Gary," the prince said, "I've been following your exploits. I wasn't aware you caught a serial killer."

"Well, all credit goes to the monitor lizard, Prince. He's the one that bit him."

"Oh? Pray tell."

"Yeah, I had a restaurant that specialized in iguana. The Lizard Lounge. The cook caught a monitor lizard only we couldn't cook it, on account they're poison. We was riding around with the lizard in a cage and when Mukerjee stole my truck, it bit him."

"How did it get out of the cage?"

"That's my fault," Krystal said. "I took pity on the poor creature and unlatched the gate."

"But I did catch the biggest python in state history. I cut its head off with a samurai sword and had to tape it back on to claim the prize."

FORTY-FIVE

SHAZAM!

"What did you do before your sudden rise to fame?" the prince asked.

"I was a roofer and I'd help Floyd kill palmetto bugs. Floyd's my best friend. We known each other since high school. You?"

Regan grabbed the prince's arm. "Larry went to Eton and Sandhurst. Then he enlisted in the Blues and Royals cavalry regiment and served five months in Afghanistan."

"But you're a prince," Krystal said. "You didn't have to go!"

"What kind of a man would I be if I didn't go with my mates? Let's look at the menu, shall we?"

The menus weighed a pound.

"Oh, I could go for those crab dumplings," Regan said. "Will you split them with me?"

Prince Larry put his hand on hers. "Assuredly."

"Look at this!" Gary said. "A-foot-long hot dog for sixteen bucks! You know how many foot longs I can get in Turpentine for sixteen bucks?"

Yoel returned with their drinks. "Have you had an opportunity to look at the menu?"

"Give us a minute," Regan said.

"Would you like me to tell you about the specials?"

"In a minute."

"Excellent."

"Larry will have the all-natural roasted chicken."

"Must I? I would really prefer the surf and turf."

"Yes, you must. You must watch your cholesterol."

Krystal ordered the Yellowfin Tuna Au Poivre.

"Gimme that foot long!" Gary said.

"Perfect," Yoel declared and backed away bowing.

Prince Larry raised his glass. "Cheers!"

Gary raised his beer. "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if the liquor don't getcha, the women must! Down the hatch!"

The prince rubbed his hands together. "Very excited about tomorrow's alligator hunt. I brought my Harrison. That should do the trick, eh wot?"

Gary polished off his bourbon and signaled for another. "What's a Harrison?"

"Custom shotgun, old chap. Twenty-eight-inch S&S chopper-lump barrels with smooth concave rib choked cylinder and modified thirteen and five eights pull. Perished old Silvers pad. Fully figured European walnut stock with Anson push button release splinter forend, straight English grip with semi-diamond had, teardrops, classic point pattern checkering with mullered borders and gold oval. Case-hardened, small frame, sidelock action stocked to the fences with gold-line cocking indicators, intercepting sears, automatic ejectors, and automatic top tang safety with SAFE inlaid in gold. I'll let you fire it. It will spoil you on all other shotguns."

"We hunt gators with a pistol. Don't worry, Lar. I gotcha covered. I got a neat little Taurus .38 you can use. Cost two hundred bucks."

"A pistol?"

"Fuck yeah. We're only shooting from two feet away. We snug that gator up close to the boat and drill it through the skull. It's the only way to hunt."

Regan wrapped her hands around the prince's arm. "Larry, that sounds positively revolting. I forbid you from participating in this insanity."

Gary polished off his second bourbon and signaled for another. "Prince don't come, we ain't got no show."

The prince patted her hand. "It will be lovely, my darling, I assure you. I'll be perfectly safe in Gary's hands. This isn't his first shooting match! This is the chap who bagged the largest feral hog in state history."

"That was Pincus. He'll be there to run the drones."

Regan's lip curled. "Pincus?"

"One smart little Jew boy. You'll love him."

"What time should we get there?" Regan said.

"Well, there's no rush. Those gators ain't going nowhere. Why don'tcha come over around noon. We'll catch that gator and rustle up some ribs. You'll love Delilah's BBQ sauce."

"Who is Delilah?"

"Witchee woman who trains Krystal. Her recipe is a closely guarded secret, but I know it involves chili peppers and two mouthfuls of vinegar."

"Fights?"

"Oh yeah! Krystal's fighting Javelina in two weeks! We gotcha ringside seats, right next to the governor."

Yoel returned with a young woman wheeling a tinkling silver serving cart. He served the ladies first, whisking off the sterling silver covers with a flourish.

"Will there be anything else?"

Gary pointed to his foot long. "I'd like some ketchup. And another bourbon."

Regan's lip flew up like a window blind. "Ketchup?"

"Some people don't like ketchup on their dogs. Me 'n Floyd had a fight over it. You want to put mustard on your dog, you go right ahead. It's a free country. Me, I'll take ketchup any day of the week and twice on Sundays."

"Oh brother," Regan muttered.

Krystal held her fork like an ice pick. "Can't wait for you to meet Delilah. You two are gonna hit it off."

"Tell me more about this fascinating creature."

"She's a Seminole witchee woman. The Seminole are the original settlers. They own all the Hard Rock cafes and casinos. She don't have to work, but she can't just sit around. She's been wrassling since she was a papoose, and now she's my trainer."

"How do you train?"

"Well, I run to build up my endurance, and I wrassle a black bear named Samson. Only Samson's a girl."

"Samson and Delilah?"

"Yeah, ain't that a stitch? Delilah's not religious, 'less you count all those debbil dolls she's got sitting around her place, and when she goes into a trance and starts calling on the old gods."

Krystal tucked her chin down and looked grim. "Witchi-tie-to, gimee rah, whoa rah neeko, whoa rah neeko, hey ney, hey ney, no way..." she said in a guttural voice.

Regan laughed and clapped her hands. "You must teach me those words! I can use them in my role as Captain Megastar!"

"Who's Captain Megastar?"

Gary poked the remainder of the foot long into his mouth and chewed furiously. "Captain Megastar is the new Marvel superhero! And this here little lady's playin' her in the movie! Ain't that right, Reg?"

"You are correct, sir."

"And Sean Sheen's co-starring!"

"That hasn't been set yet. They're also talking to Astin Preen and Broderick Lawford."

"You a comic fan?"

"Not really. In fact, I'd never heard of Marvel comics until my agent brought me the offer."

"Well, I know a little bit about show biz myself," Gary said. "I had over three million YouTube subscribers."

"What happened?"

"You do one lousy episode about goat sex and people go nuts. Here's hoping this'll bring 'em back. I also know a few magic tricks."

"Oh really?" Regan said. "Would you show us one?"

Gary pushed back from the table, took off his jacket and showed his hands. "Nothing up my sleeve."

"Don't," Krystal said.

Gary turned around and pulled out his shirt. "Nothing behind my back."

Krystal stood, crossed her arms, and looked out at the golf course.

Gary gripped the white tablecloth in both hands. "Shazam!"

Gary yanked the tablecloth sending glasses, dishes, and silverware to the floor.

FORTY-SIX

THE THIRD HARBINGER

Major, Muriel Martinez, and Pincus arrived at Gary's place at nine Saturday morning in a Rustix van towing a Boston Whaler with a ninety horse Johnson. Pincus wore a life vest.

"Y'all come up," Gary said. "I got coffee and doughnuts."

Gary waited until they carbed up. "Okay, listen. The Royal Ducats are coming over so we'd better go over the rules. You gotta call 'em your highnesses, okay? You can't call 'em Larry and Regan cuz they ain't like you and me. Also try not to look 'em in the eye."

Major belched. "We fought a war, so we didn't have to put up with this bullshit!"

"Did you fight in the war? No? 'Cuz your ancestors didn't arrive until later!"

"And then we fought a war, so we didn't have to put up with your bullshit!"

Muriel Martinez, a small woman with a tight cap of black hair and horn-rimmed glasses, said, "You call them duke or duchess. Let's not refight the Civil War. Now as Maj explains it, you're taking the duke croc hunting."

"That's right."

"Well let's not have a repeat of what happened last time."

Gary drew his magnum. "Nobody's eating the duke. I'll make sure of that."

"Don't shoot him either."

"Nobody's shooting the duke. He'll have his own gun."

"Let's not refight the Revolutionary War."

"What about the Korean War?" Gary asked. "Can we refight that? I'm not crazy about how it ended."

Krystal came out wearing Daisy Dukes, a men's shirt tied over her taut midriff, cat’s eye sunglasses, and an Explorers Club cap, carrying two hand axes. "I thought I'd teach the duchess how to throw an ax."

"She'll enjoy that!" Gary said.

A black Escalade pulled into the yard followed by a History Channel van. A man in a chauffeur's uniform hopped out of the Caddy, ran around the front and opened the rear door. Out stepped the duke and duchess. Karen Sullivan and a tech guy with ear buds got out of the van. Everybody but Major went down the steps to greet the royal couple.

"We fought a war, so we didn't have to do this shit," Major mumbled.

The chauffeur opened the rear gate and took out two bottles of Moet & Chandon.

Prince Larry took a bottle. "I thought we would take this occasion to offer a toast. Martin, bring out the glasses."

The chauffeur poked around in the back. "I'm sorry, your Lordship. The glasses were left behind."

Prince Larry frowned. "I say. Do you have any flutes?"

"Come on up, Prince!" Gary said, leading the way. "I got just the thing."

Gary went in the house and returned with a stack of Red Solo Cups. He went back in, got the boombox, and plugged it in. Toby Keith's "Red Solo Cup" boomed as Krystal took charge of the champagne bottles, filling cups and handing them out. Gary brought out a plastic tray covered with Ding Dongs, Twinkies, and Li'l Debbie Snack Cakes. The duke picked one up and examined it.

"Take a bite outta that, Duke! You won't regret it."

The duke tentatively nibbled. "I say! This is a tasty little treat!" He pushed the Twinkie into his mouth. A half hour later, Major waved his arms.

"Let's get these boats in the water! Gary, you gonna use your swamp buggy?"

"Yeah, will you be able to keep up?"

Karen Sullivan gave the thumb's up. Pincus unpacked his drones and handed Gary a wrist band.

"The drone will focus on you as long as you wear this transmitter."

"You got one for the duke?"

"No. I only have one."

Gary handed the wrist band to the duke. "You wear it, Duke. You're the star attraction."

The duke fastened it around his wrist. While Muriel backed the Boston Whaler into the water, Gary led the duke to the end of the pier and stepped down into the swamp buggy. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a plastic container of Flent's Ear Stopples.

"Jam these in your ears while we're rolling. It gets pretty loud."

The duke examined the used wax ear plugs with distaste. "I don't think these are necessary."

"Suit yourself." Gary grabbed a pair and screwed them in. "I set some pig haunches over in Piss Poor Pond last night, and with any luck, we'll have gators waiting."

The duke pointed at a turtle the size of a dinner plate swimming away from the shore.

"I say! It's a monster!"

"That's a snapper. Stay away from those. Here's what's gonna happen. Ahmina pull the gator right up to the boat, you're gonna take this here magnum and plug it straight through the top of the skull between the eyes. Think you can do that?"

"I jolly well think so."

Muriel tied the Boston Whaler to the end of the pier. "Major, you and Pincus are with me."

"I'm staying here," Pincus said. "I'll be able to track you and communicate in real time. The drone is waterproof, but my monitor isn't."

Gary held his hand out to the duke. "Let's go!"

The duke stepped into the swamp buggy. Gary took his seat in front of the big fan and pushed the starter button. The small block Ford V8 roared into life. The duke shouted, "I say, may I see those ear plugs again?"

Major used a pole to push the air boat away from the dock, turning slowly until it pointed away from shore. Gary engaged the propeller and with a roar they skimmed into the swamp, followed moments later by Major and Muriel in the Whaler. The duke sat on an aluminum bench in front of Gary, grinning like a dog.

"I say! This is quite exhilarating!"

Gary steered the air boat around a shaggy peninsula toward a deeper section surrounded by mangrove and cypress. A taut line extended from a cypress branch into the water.

"See that line?" Gary yelled. "This is gonna be easier than I thought! You got the gun?"

The duke held his pistol up. "Tally ho!"

The Whaler followed them into the inlet, staying well back. Gary brought the air boat up to the line, killed the engine, and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

"Omma pull that gator up to the boat. All you got to do is plug it!"

"Who is filming?"

Gary pointed at the four-rotor drone hovering at twenty feet. "Ready?"

The duke gave him the thumb's up. Gary pulled the line in hand over hand. Judging by the resistance, he was dealing with a five-hundred-pounder. The gator surfaced, thrashing and gnashing. Gary braced his feet against the gunwale and hauled until the gator was up against the boat, dunking and dodging.

"Shoot it!" Gary said.

The duke hunkered at the rim holding the pistol in both hands. He drilled the gator through the top of its head, the shot reverberating in the sudden silence. Gary took out his earplugs.

"Hot damn! You get that, Pincus?"

"Clear as a bell."

"Help me get this puppy in the boat!"

Together, he and the duke rolled the eight-foot gator into the swamp buggy while the drone hovered. The duke took out his earplugs.

"I say, old chap. I have to drain my lizard. Could you put me ashore for a minute?"

Gary picked up a fiberglass pole. "No prob." He poled the boat ten feet to where the duke could jump onto solid ground. The duke walked a few feet into the forest until only his red hair was visible. The drone followed.

The duke's scream erupted from the jungle. The duke exploded from the green clutching his trousers, a snapping turtle dangling from his manhood.

FORTY-SEVEN

THE ROYAL SHLONG

Gary leaped from the boat, grabbed the duke by the back of his collar and his belt, and rushed him into the water. The duke bent over, eyes screwed shut, tears streaming.

"Hang on. It'll let go in a sec."

The turtle let go and swam away. The duke sank to a sitting position, water up to his armpits. "My God. I've never felt such pain."

"You just sit there a minute. Leotis, is this the third harbinger?"

"To whom are you speaking?"

"Leotis. He's my counselor."

The duke looked around. "I don't see anyone."

Gary pointed at the opaque water. "He could be right there, and you wouldn't know. He's a catfish."

The prince was in too much pain to pursue the conversation. The Whaler putted over. "What's wrong?" Muriel said. "Is he all right?"

"Nothing serious. A snapping turtle grabbed his Johnson, is all."

"Holy fuck," Major declared.

Muriel phoned Pincus. "Did you get it?"

"I got it. But I don't think you can use it."

Gradually, the duke relaxed. Cautiously, he felt around. "Everything is still attached, but the royal wang is temporarily out of service."

Gary helped him to his feet. They sat on the tufted grass. The duke's penis was black and blue, but there was no blood.

"Corngrats! You got yourself a gator!"

The duke laughed, then cried. "I will never forget this day."

"Yeah, and hey, if her highness wants some tonight, I'm available." Gary slapped the duke on the back. "Just joshing, hoss!"

The duke fastened his royal belt. His clothes were soaked. They got back in the swamp buggy where the duke carefully got down on one knee to pose with the gator while Gary snapped pictures. Ear plugs in place, Gary started the engine and they returned to the dock. Pincus gave them the okay sign. The duchess, Karen Sullivan and Krystal ran toward the dock. The duchess was shocked, Sullivan alarmed, Krystal trying not to laugh. Behind them came the chauffeur.

"Oh my God!" the duchess declared. "Are you all right?"

Grabbing hold of her hand, the duke stepped up on the pier. "I'll be all right, but it will take time. How do you know what happened?"

"We were watching on Zoom!"

"That video must be expunged," Sullivan declared. "It must be immediately expunged."

"That's up to the duke, don'tcha think?" Gary said. "If that footage was to air, it would show the duke can laugh at his own expense. That makes him likable."

Sullivan bristled. "Are you suggesting he's not likable?"

The duchess shot out her arm like Mussolini. "Absolutely not. We will not have the royal appendage paraded in front of the masses."

The duchess pointed at the drone hovering overhead. "Get that thing out of here!"

Sullivan addressed Pincus sitting in a folding chair absorbed in his laptop. "You. Put away your drone or so help me I'll shoot it out of the sky myself!"

"Can you even shoot, sis?" Krystal said.

Sullivan hopped up and down swinging her feedbag purse trying to knock the drone out of the sky. Pincus never looked up, but the drone rose and fell with her swings, just out of reach.

"Now look here, Karen," Gary said. "This here's America! We fought a war so we wouldn't have to turn in our footage, besides which, you think those won't get publicity? I guaran-dog-tee you, if we put up that clip of that turtle snapping up the Duke's Johnson, you'll have five million hits in the morning!"

Major loomed. "We fought a war so we wouldn't have to give up our video clips."

Sullivan was apoplectic. "The royal couple have not agreed to showing that footage. You wouldn't dare. We'll sue you for everything you're worth."

"Not much," Gary said. "That's why we keep going through these contortions. Howzis? When I come on your show, I'll light my farts."

Sullivan turned away in disgust.

"Of course, we're not going to show it," Major said. "Pincus, erase the turtle."

Pincus looked up. "I will, Major, but I may have been hacked."

"Say what?"

"Yeah. I got a reading here says there's a third party feeding off my stream."

The duchess snapped her fingers at the chauffeur. "Martin! Search the premises."

"Hold on thar," Gary said. "Just the other day, dude got et by a python."

Martin had movie star good looks. "Pythons are peaceful by nature and will not attack a human unless threatened."

"We got water moccasins."

Martin raised his leg modeling a cavalry boot.

"Well, all right. If you see a feral hog, you can shoot those, and I'll cook it up. That'd be a great ending for today's show."

Pincus held up his hand. "They're not on the property. They could be anywhere."

"Can you trace it?" Sullivan asked.

"Yes, but it will take time."

Sullivan shook her head. "We don't have time. If they put that up on YouTube, we're doomed."

"Not so fast," the duchess said. "Gary has a point here. We've been accused of being aloof and condescending. Footage of this turtle biting Larry could be just what we need to appear warm and more human."

The duke sputtered. "Any fool can dangle his manhood before a snapping turtle!"

"My point exactly, my love. It occurs to me that you might need medical help. I believe we should go to the hospital. Where's the nearest hospital?"

"That would be St. John's in Turpentine," Gary said. "Happy to take you there in my new Ram."

"I think we'll be more comfortable in the Cadillac," Regan said. "We have to get this looked at. Martin, take us to the hospital."

"Right away, mum."

Gary put his hand on the duke's shoulder. "Oh hey, before I forget, y'all are invited to Krystal's match next week. She's fighting Javelina."

"We'll consult our schedule and let you know," Regan said. Shed-jewel.

With the duke leaning on her shoulder, the duchess led him to the car. The doors slammed shut and the car went back the way it came.

"Oh my God," Sullivan wailed.

"It'll be fine," Major assured her.

"Just the sight of the duke plugging that gator's gonna make him a hero," Gary said. "Maj, how soon can you get it up?"

"Couple days. Gotta record your commentary and add the soundtrack and do a little editing."

Sullivan glowered, hands on hips. "Everything must have our approval. You're not posting anything until we've signed off."

"No, of course not," Major said. "We're planning a relaunch. This won't air for several weeks yet."

"Well hell," Gary said. "Let's go back to the house and smoke a bowl."

Sullivan clopped up the pier. "I really should have gone with them. Major, can you give me a ride to the hospital?"

"Me too," Muriel said.

"Sure. Sorry, Gar. Too early for me. I'll talk to you later. Let's go. What about you, Pincus?"

Pincus held up his hand. "I'll stay here. Gary can give me a ride home later."

"Sure."

Pincus carried his equipment up on the deck, sat and opened the laptop. The screen showed the Escalade pulling up outside the emergency entrance.

"If I can't film through a window, I'll hack into their surveillance system."

"Smooth move, Pincus. Our viewers have a right to view the royal shlong."

"We fought a war over it," Pincus said.

FORTY-EIGHT

HERETOFORE UNDISCOVERED

Friday, Gary and Krystal drove to Miami for the opening of the "Beautiful Bones" exhibit, held in the Miami Museum of Modern Art, an Art Deco monolith in North Miami. Gary wore the same outfit in which he'd dined with the Ducats, while Krystal wore a new dress she'd bought at Target for fifteen dollars. They parked in the 125th Street Ramp and walked the two blocks to the museum at 591 NW 27th St, where couples wearing tuxedos and evening dresses lined up on the red carpet waiting for the doors to open.

A liveried employee opened the double glass doors. Music from a string quartet drifted into the street. The soaring atrium was restored to its former glory following Tallywhacker's rampage. Bartenders in white shirts mixed cocktails opposite a buffet laden with finger food.

Krystal grabbed Gary by the elbow. "I'm famished."

They loaded their paper plates, decorated with dinosaur skeletons, with marinated artichoke hearts, bacon-wrapped scallops, and stuffed mushrooms, placing them on plinths displaying free form sculpture.

Gary pointed at a clay blob with his plastic fork. "What do you think that is?"

"Dinosaur turd."

Gary found the label on the side. "Armadillo Dreams by Luther Dross."

They swilled champagne. Dropping their dishes in a plastic bin, they presented their tickets at the door to the Voinovitch Gallery, previously home to the Glory of Glass. The hall had been transformed to make room for a complete brontosaurus skeleton. The skeleton was seventy feet long, mounted on a black platform six inches off the floor, the neck and head extending eleven feet beyond the frame, hanging from the ceiling by invisible wires.

Gary and Krystal craned their necks. "I wonder what kind of gun I could use," Gary said.

"Gary! Krystal!"

They turned. Their former neighbors, Boris and Marie Bongo Box, strode toward them in a tux and black dress, carrying flutes of champagne.

"Boris and Marie!" Gary boomed. "How the hell are ya?"

"The neighborhood's not the same with you," Boris said. "It's just not the same. We were hoping you'd rebuild."

"Yeah, well, Kensington Gardens really ain't our thing. We feel more at home in the swamp. I got some sad news for you, Boris."

Boris' brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"Tallywhacker is gone."

"What do you mean?"

"A flying saucer came and scooped him up. I saw it myself. I guess those aliens think he's one of them now. He didn't want to go. He kept calling out your name."

Boris, a middle-aged man with a paunch, visibly relaxed. "You're certain?"

"I saw it with my own eyes."

"To tell you the truth, Gary, I'm not sorry to see him go. The CIA, FBI, and National Security have been hounding me ever since he took off. Do they know about this?"

"No. Should I tell 'em?"

"I wish you would."

"I'll do it!"

Marie gave Krystal an approving glance. "You look marvelous, Krystal!"

"Thanks, Marie. I'm fighting Javelina tomorrow night. The Royal Ducats will be there, and the governor and his wife. I can set aside tickets for you if you like. It's at the Roxy."

"Oh dear," Marie said. "I'm afraid we have another engagement."

"Maybe you can get out of it."

"We'll let you know. Do we have your phone number?"

Gary pulled out his phone. "Got to check it myself. I've switched phones so many times, I don't know what all I got. Here it is." He held the phone out to Boris.

"Why don't you text it to me. You still have my number?"

"Give it to me."

Boris pulled out his ostrich skin wallet and handed Gary his card. Boris Bongo Box, Chief Engineer Skoal Robotix, along with his contact info. "May I have one of yours?"

"Dang! I been meaning to have cards made up, I just don't know what they should say."

More people gathered in the great hall, surrounding the skeletons and snapping pictures.

"Where'dja get the hooch?"

"We brought it in from the lobby."

By now, a sizable crowd surrounded the bar.

"Come on. Let's find that Dubasaurus."

"Yes!" Marie sang. "We read in the program that you have discovered a heretofore unknown dinosaur. Gary, we are simply amazed at your accomplishments. How do you do it?"

"I don't know, Marie. I guess I'm just in the right place at the right time."

Gary sensed a disturbance in the force, a hint of sandalwood, and turned to see Delilah enter on the arm of her brother Bob, wearing a beaded deerskin dress, black hair in a 'fro, and moccasins. Bob wore a dark blue suit. People spoke softly to one another and took surreptitious pictures, as if they were the Royal Ducats. Delilah had that air of exoticism and she looked like a million bucks, putting all the designer threads to shame.

Gary introduced Delilah and Bob to the Bongo Boxes. "Delilah's on the Seminole Arts Council. She talked 'em into showing the Dubasaurus! And Boris here is the man behind Tallywhacker."

The Bongo Boxes fawned.

"I regret I never got to meet Tallywhacker," Delilah said.

A man in a tux and a bad rug clapped his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to have with us tonight the man who discovered this heretofore unknown discovery, the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, bagged the biggest python in state history, and the inventor of house suspenders, Mr. Gary Duba, and his lovely wife Krystal!"

A spotlight shone. Dozens applauded. Gary cupped his hands.

"Ya'll come down to the Roxy tomorrow night where Krystal's fighting the Javelina! We still got tickets."

"And now, sir," the tux said, "would you please cut the ribbon to the Hearst Gallery, where the dinosaur skull, which we have dubbed 'Gary', is displayed."

The announcer extended his arm.

"Who you?" Krystal said.

"Levander K. Collindale, curator of the museum. I should have introduced myself."

"Gotta card?" Gary said.

Collindale forked over a card. Gary stuck it in his pocket. "I'm working on one, I just don't know what to say. I don't want to come off like I'm bragging."

"I think, Mr. Duba, with your accomplishments all you need is your name and your contact information."

The string quartet had relocated to the Voinovitch Gallery and were sawing up a storm. Gary followed the red carpet past the brontosaurus, the stegosaurus, and beneath the hanging ichthyosaur to another gallery, twin glass doors open. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause as he cut the ribbon and entered the darkened gallery, spotlights gleaming off the polished skull. It looked like it had been hand-waxed. Only hard sediment remained along the base of the skull.

The string quartet broke into the Flintstones theme.

Collindale motioned Gary and Krystal over, beaming like a lighthouse, holding a wireless mic.

"Welcome! Welcome paleontologists, dinosaur enthusiasts, and kids of all ages! The Museum of Modern Art is thrilled to present to you, for the first time anywhere, a heretofore unknown dinosaur from prehistoric times. And here is the man who found this skull, the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, caught the biggest python in state history, and the inventor of house suspenders, Gary Duba."

Thunderous applause. Krystal beamed. Delilah sipped from a silver flask.

"Gary, will you say a few words?"

"Well folks, it's an honor and a privilege, and don't forget, Krystal, or Steely Danielle as she's known on the circuit, is fighting Javelina at the Roxy tomorrow night! Y'all come."

As Gary spoke, an old man with long, scraggly hair wearing a tuxedo crept up on the skull from the other side with a putty knife and began scraping the residue. A docent informed Collindale who stormed around the base, followed by Gary, Krystal, half the crowd, and the media.

"Stop!" Collindale barked. "What do you think you're doing?"

The man wiped the base of the skull with a handkerchief uncovering a signature etched deep into the bone.

"What does that say?" he said in a wheezy voice.

Gary squinted at the signature. "Claude Balls?"

FORTY-NINE

THE ESCHATON

Collindale snapped his fingers. "Call security."

"Wait a minute," Gary said. "Are you Claude Balls?"

The wizened homunculus crossed his arms. "I am."

Gary turned to Collindale. "Don't you know who this is? It's Claude Balls, the inventor of performance art! Claude Balls, the dadaist and contemporary of Hemingway, Lord Buckley, and Jack Kerouac! Claude Balls, man!"

An older woman with a towering gray beehive put her hand to her mouth. "Claude Balls? Oh my God...we have your painting of the Pristine Sistine Christine hanging in our dining room! I met you at the Furman Gallery in the Village when I was a little girl! You were signing golf balls!"

"I stole those golf balls while posing as a caddie at the U.S. Open in 1965. Gary Player won, miserable prick."

"Claude!" Gary said. "I'm a caddie too! I shot a hippo on the Shangri La fairway!"

The old man put his hand on Gary's shoulder. "A brilliant piece of performance art."

Collindale poked at his phone while visitors whispered. A young man clutching a program approached.

"Mr. Balls, may I have your autograph?"

Balls held the program against the skull and signed.

A young man in a navy sports jacket and white shirt holding a recording device sidled in. "Mr. Balls, I'm Terry Gold for the Miami Herald. Can you tell me why and how you created this skull?"

A hush fell over the crowd.

"To immanentize the eschaton ex post haste de facto."

"Would you explain please sir?"

"First, the how. I began collecting bones from slaughterhouses in 1959. I baked them in a kiln. I ground them into a powder which I mixed with toad secretions and wolf spider webbing. I heated this mixture to four hundred and eighty-two degrees and poured it into a bronze cast made for me by the great Erroll Swansea of Loveland, Colorado. I designed this cast to combine elements of birds, ferrets, dinosaurs, and the lowly armadillo. Voila!" The old man pointed at his creation, running his other hand through his long, lank hair. "The skull was born!"

"You mean it's fake?" asked a thin woman toward the back.

Ball whirled. He looked like Beethoven. "Fake? Nothing I do is fake! It is real! It is vital! It has been my life's mission to usher in enlightenment, an age of reason, where each individual is free to fulfill his full potential, be it a barber, or president of the United States!"

"Are you running for something?" the woman asked.

"I am running toward enlightenment."

Krystal caught it all on camera. The string quartet played the Flintstones.

"There's a man in the funny papers we all know," Ball said. "He lived 'way back a long time ago. He don't eat nothing but a bear cat stew. WHAT'S HIS NAME?"

The crowd stared befuddled.

"Alley Oop!" Gary said.

"But Mr. Balls," Gold said. "Why would you want to bring about the end of the world?"

"Why would I welcome the afterlife? In the immortal words Ronaldus Magnus, let's have the blood bath now and get it over with!"

"I think what Mr. Ball is saying," Gary said, "is that we're worm food anyway. Why not just go ahead and have a cosmic event?"

"Like Jim Jones?" Gold said. "Or Heaven's Gate?"

"Not at all. I do not advocate mass suicide. Quite the contrary! I wish to pull humanity back from the brink. I am calling for a new enlightenment to free man from the shackles of conventional morality and hook his fortune to the stars!"

"Why is it always men?" a woman with blue hair demanded.

Balls posed, amazingly supple for a man his age. "This is a man's world. This is a man's world. But it wouldn't be nothing without a woman or a girl..."

"How is this fake dinosaur head supposed to do that?" Gold demanded.

"I want to know how you got it down there," Gary said. "Weren't for that sinkhole, it would have stayed there forever."

"The land was very different in 1967."

"You mean it's fake?" the woman at the back said.

"Fake, madame? Fake? It has my signature! It is real! It is so real, that if I could pick it up, and drop it on your head, you would die!"

An older man in a tux drew Collindale aside and whispered in his ear. The gallery filled to capacity. A string of supplicants lined up to have their programs signed.

"Claude!" Gary said. "Krystal's fighting tomorrow night at the Roxy. How'd you like to be our guest?"

"A brilliant piece of performance art. I'd like to bring a friend."

"Sure, no prob. The Duke and Duchess of Ducats will also be there. They're big fans of yours."

"What time?"

"Doors open at four, first bout is at five, but Krystal and Javelina don't come on until nine."

"I would be happy to recite a poem between bouts."

"Well, we already got a rabbit and a skunk in a rap battle, but I'll look into that."

Krystal tapped Gary on the shoulder. "Did you secure the rabbit and the skunk?"

Gary smacked his forehead. "Holy shit! I'll call 'em right now."

Leaving Balls at the center of an admiring crowd, Gary returned to the cavernous lobby and phoned Grosz. "Got a gig for ya! You and a skunk are gonna have a rap battle between bouts at the Roxy Theater tomorrow night."

"What's it pay?"

"It's for exposure."

"Piss off!"

"Waidaminit! Two fifty."

"Can I wear my roller blades?"

"Dubious."

"Who's the skunk?"

"Major Sutton. He's an old friend of mine. Come on. It's a big crowd. My gal Krystal's fighting Javelina. You may know her as the Black Dildo."

"The Black Dildo? Hell yeah! I'm in!"

Next, he called Major. "Got a gig for ya! You and a rabbit are gonna have a rap battle between bouts at the Roxy Theater tomorrow night."

"What's it pay?"

"It's for exposure."

"Really, Gary? Really?"

"Two fifty."

"Who's the rabbit?"

"Rodell Grosz. He used to be Rapid Rabbit at Wacky World until he got drunk and started insulting customers. You know Krystal's fighting Javelina."

"What time?"

"Be there at five. Come on back to our dressing room. I'll have a skunk costume for ya."

"Do you already have the costume?"

"Nah. I'll pick it up tomorrow from Funky Costume in Palm Beach."

"'Cuz I got a Santa Claus outfit and it's the season. You could give me whatever you were gonna pay for the skunk outfit."

"Sounds good to me."

FIFTY

THE MURDEROUS BISON

Gary and Krystal got home at nine. Gary phoned Karen Sullivan. "Tell the royal couple that Claude Balls will be at the fight tomorrow night. We are holding two ringside seats for them. The governor and his wife will also be there."

"This is exciting news! I'll let them know."

Gary phoned Anthony Viola. "Tell the governor that the Duke and Duchess of Ducats will be at the fight tomorrow night. We are holding two ringside seats for the governor and first lady."

"I will make sure that they attend. Thank you very much."

Gary heard Krystal rummaging around in the bedroom. She came out.

"Where'd you put that blow?"

"Are you nuts? You've got a fight tomorrow night."

"Come on. One little line won't kill me."

"Forget it! Ten minutes and you'll want another."

"It makes me horny."

"Horace Horse Collar makes you horny."

"I'm an adult. I can handle my drugs."

"Fuggedaboudit."

"You can forget getting any pussy tonight!"

"I'll live. Go to bed. This is the most important fight of your career!"

Krystal flipped him the bird, stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. Gary thought about visiting Wet Hot American Pussy on his laptop. Instead, he filled a Mason jar with shine and went to talk to Leotis.

As Gary approached the end of the pier, Leotis sang, "We've been waiting for so long...to sing and play for you some of our songs..."

"Leotis, Krystal's got a hair up her ass because I won't let her have any cocaine."

"Cocaine is bad for you. I saw what it did to Leo."

"Tomorrow's the biggest fight of her career. Javelina is heavily favored. If Krystal can pull off the upset, there's no telling where it will lead."

"I wish I could be there."

"Well it's being broadcast live on goontv, if you have cable."

"I don't," Leotis said morosely.

Gary felt bad for Leotis. "You ain't missing out."

"I've been thinking of branching out," the catfish said.

"Branching out how?"

"Marketing catfish-scented candles. I got the idea from Gwyneth Paltrow."

"Who's your audience?"

"Single ladies."

"It's not a bad idea, I just don't how you'd market such a thing."

"I would purchase advertising on your YouTube channel."

"With what?"

"Sunken treasure. I'm also thinking of cutting an alt country album. I'm a big fan of Charlie Pride and Hank Williams Junior. I've been writing songs."

"You have the voice."

"I was a huge fan of Sons of Anarchy. If I were to be reborn, it would be as a human so I could ride motorcycles. I call this one 'Live Wire'."

Leotis sang in a soulful baritone. "The Live Wire bites the blue bizuti. It fails to garner any booty. Do bikers dream of bikes electric? I'd rather spend time in ditches septic. They should call that thing the Apoplectic. If it doesn't smell like gas, you can stick it up your ass. It has to go potato, or I give it hard pass. Potato, potato, and potato, creep these tubers in lieu of Ubers..."

"And here's the bridge. Potato, potato, potato. That's what makes it gnarly. The ebike ain't been born that can call itself a Harley."

"Catchy."

"Oh it was thunder, thunder, over thunder road," Leotis sang. "Thunder was his engine and white lightning was his load."

"Now that's country."

"If only I could reach out to my old friend Leo. I know he would support me."

"I can help you there, Leotis. I'm seeing the Royal Ducats tomorrow. All those celebrities know each other. It would help if I had a copy of your song."

"I need recording equipment. I can survive for up to an hour on land."

"No shit? That doesn't give us much time, unless we bring the studio to you."

"That's a great idea, Gary. Do you know anybody who does live recording?"

"Well, you can't just sing it all yourself. You need a band. Bass, drums, guitar, keyboards. Maybe some horns. I've always been a sucker for a band with horns."

"That appeals to me too, Gary. Big Tower of Power fan."

"I'll ask around. Floyd plays trombone. Major might know somebody. He knows everybody."

"I was sorry to hear about Tallywhacker."

"Did you know him?"

"We talked. I admired what he did. Well, he's in a better place now. You ought to get some sleep, Gary. You've got a big day ahead of you."

"Yeah, I'll be sleeping on the sofa. I wouldn't give Krystal blow and now she's locked me out of the bedroom."

"I wouldn't stand for that treatment."

"You're a catfish."

"You know, Gary, when I hear the terrible things people do to each other, I'm glad I'm a catfish."

"Leotis," Gary said with a hitch in his voice, "I'm glad you're a catfish too."

Too wired to sleep, Gary tuned into Mr. Mephisto, a late-night horror host. Barfalo was playing. It had been Tallywhacker's favorite movie. A bulimic buffalo terrorizes settlers in eighteen eighties Nebraska. It was the Jaws scene, where the settlers first come across one of Barfalo's victims, a German lad, almost unrecognizable due to the acidity of Barfalo's vomit.

"Ya can't hardly recognize it as human," said Sheriff Avery, holding a bandanna to his nose.

"Jayzus, Sheriff," said his deputy Dolph. "That stinks worse than the tannery over in Lewisville."

Cut to Habib Rodriguez in a yoked jacket, aviator shades and ten-gallon hat. "Have you been attacked by a buffalo, and the insurance company wouldn't give you the money you deserve? Call me, Habib Rodriguez, the Long Arm. I've been dealing with insurance companies all my life and they don't scare me."

Gary tipped his Mason jar to the screen. "Habib!"

"Gary, you should go to bed. You've got a long day tomorrow."

"You can see me?"

Mr. Mephisto, a demonic figure in his newsboy hat and fright makeup, gazed out from his red desk, beneath Dollar Store letters strung behind him party style spelling MR. MEPHISTO. "Exciting news, fear hounds! Acidic Pictures has just announced Barfalo 2: Welcome to the Vomitorium! And now, back to the murderous bison!"

Gary shook his head. "I shouldn't have licked that toad."

FIFTY-ONE

UNFRIEND ME NOW

Friday morning before the big event, Krystal and Javelina met at Ferd Ludlow's gym to choreograph their fight. Delilah brought her notes. So did Javelina's trainer, Topher Santana, the Mexican Ernest Borgnine. Santana did indeed resemble the famous actor, save for the hairline mustache on his upper lip.

Krystal, Delilah, Javelina and Santana stood by the ring to toss a coin determining the winner. Delilah wore a turban, and fawn slacks. Krystal wore a gray cotton jumpsuit with red stripes. Two young men, who looked Cuban, worked heavy bags in a corner. Delilah asked Ferd to toss the coin. The conspiracy theorist and radio show host, a thin man with thin hair and a pronounced Adam's apple, dressed in carpenter's pants and a blue work shirt, stood between the two parties balancing a fifty cent piece on his thumb.

"Ready?"

"Not so fast," Santana said. "First we toss the coin to determine who calls it."

Delilah put her hands on her hips. "Well then we have to toss the coin to determine who gets to call who gets to call."

"Hey, Teofilo!" Ferd called to one of the young fighters. "Would you come here a minute?"

The young welterweight bopped over wearing gym shoes, red sweatpants and a wife beater. "What's up, Mr. Ludlow?"

"I'm going to toss the coin. You call either Krystal or Javelina. This will determine who gets to call the coin toss choosing the winner. Krystal here will be heads, Javelina will be tails."

"Not so fast," Santana said. "Why should Krystal go first? Because she's a white woman? Why not advance a woman of color to address historic inequities?"

"Fine," Krystal said. "Javelina can be heads."

Ferd looked at the young fighter. "Ready?"

Teofilo nodded. Ferd tossed the coin. "Heads!" Teofilo called.

The coin hit the wooden floor and rolled. The parties gathered around.

"It's tails," Ferd announced. "Javelina will call the coin toss determining who wins the fight. Ready?"

"Not so fast," Santana said. "Would you have any objection to Teofilo tossing the coin?"

Delilah crossed her arms. "Fine."

Teofilo tossed the coin.

"Heads!" Javelina sang.

The coin hit the wooden floor and rolled. The parties gathered around.

"It's tails," Ferd said. "Krystal will be the victor."

Javelina sneered.

"How about two out of three?" Santana said.

Ferd crossed his arms like an umpire. "Get to work. At this rate, you'll be at it all day."

"Hey, Ferd," Krystal said. "You coming to the fight?"

"I wouldn't miss it. My show doesn't come on until midnight."

"Will aliens be watching the fight?" Javelina said.

"Yes. They watch everything we do. You all remember last year when they threatened to blow Earth up if we didn't stop broadcasting The Curse of Oak Island."

"Yet it's still on and we're still here," Delilah said.

"The nearest aliens are on Alpha Centauri. It would take them years to get here, even traveling through black holes, so we have a little time."

"But couldn't aliens seize control of some human, like they did Tallywhacker?" Krystal said.

"Well, Tallywhacker was a unique individual combining advanced cyberware with human DNA. I have no doubt they're trying. In fact, I've had several callers claim that aliens have abducted them."

"But if the nearest aliens are years away, how do the flying saucers keep showing up?"

Ferd shrugged. "The flying saucers that show up probably represent a more primitive type of alien, not sophisticated enough to demonically possess a human."

Teofilo crossed himself and muttered in Spanish.

Krystal, Delilah, Javelina and Santana sat at a folding card table next to the ring and went over the notes. The fight was intricately choreographed. Javelina would attack with her patented Klein Bottle maneuver. Krystal would counter with Paddling Blowfish. There would be a back-and-forth exchange combining boxing, ju jitsu, wrestling, the sharpshooter, chokeslam, pile driver, powerbomb, enzuigiri, atomic drop, doomsday device, Boston crab, facebuster and Alabama. They agreed to fight for forty-five minutes. At a signal from the referee, Javelina would lunge for a takedown, Krystal would leapfrog over her back, roll and go for the leg lock.

Krystal and Javelina posed for pictures with their fists up. They shook hands.

Delilah grabbed her backpack. "Let's get breakfast."

They walked down the street to Fernando's, a Cuban diner featuring cafe con leche, tortillas, Cuba homelettes filled with ham and onions, potatoes, and plantains. They took a booth looking out on SW 8th Avenue and ordered homelettes. A Spanish language TV on one wall showed soccer players racing around like frenzied ants. Krystal ordered a ham and onion homelette, Delilah cafe con leche and a Cubano. Delilah looked at the TV screen.

"You can run, but you can't hide."

Krystal turned in her seat to see Habib speaking silently while a Spanish language scroll ran along the bottom. "¿Ha sido lesionado en un accidente automovilístico?"

She turned back and dug into her homelette. "Habib's coming. He's bringing Auburn."

"What about the Duke and Duchess."

Krystal stared at Delilah chewing with determination. She swallowed. Glunk. "Not only are the Royal Ducats coming, so are Claude Balls and the governor."

"Claude Balls? The guy that faked the dino skull?"

"Yeah. The Royal Ducats are big fans. They came over to our house to retrieve their Claude Balls painting. That's when we cut the deal to be on each other's shows."

"Those Royal Ducats make my flesh crawl. The way she leads him around by the nose, it's embarrassing. All she's done with her life are some brassiere ads and being spokesperson for Your Pillow. You'll sleep like a baby blah blah blah as if the pillow is the most important factor on whether you get a good night's sleep. You know what the most important factor is? State of mind. I can sleep anywhere. Japanese use a wood block as a pillow. And now they're branching out into mattresses, bed covers, doggie dishes, and bed truck linings. America does not want to make pillows. America wants to make weapons and vehicles."

"You know what rankles my ass?" Krystal said.

Delilah steepled her fingers and placed them below her chin. "I'm all ears."

"People who post some shit about Patrick Stewart or cute Chihuahuas on Facebook and write, 'you're welcome', like they're doing us a favor."

"I don't even have a computer."

"How do you live?"

"I think I'm a lot happier without a computer. All I hear are strife and threats."

"You ain't wrong. Hardly a day goes by somebody don't post if you do this and that, then thus and so, UNFRIEND ME NOW!"

"Sounds like a bunch of iguanas fighting."

Krystal stared at Delilah chewing with determination. Delilah swallowed. Glunk.

"Well said," Krystal said.

FIFTY-TWO

PRESTIDIGITATION

Gary, Claude Balls, and the Royal Ducats met for cocktails at five pm at the Beanery, an upscale restaurant two blocks from the Roxy. Gary reserved a private dining room on the second floor overlooking Northwest Seventh Street, the room decorated tiki style with bamboo wainscoting, a dozen potted ferns, tiki masks on the wall, and a parrot on a brass stand.

Claude Balls was waiting for Gary when he arrived, seated at the table with a sketchpad in his lap, a glass of rum before him. He had signed the white tablecloth. "Claude Balls," along with a smiley face.

"Claude! How they hanging?"

"Low and slow. Take a look at this." Balls held up a drawing of an athletic looking man in baggy trousers juggling four weasels.

"Great! What do you call it?"

"Four weasels."

Gary wore fresh blue jeans with the cuffs turned up, gator boots made from a gator he shot, silver belt buckle inlaid with a pink flamingo, a STEELY DANIELLE Tee-shirt, and his Gators cap, which he set on the floor.

The Ducats arrived in their black Escalade, Martin guarding their flank. No one recognized them. The maître d', a Cuban man in a white jacket, black pants and goatee entered. "This way, your royal highnesses."

The duke and duchess entered, he in a blue blazer with gold buttons and a Royal Fusiliers tie, she in black evening dress and mink stole, followed by Martin in chauffeur's livery. Martin sat by the door. Claude Balls and Gary stood. The duke took Balls' hand in both of his.

"This is such an honor. I have admired you ever since I was a child and I read your book, Immanentizing the Eschaton."

"A work of towering genius."

"I dabble in the arts myself. I'm a bit of a photographer."

Gary grabbed a chair. "Let's sit, you guys. I'm so hungry I could eat a baby's butt through a park bench."

They sat. A cute Cuban waitress swished in. "Can I get you some drinks?"

Gary ordered a Cuba Libre. The duke ordered Glenmorangie. The duchess ordered a Boodles martini. Claude Balls ordered a bottle of champagne.

The duke sat between Balls and Gary. "How old are you, Mr. Balls?"

The duchess swatted him on the arm.

"I am ninety-three years young."

"How do you account for your amazing vitality?"

"Art, sir. It is art to which I awaken, and toward which I stumble. There is no greater calling than interpreting the world for lesser mortals through the medium of art. The steelworker at the end of the day. The exhausted secretary. What do they have to look forward to but the delight and escapism of music? Paintings? Movies? We can argue ad infinitum which Star Wars is better, but at the end of the day, it is Star Wars itself which confers life."

"What is your favorite movie, sir?"

"Nothing but Trouble. A work of towering genius. Dan Aykroyd is greatly underrated."

"And what are you working on now, sir?"

"I am casting famous vaginas and penises in bronze. Have you heard of the Plaster Casters? They got the idea from me. Frank Zappa was a dear friend. I told him to lay off the fags. In fact, Duke, I've been meaning to talk to you."

The duke turned beet red.

The waitress returned with their drinks. "Would you like to hear the specials?"

"By all means," Balls said.

"Curried iguana en brochette with pineapple and mushrooms, nutria chili, giant African land snails in garlic butter, and lionfish on a bed of wild rice with pepper sauce."

The duchess picked up the two-pound menu. "Give us a minute please."

"The hell's a lionfish?" Gary said.

Balls set down his flute. "Stripped of its venomous spines and filleted like any other fish, the lionfish is a rare delicacy. I will have the lionfish."

The waitress returned. Gary ordered a hamburger. The duke ordered the iguana. The duchess ordered the nutria.

"May I see the lionfish?" Balls said. "I'd like to choose my own."

"The lionfish are fresh today. They are not in an aquarium."

"That's no way to serve lionfish. Like its mighty namesake, the lionfish is highly territorial and ferocious. You can judge the lionfish by its aggression. It's a simple test. You merely deposit a goldfish or some other small tidbit in the tank and see which lionfish emerges the victor. The only problem, of course, is that the quality of the meal deteriorates the more fish you select. I will have the ropa vieja. Its Cuba's national dish. Fidel Castro introduced me to it."

The duchess sipped her martini. "We have always had the greatest admiration for him. A true revolutionary."

"Claude," the duke said, "what have you been working on lately?"

"A series of paintings about invasive species. I would like to paint Gary shooting the hippo, if that's all right."

Gary raised his glass. "Hell, yeah!"

"I'm also working on a unified field theory of everything. The move from a structuralist account in which capital is understood to structure social relations in relatively homologous ways to a view of hegemony in which power relations are subject to repetition, convergence, and rearticulation brings the question of temporality into the thinking of structure, and marks a shift from a form of Althusserian theory that takes structural tonalities as theoretical objects to one in which the insights into the contingent possibility of structure inaugurate a renewed conception of hegemony as bound up with the contingent sites and strategies of the rearticulation of power."

The duchess put her elegant fingers to her mouth. "Mr. Balls. I've never heard it stated so eloquently. When will it be done?"

"Next year, I hope. I've also been reviving performance art. It warms my heart to see someone like Gary, a common man, a kulak, transcending class limitations to create brilliant sequences such as the hippo. You know, I'm a bit of a prestidigitator."

Balls extended his hand, palm down, and suddenly he was holding five cards. He reached behind the duchess' ear and plucked a fifty-cent piece.

"Oh, that's marvelous! You must be great with kids! Do you have children, Mr. Balls?"

"I have eight grandchildren. They come see me from time to time. I've got a place down on Plantation Key."

The duchess settled her perfect chin on top of her cross fingers. "Show us more, please."

"Certainly." Balls stood, cleared his chair out of the way. "Gary, would you slide over a little please?"

Balls surveyed the elegant table set with dishes, china, silverware and candles. He took the white tablecloth in both hands and yanked, sending glasses, dishes, and silverware to the floor.

FIFTY-THREE

PRELIMS

The prelims were under way when the rappers arrived. Gary excused himself to meet with Rodell Grosz and Major Sutton, waiting backstage with their costumes under their arms. Gary motioned them into an empty dressing room. Rodell carried two heads, a rabbit and a panda.

"What's with the panda?" Gary said.

"I gotta scout the room. I can't be caught in the rabbit head. Wacky World will hang me out to dry. Something feels off, I'm going with the panda."

"But people want the rabbit."

"We'll see."

"So, it's just a precaution."

"Exactly."

"The panda head really doesn't go with the rabbit suit."

"Nevertheless."

"Maybe Santa should wear the panda head."

"Fuck that. People want to see a black Santa."

"I would actually prefer to wear the panda head," Major said.

"You're going on at six. Aldo will announce a rap-off between Rappin' Rabbit and St. Nick. We can't say Rapid Rabbit for obvious reasons..."

"What if somebody turns me into Wacky World?"

Gary shrugged. "Put on the panda head."

Major raised a finger. "I'd like to wear the panda head."

"Where am I gonna get another animal suit? This was your idea!"

"Chill, Rodell. It's not as if the audience is filled with members of the Fourth Estate!"

"But there's gonna be video and shit."

"Rodell, if you don't want to do it, just say so."

"What, and let this clown get the best of me?"

Major bristled. He outweighed Rodell by fifty pounds. "Excuse me?"

Gary pointed to Rodell's roller blades. "Why'd you bring those?"

"Just in case."

"Aldo says he can provide a beat track."

Major held up a thumb drive. "I brought my own."

Gary held out his hand. "I'll give it a listen. Nothing gross or disgusting. The Royal Ducats and the governor will be here. You boys okay back here?"

Major gave him the thumb's up.

"I'll survive," Rodell said.

Gary entered Krystal's dressing room. Delilah sat on a chair facing Krystal while Airwrecka weaved her hair into corn rows. He asked Airwrecka to step aside while he rubbed Krystal's shoulders. She wore a black onesie with STEELY DANIELLE written on the front in script, and HABIB RODRIGUEZ—THE LONG ARM with his phone number, on her butt.

"You ready?"

"I'm ready!"

"Did you have dinner?"

"I ate at four. Clam chowder and corn bread."

"All right! Listen, I got to go out front and make sure the governor knows where to go, check on the Royals, all that good shit."

"What about Claude Balls?"

"He's covering the event for the New Yorker. This is a big night, little lady. Networks, newspapers, Tik Tok influencers, two Elvis impersonators and a Tom Petty."

They hugged. "Love you," she said into his ear.

Delilah pointed to the door. "Outta here. This is girls only."

Gary went back to the lobby, bought a jumbo dog and an orange soda, and made his way through the crowd to his ringside seat. A group of Saudis in white robes filled a row halfway back. Chinese in dark blue suits and sunglasses. Boys from the hood in dashikis and gold chains. A group of Hasidim in black robes and hats. A united nations of wrestling.

Lena the Hyena had the Mongoose in a headlock. Mongoose lifted Lena's leg and swept her back into a takedown. Mongoose got on top and tried a can opener. Lena swept her to the side and reversed. Lena was a stocky woman. The match went on and on, first one woman on top, then the other. It ended when Lena slid up over Mongoose's head and released a fart that could be heard in the back rows. Mongoose tapped out. The referee, a statuesque Brazilian in hot pants and striped shirt named Giselle, held Lena's hand aloft. The auditorium was still filling up, extended families filling clusters of seats, often in two rows.

Three kids sat behind Gary, their parents behind them. Gary stretched and turned around. Two boys, nine and twelve wearing torn jeans. The older boy wore a Rappin' Rabbit T-shirt. The youngest, a girl of around seven, wore blue denim coveralls and pink shoes. The dad, fortyish, greasy black DA, Dukes of Hazard Tee, Confederate flag cap, with knobby wrists and rough hands. The woman looked like the Mona Lisa after some nutso tourist got done redesigning her with Magic Markers and Silly Putty.

The boys buried their snouts in their Fonebones. The ring was set in the center of the big hall with seats radiating on all sides. Portable tables were set up next to the ring for the sportscasters. The match had attracted unusual attention due to the Royal Ducats and the Guv, who would not arrive until after the intermission.

Aldo Maldonado in a metallic lavender suit took the center of the ring. "Hey, what a terrific fight, am I right? Let's give it up for both those ferocious warriors!"

Cheers, whistling, vuvuzelas.

"Our next bout is the featured fight of the undercard, two tough broads you know well—Sweet Charlotte takes on Baby Jane!"

Sweet Charlotte weighed one eighty-five with arms the size of anacondas. She'd dyed her hair purple. Baby Jane wore a black and white county jail deal and looked like Nurse Ratched. They grappled Greco style before breaking and circling, stances low, arms outspread, making kissey poo to each other.

"Jane, you ignorant slut," Sweet Charlotte cooed. "You couldn't crush an egg if your life depended on it."

"Oh yeah, fat ass? What happened to your boyfriend, Mr. Wonderful? Wasn't he sockin' it to Libretta last time I looked? Oh yes he was."

Charlotte went for a takedown. Jane grabbed her by her cornrows, rolled onto her back, and threw her judo style. Charlotte rolled and popped to her feet. They circled. Someone threw a teddy bear into the ring. The public address system blasted "Disco Inferno" for ten seconds and went silent.

Charlotte finally won with a rare earth spring roll.

Moldanado took the stage. "How about that Baby Jane! Does she know how to hit or what? I'm giving both these ladies a performance of the night bonus. I might even cast 'em in a movie, you never know. We're going to have a short intermission. Then, we have a very special treat for you! Rappin' Rabbit versus Santa Claus, in a rap battle of the ages!"

Holy shit!

Gary sprang out of his chair and raced backstage, where Grosz and Major stood on opposite sides of the aisle, Grosz in his rabbit suit clutching the rabbit head, Maj dressed like Santa holding the panda head.

FIFTY-FOUR

THE HELICOPTER

Gary took the center of the ring holding a wireless mic. "Hey, ya'll! I'm Gary Duba, the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon..."

"...to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee!" the audience shot back.

"That's right! Y'all watch my YouTube channel and follow me on twitter @localyokel. Now before we get to the main event, we got a very special treat for you. Come on up, boys!"

Grosz crawled through the robes in costume. Major crawled in opposite wearing the Santa outfit with the panda head.

"What the hell is that?" someone shouted. "Saint Panda?"

"It's Panda Santa," Gary said. "He knows what you've been doing. Now this here is Rappin' Rabbit, all the way from Fort Meyers!"

"That's Rapid Rabbit!" bellowed the boy in the Rapid Rabbit shirt, standing on his chair. His brother popped up like a prairie dog.

Gary fake laughed. "It's Rappin' Rabbit. Ain't no Rapid Rabbit. Dude can barely walk in that suit. And his opponent, who usually introduces me, is Panda Santa! Let 'er rip!"

As Gary slid out between the ropes, the funk beat vibrated and Grosz danced forward.

"I'm Rappin' Rabbit, the people's choice! People say that my Johnson's noice! I got long ears and a cotton tail!" He spun around ass out. He slapped his butt and straightened up. "I've been in and out of jail! I purchase cocaine cheap in Mexico and sell it by the heap in Texico!" Grosz boogied R. Crumb style around the ring.

Panda Santa leaped high in the air and landed in a Maori stance, fists clenched, head vibrating as crazy buzzing blasted. "They call me Santa Panda cuz with the girls I'm handa. They love to search my goodie bag, no tellin' what you'll find. The keychain for a Jag, or a lady with a hind..."

Gary's phone buzzed. The Royals had arrived. In the lobby, police had set up velvet ropes to cordon off the governor, wife Greta, Royal Ducats and Claude Balls while photographers snapped pictures. The Ducat's man Martin headed off a line of autograph seekers. When Gary tried to enter, a policeman held out his hand.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The duke came up. "It's all right, Officer. That's Gary Duba, the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee."

"The man who captured the largest python in state history," the governor added.

"The man married to tonight's odds-on favorite, Steely Danielle," Aldo Moldanado said.

The cop let him through. Gary posed for pictures.

"You're not going to vomit on me, are you?" the governor said out of the side of his mouth.

"No way, Guv! That was a once in a lifetime experience! Hope you enjoy the show."

Aldo Moldanado posed for a picture. "I would be delighted to show our company to their box seats."

"I'll be up, folks!" Gary promised. "First, I got to take care of business."

"Tell your lovely wife I've bet on her," the duke said.

"Not too much I hope."

"Ten thousand pounds."

"Okay! No pressure."

Inside, Maje had Grosz down in the center of the ring and was flailing away with his great, cloth covered paws.

"BOOO!"

"EAT SHIT YOU ASSHOLES!"

"GET OUT!"

"RAPID RABBIT!" an adolescent yodel.

Gary ran down the aisle, fairly leaped into the ring and started kicking both men savagely.

"Knock it off, you assholes!"

Rapid Rabbit got on one elbow and gasped. "Where are the fucking tips?"

The ring was filled with cigarette butts, empty cups, a used condom, and a Rubik's Cube.

"I'll pay you out of the gate. Just get the fuck out of here."

"How much?" the panda demanded.

"I told you, two fifty! Come on, Maje! Get out of here before they kill us!"

The trio beat a hasty retreat down the back aisle. Not until they ducked into the backstage area did rabbit and panda rip off their heads with a velcro buzz. They staggered into folding card chairs and collapsed, gasping, heads rolling at their feet.

"You both get two fifty, okay?"

Grosz looked like he was strangling. "Two fifty?!"

Major leaned forward, arms on knees. "You don't need to pay me, Gary. It was worth it just to pound on this asshole."

"Gimme his two fifty too," Grosz gasped.

"We'll talk about it. There are showers in your dressing rooms."

"Ho ho ho," Major gasped.

A roar penetrated backstage, followed by the chant. "Black Dildo! Black Dildo! Black Dildo!"

Gary headed out. "Gotta go. Krystal's on."

He raced to her dressing room and they began the long walk to the ring.

As they entered the theater, every Mexican and half the Latinos were on their feet chanting, "Javelina! Javelina! Javelina!"

Aldo preened in the spotlight. "And now, mi gente, the moment you've been waiting for! El momento del destino! At the catch weight of one hundred and thirty, two of the toughest ladies in the biz...in this corner, hailing from Jaurez, twenty-five and four as a professional, the daughter of legendary Lucha Libre fighter El Matador, Marcela "Javelina" Aguilar!

Standing, roaring, whistles, vuvuzelas, firecrackers as Javelina bounced out of the D corridor, head poking up through a hole in a white towel, chin down, hands on her trainer's shoulders in front of her, corn-rowed black hair, wearing a metallic crimson onesie with the black silhouette of the javelina on the breast, Modelo Especial on the butt.

"JAVELINA, JAVELINA, JAVELINA!"

"And in this corner, hailing from Turpentine..."

"BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO! BLACK DILDO!"

"STEELY DANIELLLLLLLLE..." Aldo drew it out.

Fonebones jockeyed. People stood. Gary led Krystal out of the back followed by Delilah, Airwrecka, and Ferd Ludlow. Habib, Auburn, Floyd, Patrice, and some kid Patrice picked up stood and slapped palms as they went by. They stepped into the ring. The contingents tried to drown each other out. The governor, wife, Royal Ducats and Claude Balls sat front row, ninety degrees from Gary's seat. Claude Balls was on his feet. The duke poked the governor in the ribs with his elbow.

Gary lip read, "Jolly good, wot?"

Giselle stood in the center. "Seconds out of the ring!" Krystal faced Javelina in the opposite corner. Giselle chopped down. "Wrestle!"

Javelina rushed low for a takedown. Krystal cartwheeled out of the way. They circled. They clashed. Krystal turned Javelina's thrust kick into a Bruce Lee three sixty. The Mexican fighter stuck the landing in a superhero pose. Cheers, laughter, cursing, money exchanged. The Arabs had leaned over the near empty row separating them from the Chinese and were passing money back and forth.

The sharpshooter. The chokeslam. The pile driver. The atomic drop. The Boston Crab. Something happened to the choreography. They'd stopped exchanging blows, but the grappling was for real, each struggling to control the other. Leg locks. Kimuras. Choke holds, until unexpectedly, Javelina squatted as Krystal attacked, got her in a fireman's carry, held Krystal overhead by the back of her neck and trunks, and gave her the helicopter. Javelina moved to the edge of the stage and released. Krystal flew into the governor, slid down in his lap, and gacked up a warm stew of partially digested clam chowder.

FIFTY-FIVE

THE CUCARACHA

Grosz staggered to his dressing room, a head under each arm. His roller blades lay on the floor. He had hoped to show what he could do to a producer, but there wasn't a producer to be found. Peeling off his rabbit suit, he stripped naked and took a shower in the tiny bathroom. He could always go back to selling used cars for Dealin' Doug.

Grosz felt sorry for himself. He hadn't been laid in three months and getting shit-faced and canned from his job at Wacky World was the cherry on the sundae. But he had skills. Mad skills. Grosz could make up rhymes on the spot. He would challenge Eminem, Yellow Wolf, and Macklemore to a contest. First, they would ignore him, but after he built up his YouTube channel with his mad skills, they would not be able to ignore him. Millions of fans would bury those pretenders under mountains of abuse until they either agreed to meet him or did the right thing and committed ritual suicide. Grosz only had two hundred and nineteen followers. The problem was, he wasn't on enough. He needed to stir controversy. That's how you built an online audience, by claiming Star Wars sucks, Will Ferrell isn't funny and Billy Eilish can't sing.

"Oh, how I wish Billy Eilish would slip on some soap and piss up a rope. Eminem? Don't make me laugh. He ain't nothin' but a white flour muffin. You call for Macklemore, I call for Mackle Less! When he raps, he leaves a mess! Beastie Boys may make some noise, but when they're finished, ain't no joys!"

If only he could remember the lyrics when he dried off. He had a couple stock phrases he used all the time, but so did everybody. He shut off the shower and heard the faint roar of the crowd through the curtains and the walls. That Black Dildo bitch was hot. He wouldn't mind banging her, but her old man was straight out of Deliverance. Fucker better pay or Grosz might have to cut him. He still had time to get on over to the El Tigre and pick up one of those bored Latina secretaries. Grosz toweled off. The bathroom smelled like Pinesol.

He stepped out of the bathroom and looked around. All his clothes were gone. Everything. The rabbit suit, his pants, his wallet, car keys, the works. Only his roller blades and the panda head remained.

"SHIT!"

He opened the door. The corridor was empty, with a window at the far end looking out on 7th Ave. Grosz ran to the window and looked out just in time to see a punk on a skateboard stroking up the avenue in a hoodie with a stuffed backpack, one rabbit ear dangling. Grosz ran back to his dressing room. A woman wrestler stepped out in front of him and her instincts took over. Grabbing Grosz by his sweaty black hair, she executed a perfect hane goshi, throwing him to the hardwood floor with a smack.

"Fuck outta here, you perv!" she screamed, sinking into a karate stance. She looked about one forty and none of it was fat.

Grosz slid back on his ass, hands up. "Someone stole my clothes! I have to catch them!"

"I'm calling security." The woman stepped inside and slammed her door.

Grosz grabbed his roller blades and the panda head and pounded down the stairwell at the end of the hall. Just inside the alley exit, he sat on the cold stoop, strapped on his roller blades, pulled the Panda head on and exited into the sour-smelling alley. Wheels crunching on broken glass, he exploded from the alley, startling pedestrians including several Japanese tourists who whipped out their phones and took pictures. He veered into traffic, causing a green Prius to swerve.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" echoed through the Prius' open window. As he approached Highway Nine, an oscillating '67 Chevy low rider pulled up next to him, windows open. Two cholos wearing bandannas slapped their arms against the car doors whooping and hollering.

"YOU GO PANDA! GO, GO, GO!"

"LOOK AT THAT WHITE BOY SCOOT!"

Grosz shot through the red light at North Twenty-eighth, his honor brigade forced to stop. The traffic camera blinked. As he slalomed east, he caught a glimpse of the skateboard, a block ahead, cruising along without a care in the world. That motherfucker was in for a rude awakening.

An open convertible with three college girls heading west laughed, pointed, took pictures. More low riders joined the parade. The Chevy caught up blasting "Latin Boogaloo." A '67 Riviera low rider pulled in front. Now he had an honor guard. The Chevy pulled up on his left.

"Whatchoo runnin' from?" asked the cholo in the shotgun seat.

"I ain't runnin' from nothin'! I'm chasing the motherfucker who stole my clothes!"

The cholo hooted. The cars blasted tunes. Two bike riders in spandex and teardrop helmets, their asses in the air, joined the pursuit.

"Who is it?" the cholo yelled.

"It's that motherfucker in the gray hoodie on the skateboard!"

The Chevy peeled out, racing down the left lane blasting "The Cucaracha".

It was all flat. Grosz could see all the way to Wagner Creek. The Chevy zigged, zagged, and cut off the skateboarder who slammed into the front fender and went airborne, spiraling over the hood. Grosz gasped like a fat man on a treadmill as he pressed on. As he pulled up at the shakedown, the cholos had the hoodie backed against the brick wall of a taqueria and were going through his backpack.

One held up the rabbit suit. Another held the head.

"Looks like we got a real superhero!" crowed the one with the head. He wore a plaid shirt over a blinding white wife beater, red bandanna wrapped around his head. He had a goatee.

Grosz bent over gasping. "Thanks," he croaked.

"You gonna show us your secret identity?"

"Let me put my pants on first."

A cholo handed him his pants. He pulled them on and tore off the panda head. "Where's my wallet, motherfucker?" he snarled at the skateboarder, a pierced and pimpled white boy with half his head shaved, the other half purple.

"I don't know man! It was in the bag!"

Grosz searched the bag. He looked around. "Oh come on! I haven't had enough shit you're gonna rob me too?"

A police vehicle whooped. The cholos bundled in their rides and peeled out. Grosz was too exhausted to flee. He sat on the curb with the panda head in his lap. The police cruiser pulled up. Two Latino cops got out, a man and a woman. The woman came up to him.

"May I see some identification?"

"Those cholos stole my wallet."

"We have reports of a man skating naked wearing a panda head. Was that you?"

Grosz looked up, all innocence. "Me?"

florida man skates naked wearing only panda head

FIFTY-SIX

PERFORMANCE ART

"This contest has been declared a draw!" Aldo Moldanado said. Cups, crumpled programs, old socks, popcorn and peanuts sailed through the air. Fights erupted. Vuvuzelas brayed. The Royal Ducats and the governor skedaddled. Claude Balls found Gary and Delilah in the dressing room while Krystal showered. He hefted a bottle of champagne.

"What are we celebrating?" Gary said. "It was a draw!"

The cork ricocheted off the ceiling. "Is it true this is the third time you've vomited on the governor?"

"Yeah, but most of the credit goes to Krystal."

"She is the queen of everything. It is the most significant piece of performance art since Hugh Grant got in a brawl with a transvestite at the intersection of Hollywood and Vine. I'm inspired. I will write a play about it. Perhaps you and Krystal would consent to playing yourselves. As for the governor, I have my eye on Leonardo DiCaprio."

"I may have a connection."

"Perhaps you'll introduce us."

"What are you gonna call it?"

"Three Rainbows. It says so much about our times right now, about how the interior becomes the exterior, and how long festering resentments inevitably lead to mass revolution."

Delilah made a face. "I think those clams were bad."

"Bad Clams! I shall call it Bad Clams. I might be able to get financing from Liechtenstein. Prince Albert is a great supporter of the arts. Several years ago, the Royal Shakespeare Society performed my play, Crumbling Infrastructure. I am a Royal Knight of the Arts."

Balls reached into his shirt and took out a heavy medallion which he showed around and stuffed back in his shirt.

"'Scuse me," Delilah said. "'Scuse me. Ain't what you call performance art just field variety bullshit? Lemme see that medal."

"I will not have my honor questioned."

Delilah duck faced, grabbed the chain around Balls' neck and ripped it out. She studied the medallion. "Uh-huh." She held it in front of Gary. A bas relief of Regis Gator, Wacky World, 1999. "Regis Gator Challenge Coin."

Balls smiled. "I congratulate you on recognizing performance art when you see it. I am going to write a play, and you're going to be in it."

"Hells no."

"You'll play Marie Laveau, the witch queen of New Orleans."

Delilah's eyes narrowed. "Whatchoo know about Marie Laveau?"

"In 1982, the punk band Misfits broke into her tomb. The police arrested fifteen, wearing dramatic theatrical makeup. It was a brilliant piece of performance art."

"Is taking a shit performance art?"

"Everything is on the table."

Krystal came out of the bathroom in a terrycloth robe. "Did I win?"

"Draw," Delilah said. "We're looking at a rematch in March."

"I shoulda grabbed her hair when I had the chance."

"All right," Gary said, "Pack up. I'm taking y'all to dinner. You too, Claude."

Krystal put her hand on Gary's shoulder. "You're not gonna dump any rats, are ya?"

"I got cash. Let's go. There's a nice Cuban place right down the street."

The Havana Grill on NW 7th featured reproductions of famous Cuban and Mexican artists on the walls including Frida Kahlo, Wilfredo Lam, and Robert Fabelo. Photographs showed Havana in the fifties and sixties, black and white pictures of the beaches, boulevards filled with Packards and Fords, palm trees in front of the Grand Hotel. A rapier thin waiter seated them at a round table covered with white linen in a corner, next to a Mitch O'Connell painting of a matador and a bull.

Balls held the chair for Krystal, then Delilah.

"Whoops!" Gary said.

Krystal fingered the white linen. "No herky jerky stuff, okay?"

Balls seated himself. "I never repeat myself before the same audience."

A raven-haired waitress took their orders. Gary ordered a Cuba Libre, Balls ordered Don Papa, Krystal ordered Bacardi, and Delilah ordered Jack Daniels. A Cuban family with five small children took a big round table. The kids swooped around giggling and shrieking, bumping into the back of a chair occupied by a tall man wearing a turtleneck. The tall man turned, displaying a profile like an Easter Island statue.

"It's the Main Man," Gary said.

The Main Man glared at the children. He glared at the parents. He jerked his chair back and stalked to the foyer, confronting the manager and gesticulating. His voice rose.

"Others may cower in the face of this uncivilized disruption, but the Main Man will not tolerate it! This is a restaurant, not a preschool!"

The manager offered to seat the Main Man elsewhere. The Main Man would have none of it. His eyes found Gary. "Youuuu!" he hissed.

Gary pointed at himself. "Me!"

The Main Man left, leaving his partly consumed meal on the table. One of the waiters made as if to give chase, but the manager held him back.

Delilah shook her head clucking.

"What was that?" Krystal said.

"The Main Man!"

The waitress took their orders. Krystal had the clam chowder. Gary had the bistec de palomilla. Delilah had the fillete de puerco. Balls had the iguana linguini. Balls inhaled individual linguini with a moist sucking sound.

"Where's the Main Man when you need him," Delilah muttered. The waitress cleared their plates. Delilah reached for Balls' hand.

"You have an interesting palm."

"Tell me."

Delilah traced a line with her forefinger. "You have royal blood. You are the heir to the Kingdom of Pottawotamie, an indigenous people found in Oklahoma."

"I was born in Casablanca of a French father and a Greek mother."

"You have a beautiful voice."

"I was thrown out of boys' choir."

"Someday you will win the Iditarod."

"What is it?"

"A dogsled race."

"Would you like a bouquet?" Balls said.

"Sure."

Balls plucked five nose hairs and held them out.

"No thank you."

The waitress returned. "Would you like to see the dessert menu?"

Gary patted his tummy and belched. "No thanks, hon. Just the check."

She returned a minute later. Two hundred and seventy-five dollars.

Balls held up his hand. "You must allow me to pay."

"Hell, Claude! It was our fight."

"Nevertheless."

Claude pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. It looked like Gary's wad of cash. He opened his wallet. He turned to Balls, who smiled self-deprecatingly.

Grunts and scuffling. The Main Man was back, clutching something to his chest. The manager and waiter trued to restrain him. Shaking them off, he wound up like Barry Bonds and let fly. A rat landed in the center of Gary's table and sprang up squeaking.

Everyone leaped to their feet.

"Run!" Gary said.

"Wait!" Balls cried, gripping the white linen tablecloth.

FIFTY-SEVEN

A FEW GOOD DUCATS

Just before sunrise, pounding woke Gary. The pounding in his head. The pounding at the door. He remembered getting home at one in the morning. The rest was a blur. He pulled on his pants and padded through the trailer, noting the overturned Dixie cups and smeared mirror in the living room, Krystal's bra on the dining room table, a vuvuzela.

Gary opened the door. Red-faced Pincus, with a handbag and a stuffed backpack.

"You've got to hide me, Mr. Duba."

"Hide you from what?"

"Someone hacked my computer and posted the turtle."

"What turtle?"

Pincus pointed to his crotch and made a snapping gesture with his hand.

"Oh fuck. Do they know who you are?"

"Not yet, but anybody good enough to do this already knows. It's only a matter of time before they come for me. The Ducats could sue me. I could go to debtors' prison."

"Ain't no debtors' prison."

"They'll be after you too."

Gary's phone beeped. Karen Sullivan. Gary canceled the call.

"Come inside. I gotta drink something."

They went in the kitchen. Gary drained three red solo cups of water. "You want something?"

"You got coffee?"

Gary made coffee in the percolator, found some stale Li'l Debbies in the cupboard. Pincus opened his laptop, turned it toward Gary. "TMZ: WARNING—GRAPHIC CONTENT—please read and sign the waiver along with all appropriate information. What are your parents' maiden names? What is your social security number? Where do you currently live? In what banks do you hold accounts?"

Pincus pressed buttons. The turtle dangled while the prince hopped in agony holding it by the shell like some primitive tribal dance. Gary's phone rang. He turned it off. He turned off Krystal's too. Major slid to a stop at nine. Gary opened the door for him, and he stormed into the kitchen and poured himself a cup.

"The shit has hit the fan."

"I heard."

"How could you let this happen? Why didn't that fool erase the video?"

Pincus looked down in shame.

"Hey, it ain't like anybody put that turtle up to it. I tried to warn his high and mighty dukeness that this here was swamp country. Weren't my idea to go gator hunting. That was his idea!"

Krystal stood in the entry wearing pedal pushers and a halter top. "Fuck's the matter with you? This is a ratings bonanza! Who owns that video? We do! We hired Pincus to shoot the show! Pincus, you right on this. We need to control that video."

"Too late, Mrs. Duba. By now it's been copied a million times. It's playing in New Guinea. It's playing in the Rub al Khali."

Major slurped and inserted a Li'l Debbie like a log in a woodchipper. "Krystal could have a point. No one set out to make the duke look foolish. This will humanize him. This can only increase his popularity. People can relate."

Krystal poured herself a cup. "It could start a trend."

A van marked KMST CHANNEL 27 pulled up in the yard. Out popped a glamour babe and her cameraman. Gary went out on the porch and put his hands up.

"Woah. That's far enough."

The woman stood at the bottom of the steps, holding a mic. She had a big pouf of copper colored hair and had a tiny mic clipped to her sundress. The cameraman aimed. "Mr. Duba, I'm Brenda Babe of KMST Miami. What can you tell us about the snapping turtle?"

"It's just your average, everyday snapping turtle. The duke was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Wasn't the duke participating in your show? The Gary Duba Show?"

"The duke and I are old friends and have agreed to appear in each other's shows. He was filming his first segment."

"Do you feel any responsibility for his injuries?"

"It could have happened to anybody. This is Florida!"

Habib pulled into the lot in his GS, got out and waved his arms. "Not another word. If you have any questions for my client Gary Duba, you can ask me."

The media swiveled. "Who are you, sir?"

"I'm Habib Rodriguez. Have you been in an auto accident and the insurance company didn't give you what you deserved? Call me, the Long Arm." He handed Brenda his card.

"Why are you here if Mr. Duba did nothing wrong?"

"Why are you here?"

"It's news. A scion of the royal family has his unit snatched by a turtle, people want to know."

"Why don't you ask the duke?"

"We've reached out to the Royal Ducats for a response."

Gary cupped his hands. "Habib! This is private property! I can't have these bums swarming around!"

"You heard the man."

Brenda Babe put her hands on her hips. "Do you realize to whom you're speaking? I have 285,000 twitter followers."

"Tweet away. Just don't do it from here."

"The people have a right to know."

"I will hit you with a writ of ad coelum. I will smack you with an ad hominem ad infintum. I will bring a suit of animus nocendi. I will bring a writ of condicio sine qua non consensus ad idem crimen faisi, and ex aequo et bono."

Habib gestured toward Krystal on the deck, holding her Fonebone. He pointed skyward, at Pincus' drone. "We have the proof on camera."

It was a Mexican stand-off.

Brenda Babe whirled and headed for the van. "Let's go."

At the last minute she whirled. "FLORIDA MAN REPEATEDLY VOMITS IN GOVERNOR'S LAP!"

"Come on up here, Habib! Wet your whistle!"

Habib went up on the porch. "I can't drink. I've got to be in court at eleven. You need to get the duke to sign this form absolving you of all liability in case something else latches on to him."

"Ain't this a bit late?"

"You have a special relationship with the Royal Ducats. Maybe Krystal can get him to do it."

"I'll have fun trying."

"Regan'll spit you out like a chicken bone."

"Maybe that girl'd like to meet me in the ring."

"Now you're talking! You think a match between the Black Dildo and Duchess of Ducats might sell tickets?"

Habib shook his head. "Dream on."

The black Escalade pulled into the yard. Karen Sullivan got out wearing a pleated beige skirt, matching jacket and toreador blouse and advanced, her face a clenched fist. "If you think you can get away with humiliating the royal heir, you're mistaken!"

Habib stood on the steps, arms crossed. "Are you accusing my client of biting the duke's cock?"

Gary tamped it down. "Hang on there, Karen. Look at the upside. This is gonna make Larry a lot more relatable to a lot more gals and guys. You know he has a PR problem. This'll make him seem like just a regular guy."

"Because a turtle snapped on to him?"

"Because it could happen to anybody! Say, how'd you feel about your gal the duchess meeting my gal the Black Dildo in the wrestling ring? Think that might attract a few Ducats?"

FIFTY-EIGHT

THE JUNGLE BEARS FRUIT

A three wheeled Morgan banged into the yard, duke at the wheel, the duchess' eyes screwed shut, hanging on for dear life. Prince Larry shut off the engine and boosted himself out of the doorless tin can.

"I say, Karen. What are you doing here?"

Sullivan stomped. "What are you doing here? After what they did to you? Should you even be out of bed? Why aren't you in the hospital?"

"Pish tosh, old girl. We Ducats are made of sterner stuff. Doctor says I'll be good to go in a few days." The prince thrust his pelvis in and out. The duchess looked away. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking out for your interests, Your Highness. You must be aware that the video is out. It has over five million views. Pornhub called."

The duke waved it away. Pish tosh. What did they see but my manhood, ten inches long at rest?"

"That's with the turtle pulling," Gary said. "That turtle went twenty pounds, easy."

The duchess boosted herself out. She had a way of cocking her hip that commanded attention. "We should let people know. The Duke of Ducats can lift more with his manhood than most men can lift with a wheelbarrow."

Krystal leaped to the ground without spilling her Mason jar and went to the duchess. "Girl, we have got a fantastic idea that'll increase our popularity and make us both a fortune."

"Do tell."

"You know I wrestle."

"You vomited in the governor's lap."

"What if you and I was to have a match? Nobody'll get hurt. We'll map it out beforehand. You could call yourself the Duchess of Destruction."

Regan morphed through four seasons and ended up with a smile. "Her Royal Heinie versus the Black Dildo."

Gary snapped his fingers. "Now that's class!"

Habib beckoned from the porch. "Duchess, come on up. Lemme getcha something to drink. What are you having?"

"Do you have a nice Cabernet?" Regan asked.

"I got Boone's Farm," Krystal said.

"By all means. Boone's Farm it is."

The Royal Ducats sat in Adirondacks on the deck. Gary hauled out a couple folding chairs. He opened the door and yelled, "PINCUS, YOU CAN COME OUT NOW."

Pincus came out looking down. He sidled over to the duke. "I'm very sorry what happened, Your Highness. I never intended for that video to go anywhere."

The duke slapped Pincus on the back. "Think nothing of it, old chap. It's all good, as you Yanks are wont to say."

Habib put his elbows on the rail. "Duke, Gary's prepared to show you things no Englishman has ever seen. You may be required to take a blood oath. In return, he only asks that you sign this release absolving him of any liability in the event of an accident. Not that we anticipate anything. I mean, what else could possibly happen, right?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Did you see Krystal's trainer the other night at the Roxy? The woman in the brown turban?"

"I did indeed. She looked very exotic. Who is she? Where is she from?"

"Delilah's a Seminole oracle. She's the seventh daughter of a seventh son. She can foresee the future."

"Pish tosh."

"No, really. She cleaned up on last year's Superbowl. She lives in the middle of the reservation. Few white men have ever been that far. In fact, I can name them on one hand. Gary."

"And Garrison Gland."

"Who?"

"The dude socking it to your client's wife. Got a show on History. Bizarre Bazaar. Might do a segment on me."

The duchess wrinkled her nose. "What is that stench?"

Gary smelled it too. "Now that you mention it, it does stink a little around here. Maybe we should go take a look."

The duchess threw up her hands. "I hope you're not including us in your adventure."

"Hey, only if you wanna. Whatddaya say, Duke? Up for a little hike in the woods?"

"Why not! Jolly good, eh?"

"Hey lemme getcha some swamp boots."

Gary went in the house and returned with big rubber boots that rose to just below the knee and two caps. The duke pulled them on. Gary wore a Select Sires hat, a machete on one side and a pistol on the other.

The duke put on his KFC hat. "I say. Should I be armed?"

"Yeah, hang on a sec." Gary returned with an AR 15.

The duke checked the action and the magazine. "I say! I've always wanted to shoot one of these!"

"Well, no shooting unless we're attacked by a python or something."

The duke bounded down the steps. "Tally ho!"

Gary led him down a game trail that snaked through the overgrowth to the swamp. They passed the place where the Venezuelan pancaked. The duke crouched, examining the flattened grass and bent twigs.

"From my studies of the American Indian, I would say something fell out of the trees."

"Fell out of an airplane. We gave him a proper burial."

"You mean a man?"

"A Venezuelan. They keep coming out here for some reason. I asked 'em to stop."

Through the trees they glimpsed water. The duke crouched again. He stood. He raised his head and sniffed. "I think the smell is getting stronger." He pointed away from the water. "This way."

"Yeah, it's getting riper. Hold on there, Your Highness. Better let me take the lead. I know these woods."

Gary drew his machete and lopped off a branch. Gary thrust out his arm as a python slithered across the path.

"I say!"

"You got any snakes in England?"

"Just your garden variety. Nothing venomous. How did you kill that python?"

"I cut its head off with a samurai sword. Then I had to duct tape it back on to claim the reward."

The woods crackled around them. Monkeys screeched. Birds hooted. Something plopped in the water. Gary stopped, putting his hand up behind him. "Wait a minute. I think we found it."

"What is it? It smells like a rotting corpse!"

Gary parted the foliage and stepped into a clearing. In the center of the clearing, a huge, cabbage like base displayed a green, tongue-like blossom. The clearing reeked of rotting meat. The duke pulled a bandanna from his pocket and tied it around his face. He staggered. He walked a little ways into the jungle and gagged. He returned, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"What is it?"

"Feck if I know."

Garrison Gland approached wearing a safari jacket, pith helmet, and jodhpurs. "I knew it! The giant Sumatran corpse flower!"

His cameraman gagged in the bushes.

FIFTY-NINE

THE QUEEN MOTHER

To: Lawrence Atterbury Newman Windsor-Smith and Regan Euphonia Sparkle Windsor-Smith

From: The Queen of England

Heretofore: In as much as the person formally known as Prince Larry and the Duke of Ducats has besmirched and disgraced his royal lineage by taking up with a commoner, wherefore and therefore, as he has abdicated his royal duties and decamped to the former colonies in search of fame and a quick buck, herefore and unto as he has dragged the royal name through mud and besmirched the honorable tradition, going back seven centuries, of maintaining the royal bloodline, be it therefore known that the Queen Mother, pursuant to her sworn duties to protect the crown and the kingdom from clownery and humiliation does hereby strip the Windsor-Smiths of their royal titles. They are henceforth forbidden from using the term royal in any context, save that of their chosen liquor. They may no longer refer to themselves as the Royal Ducats, prince, or princess.

Although the Queen wishes them every happiness, she cannot permit the continued degradation of the royal lineage through their entertainment business shenanigans, talk show appearances, or base appeals for fame.

The letter had been waiting for Larry when he returned from the expedition. It had been delivered by special courier and stamped with the royal seal. They sat in Gary's living room beneath the spot formerly occupied by Claude Balls' painting, now by Big Mouth Billy Bass. Every time the entity formerly known as Prince Larry shook his head, Billy Bass turned toward the room and sang, "Take Me to the River".

Regan was on her third gin and tonic. In a show of solidarity, Krystal matched her drink for drink. Regan turned toward her beloved with a sneer.

"What's that stink?"

"We discovered a giant Sumatran corpse flower. I was so excited. Now this."

"What does it mean?" Gary asked.

"It's a devastating blow to our marketability," Regan said. "This jeopardizes everything! Our show, Captain Megastar, my line of bath products..."

"You should wrestle," Krystal slurred. "You've got the name recognition. You'll have 'em lined up around the block. In fact, we should wrestle each other. Queen of the Swamp versus the Entity Formerly Known as the Duchess of Ducats."

"Royal Heinie versus Black Dildo," Regan asserted.

"Yeah, but can you call yourself the Royal Heinie?"

"It's wrestling," Gary said. "She can call herself whatever she wants! She can call herself the Queen of Sheba!"

"Where is Sheba, exactly?" Habib said.

Pincus looked up from his laptop. "The region of Sheba has been identified as the Kingdom of Saba in southern Arabia. But it may be in Ethiopia. In the Bible, the queen brings Solomon lavish gifts and praises his wisdom and kingdom before returning to her country."

Habib poked his Fonebone. "For ninety-five dollars, you can purchase a square meter of land in Scotland and claim royal lineage."

Karen Sullivan set her coffee on the kitchen table. "I am not opposed to the idea."

"What idea?" Regan said. "Wrestling or Scottish royalty?"

"Why not both? We'll purchase the land, you become Princess Regan of Scotland and wrestle under that name. You were a gymnast, correct?"

"In college."

Regan glared daggers at Larry. "You stink! Take a shower or get out!"

"Go ahead, Larry," Gary said. "I'll hang outside until you're done."

"But who will train Her Royal Heinie?" Habib said.

Gary was halfway out the door. "What about Ferd Ludlow?"

Regan's mouth looked like a saber jet. "The conspiracy guy?"

"He's not just conspiracies. He's got a gym. He trained Whip 'er Forth Wippurfurth for the world heavyweight title."

Regan held her glass out for a refill. "Never heard of him."

"You've never heard of Whip 'er Forth Wippurfurth?! One of the greatest matches in history! He fought Gadzilla Harambe on the Fourth of July in Qualcomm Stadium."

Karen stared at her Fonebone. "Let's float the idea on our YouTube channel. The good news is, your recognition quotient has exploded, thanks to that snapping turtle. The Royal Ducats are now more widely recognized than Sean Sheen."

"But we're not the Royal Ducats anymore, are we?"

Gary spoke through the screened window. "How 'bout we brainstorm a new catchphrase for these guys? We'll debut it on my show!"

Krystal slammed the window shut.

Gary came back in bringing with him the stench of the grave. "I have another great idea! We can cut the corpse flower up and sell chunks!"

"Are you out of your mind?" Krystal said.

Pincus poked his laptop. "The giant corpse flower weighs about one hundred and seventy pounds. If you were to cut it into quarter-pounders, that would yield six hundred and eighty pieces. Suppose you were to sell them at one hundred dollars the chunk? That would gross six hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Of course, you would have to factor in shipping. The shipping must be air-tight, perhaps frozen with dry ice, because if the smell leaks out, they won't get anywhere."

"Are you out of your mind?" Krystal said.

Pincus poked. "The giant corpse flower is an enormous attraction wherever it grows in the United States. The last time it bloomed at the Florida Botanical Gardens, they had over twenty thousand people willing to pony up fifteen dollars per ticket. Star Trek: The Floundering's ratings shot through the roof during the corpse flower segment. Wackheim is planning an animated musical."

"If we cut it up, won't that kill it?" Karen said.

"Pincus, find everything we need to know. We'll feature it on an upcoming segment."

Larry appeared at the end of the hall, wearing baggy trousers that fell almost to his ankles and a Scurrilous Lies Tee-shirt. "It's too bad we can't broadcast the smell."

"We can suggest things people can do at home to approximate the smell. I'm taking a shower. Let's talk to Major."

Pincus folded his laptop. "I've got to go. I have to take Elisha for a walk, and I have a date with Helen."

Gary pointed a finger. "I told ya I'd get you laid!"

Pincus turned pink. "Oh, Mr. Duba, we're just getting to know each other."

"She's a novitiate, for Christ's sake!" Sullivan snapped.

Regan rose, stumbled, caught herself. "I think we must be going. I need a shower. Larry, we should discuss this wrestling idea."

"You cawn't be serious."

"Larry, we have to raise some money! The Queen has cut us off!"

SIXTY

LOW RENT

The svelte creature in the form-hugging dress stood in Dealin' Doug's lot, used vehicles gleaming in the sun, her hand on the hood of a bright yellow Porsche 944. "Hi! I'm Regan Sparkle, formerly the Duchess of Ducats! Have you dreamed of owning a Porsche but can't afford one? Come on down to Dealin' Doug's Used Cars in Turpentine! This little beauty has only eighty-two thousand miles and was driven by a grandmother to and from the bingo parlor!"

Doug's seven-year-old son Howie marched up. "Nobody beats a Dealin' Doug deal! Nobody!"

Habib Rodriguez appeared. Regan muted the sound and twirled. "What do you think?"

Gary, Krystal, and Major sat in the Presidential Suite at the Breakers, with an expansive view of the beach and ocean.

"Hot damn!" Gary said. "You nailed it. If that don't move some cars, nothing will."

Larry sipped his Boodles on the rocks. "We got the bad news yesterday. Wackenheim has cast Gretel Vichysoisse-Mankiller as Captain Megastar."

Gary fell to his knees, hands clutching the sky. "Why?"

"They said the publicity attending Regan's announcement that she intends to join the Stunning Ladies of Wrestling was not the image they wished to project."

Gary got up. "I've half a mind to go to Wacky World and bust some heads!"

"Pro wrestling is bad publicity for a comic book superhero?" Krystal said.

Larry went to the bar. "They only cast her for her royal connections. She was going to be the first royal to star in a motion picture."

"Well hail," Gary said. "We'll make our own damn movie! Major can direct."

"What's it about?" Major said.

"It's about two bad-ass babes who find themselves stranded in the jungle and have to fight through pythons, hippo, and alligators and take down a terrorist nation."

"What terrorist nation?"

"Venezuela."

Major waved it away. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. A wrestling match featuring the former Duchess of Ducats has international appeal. We can sell the rights in Europe, Australia, China, and Russia. It will be a pay-per-view event, too big for the Roxy. We can charge thousands of dollars for box seats. We will secure Veeblefetzer Stadium in Miami. The networks will bid for the rights. It will be the biggest event since the 2008 Summer Olympics. Bigger than We Are the World. Hundreds of millions of viewers. We'll charge millions for a thirty second spot. Every major corporation will spend millions to produce the cleverest, most memorable advertisements.

"After this event, we can all retire." He crossed his arms and sat back, thrusting his jaw.

Krystal couldn't stop grinning and nodding her head. "Hell yeah, baby! We should open with some musical act, like the Superbowl halftime show!"

Larry leaped to his feet and smacked his fist against the table. "Smashing! I say! Gary, you old tosser, we should put on an exhibition match as well!"

Major shook his finger. "Krystal needs Gary in her corner, and Regan needs you. Let's stick to ladies' wrestling. Yokohama Mama. Devil Girl. The Pink Mink. These are some of the names that could fill out the undercard. I'll contact Aldo and see if he can put me in touch."

Gary stooped at the servery bar and grabbed a half-dozen minis. Scotch, bourbon, vodka, good stuff. "Dealin' Doug will want in."

Major snorted. "Dealin' Doug can't even afford a ticket. We're looking at General Motors, Farmers Insurance, whole nations. We'll need international representation. Got anybody?"

Larry smacked his fist into his palm. "Right-o! Let's get Karen in here!"

Regan picked up her Fonebone. Seconds later, she said, "Hello, Karen! Have I got news for you!"

Holding up a finger, she went out on the balcony to talk in private. Krystal grabbed the swank notepad and pen and sat down at the desk. "We got to figure this out! We got to give the folks a show!"

Megan returned.

"Look here, girl. You ever wrestle?"

"Only with my brothers when I was growing up."

"Good enough. That's how 'Lilah learned. My signature moves are the paddling blowfish and foaming pipesnake. What are yours?"

Regan blushed. "I don't actually have any signature moves yet."

"Don'tchoo worry. Me an' 'Lilah will work some up for you. We can clear out this furniture and go over the basics right now."

"I think we'd better wait on that. Let's wait for Delilah."

"You're right, but here's what I'm thinking. We gotta put on a show. That means the match has to last for a minimum of twenty-five minutes. Joo ever do acrobatics?"

"As a matter of fact, I was on the Wellesley cheerleading squad. The boys tossed me fifteen feet in the air where I somersaulted and landed in Randy Connelly's arms."

Larry grimaced. "Randy Connelly?"

"Don't be absurd. I haven't seen him since college."

"I could have him removed with one phone call."

"Oh, don't start flexing your mob muscles. You're not exactly Sammy the Bull. You're not exactly Conor McGregor."

Larry stiffened. "I fought in the regimental boxing competition I'll have you know! I was a finalist at fourteen stones! You saw me hold my own against this hillbilly!"

Gary bristled. "You see any hills around here?"

Larry's mouth opened. "Well! I mean you're sort of a rustic, aren't you? You live in a trailer in the swamp and drink what, moonshine? I'm not disparaging you, old chap! I rather admire you! You make the most of what you have. It's all very admirable. I couldn't live that way."

Gary thrust out his chest. "What are you saying? That we're trailer trash? And you're lording it over us 'cuz you got a mansion in Hollywood?"

"It's Brentwood, eckshually."

"I may not wait for fight night. Maybe you and me'll have another go rightchere, right now!"

Larry stuck out his chin. "Why you impertinent bumpkin! I should give you a sound thrashing! Perhaps then you'll learn to appreciate your betters!"

"My betters!" Gary hauled back and socked Larry in the jaw, sending the former prince crashing into a sideboard knocking over a modernist glass sculpture that Tallywhacker had missed. Larry put up his dukes and advanced firing off his jab. Gary went low and took him to the ground, cracking the glass coffee table, destroying an art nouveau lamp. Krystal and Major whipped out their Fonebones. Gary and Larry rolled into a teak desk, removing one leg. They rolled away and the desk came down with the phone, pens, and six bottles from the servery bar.

"Stop it!" Regan snapped from the patio entrance. She looked stricken. "You idiots! You fools!"

"What's wrong, love?" Larry asked from the floor, combing shards of glass from his beard.

"Karen just called. The agency dropped us! They said we were too low rent."

SIXTY-ONE

THE NUCLEAR OPTION

The Queen had decamped to Windsor Castle. She slept better without the constant chanting and car horns. Windsor was "the most expensive secular building project of the entire Middle Ages in England". It was Henry VIII's favorite abode. He had expanded it to include a second chapel, and the majestic arch that bore his name. Herman's Hermits memorialized his accomplishments in song. Edward VIII modernized the castle "with enthusiasm and zest", adding saunas, hot tubs, and a bowling alley, and commissioning a series of whoopie cushions featuring all the Henrys and all the Edwards. King George VI brought his own traditions, including the Garter Service, in which every female staff member lined up to have their garters snapped.

During World War II, the entire castle was blacked out by an enormous tarp, variously attributed to Christo and Claude Balls. Balls has denied this, claiming he was only three at the time. Balls' painting of the Queen's corgis in St. George's chapel has been much duplicated. Fire swept through the castle in 1992 requiring expansive repairs. Royal carpenters took this opportunity to install an indoor swimming pool, a home theater, a casino, and a heliport. The cost of renovating the castle led to a national debate on who should pay. Parliament settled on a national lottery dubbed POTRI, paying off the royal invoice. The Royal Family also sold the rights to certain venues and ballrooms.

After a traditional English breakfast of bangers and mash, the Queen Mother awaited the prime minister in the Jaguar Land Rover room, formerly the Sir Walter Scott room. She sat the royal throne with Benedict, her favorite corgi, in her lap as the PM, a mild man with a bad comb over, was ushered into her presence. He carried an electronic notepad. Due to her age, the Queen did not arise, but took the PM's hand.

"Welcome, John."

"Your Majesty. It is with the utmost regret I must report to you the most appalling events."

"Please sit. Will you have tea?"

"By all means."

A liveried servant placed a Queen Ann chair beneath the PM's bum, and they waited while a servant brought in a jangling tea service on a cart, pouring the tea into gold-rimmed china cups that had once belonged to King Ferdinand III. They sipped. The PM waited for the Queen Mother to speak.

The fat corgi rolled on its back, mouth open, tongue lolling. The Queen Mother stroked its belly, cooing, "How is HARM HMRP? Hmmm? Is HRM HMRP happy?"

The dog purred.

"It's good to see HRM HMRP enjoying himself, Mum. How many cabinets has he witnessed?"

"Her Royal Majesty's Holy Moly Roly Poly has lived through six administrations. HRM HMRP is the oldest living corgi."

"May he live through six more."

"John, I have heard the reports. My grandson's wife has forfeited whatever dignity she once had by joining the women's pro-wrestling circuit. I have instructed the royal scriveners to remove both Lawrence and Regan's names from all official correspondence. They will no longer collect the Royal Stipend and I am considering revoking their citizenship. If they want to be Yanks so badly, let them be Yanks."

"Mum, I couldn't agree more. Fabled Albion has suffered many blows over the centuries. The Roman invasion. The Saxon invasion. The Sex Pistols. The Loss of Empire. The Asian invasion. But to have the royal bloodline dragged through the mud, it's simply too much, and I can tell you that the overwhelming majority of Britons revile them. I wished to see you because this latest embarrassment may do irreparable harm not only to the Royal Family, but to our standing around the world. Already, China has made overtures to have Regan fight, if that's the proper term, in China. She plays to bill herself as the Royal Heinie."

"What does that mean?"

"The Royal Bum, your majesty."

"Dear God."

"I have asked the royal barristers to look into that. I have forbidden them from calling themselves royal, but I gather that in the world of professional wrestling, anything goes, and that the name Royal Heinie is greeted with irreverence and hilarity."

"I can imagine."

"Do you know about her opponent?"

"I'm afraid not. I don't follow professional wrestling, although my great grandson Eustace thinks I should."

"Well, ah, at the chance of sounding indelicate, she is known to her fans as the Black Dildo."

The Queen's nose wrinkled, as if HRM HMRP had farted. HARM HMRP farted. A servant rushed over, lit several matches, and waved them around.

"Thank you, Poldark," the Queen Mother said. "Dare I ask how she acquired this moniker?"

"Mum, you have proven your resilience through a world war and many dark days. But I must warn you, what I am about to show you is vulgar, and has been viewed twenty million times. It is especially popular throughout the former colonies and Asia."

"Does it involve anything gruesome?"

"No, Mum. But it is shocking."

The Queen Mother sighed. "Fire away."

The PM opened his laptop and held it before the Queen. On the screen, Krystal flew off the stoop of their former home, dildo upraised like Excalibur, and whacked several coppers before being tased and led away in handcuffs. The PM closed the laptop.

Silence reigned. HRM HMRP farted audibly. Poldark rushed in with matches.

Finally, the Queen Mother spoke. "I can't imagine the circumstances that led to this event."

"It occurred as the constabulary were trying to evict these bumpkins from their house, which they'd purchased some months previously with their lottery winnings. The man you see being led away in handcuffs is Gary Duba. His wife Krystal is the Black Dildo. But even in America that moniker is too crude for the mass media, so she campaigns under the name of Steely Danielle."

"Steely Danielle?"

"Yes. Apparently, it's a play on words after the American pop band Steely Dan, which was named after a dildo, as per William Burroughs."

"This is all very confusing."

"If Mum will hear me out, I have a rather elegant solution which will spare the Royal Family misery in the years to come."

"Speak freely, John."

"Mum, I believe this calls for a clandestine operation from MI6."

The Queen Mother put a hand to her mouth. "Oh dear."

"I know it seems severe, but this is the greatest crisis in public confidence the crown has ever faced. We must send a message that these kinds of shenanigans will simply not be tolerated. It will look like an accident. Nobody will suspect a thing."

"Are you suggesting we deal with both Larry and Regan in this manner?"

"Well, that's up to you, of course. I know he's your grandson."

"I think perhaps it would be prudent to just remove Regan from the picture. Larry's a handsome young man with many good qualities. I curse the day he met that succubus."

"Yes, Mum. Double oh seven is waiting outside. Would you like to meet him?"

"It must look like an accident. Like Diana."

"Of course, mum."

"Bring him in."

The PM spoke into his phone. A short man with a big nose and thick glasses entered, approached the Queen Mother and knelt.

"Your highness."

"Oh please, do rise. What is your name?"

"Bruce, mum. Dave Bruce."

SIXTY-TWO

THUDPUCKER'S

stunning ladies of wrestling presents
steely danielle vs royal heinie
january 4, veeblefetzer stadium
a pay-per-view event
seating is limited
lena the hyena vs stick bug
howler monkey vs maude macaque
javelina vs chupacabra
bandicoot vs sweet charlotte
baby jane vs the she bitch of baltimore

Gary was sitting on the porch Monday morning with a cup of coffee when Garrison Gland arrived in his RAV4 to go over their segment.

Garrison's hands flew. "We will approach gradually, through the jungle, and suddenly..." His hands framed the scene. "We see the corpse flower for the first time, as Lord Carnarvon stumbled upon the Tomb of Tutankhamun. As Hiram Bingham rounding a corner and seeing Machu Picchu. I want a sense of wonder. If only there were some way to convey smell."

"My old man told me about smellovision. It was popular in the sixties."

"If only it were possible to transmit smell through your personal device."

"That'd be the greatest thing since sliced bread."

"The only thing I can do, is to try and convey the scent visually, with pictures of rotting corpses, piles of feces, and perhaps a jackal vomiting."

"Hey, I can vomit for ya."

"Would you? I can't tell you how much that would mean to me."

"One thing I know how to do, it's toss my cookies. I only wish you could have been at the State Fair and see me toss those beetles."

"What's your method, if you don't mind sharing."

"I train. Day by day, I build up my tolerance. I use hot sauce."

"Marvelous."

Gary looked around. He spoke in a low voice. "We combine two episodes. A reenactment of my palmetto eating triumph and the giant corpse flower. You can film me eating those bugs."

"Are you serious?"

"I'm dead serious. My friend Floyd can provide all the bugs we need. I might microwave 'em first to make 'em crispy. We can start out with a segment how to survive in the wilderness. Floyd'll glue the bugs to branches and leaves along the way, so it'll seem as if I'm just pulling 'em in from wherever. Meanwhile, you're following me with the camera and maybe some kind of jungle boogie."

"What do you mean?"

Gary put his hands to his mouth and chuffed beat box like Rodell Grosz, with guttural plosives. BOOM shaka-lakka-lakka, BOOM shakka-lakka-lakka.

"Here in the wilds of Turpentine," Garrison said in a plummy voice, "Gary Duba forages for food as his ancestors have done for centuries, wandering aimlessly through the jungle plucking palmetto bugs from roots and logs."

Gary mimed popping them into his mouth. "We reach the corpse flower. Then what?"

Garrison spread his arms. "After forcing our way at a snail's pace through this impenetrable jungle, a clearing appears, and in the center of that clearing, a majestic bloom, a monstrous bloom, a penis-shaped flower six feet tall, and the smell hits us. This is the Sumatran giant corpse flower, one of the world's rarest orchids, blooming once every eleven years. Because the flower is considered a delicacy by certain sects of the Uggabugga, it has been hunted to extinction. How rare, then, to find this beauty blazing beneath Florida skies!

"While most invasive species have proven deleterious to Florida's ecosystem, here, at least, is one invasive species we can all welcome. The giant Sumatran corpse flower! But wait, what's this? Our intrepid guide, Gary Duba, the man who apprehended Plastic Surgeon to the Stars and serial killer Dr. Vanderlay Mukerjee, caught the largest python in state history, the inventor of house suspenders, and the killer of Hogzilla, is looking a little green around the gills! What say you, Gary?" He swung his hands toward Gary.

Gary puffed out his cheeks and made a vomiting noise, bending over in his chair and pointing a finger at his mouth.

"How was that?"

"You're a natural. Of course, you'll have to sign a waiver absolving the History Channel of any liability."

"You're gonna have to sign a waiver absolving Gary Duba of any liability."

"What liability?"

"In case you get bit by a gator, strangled by a python, or kilt by feral hogs."

Garrison laughed. "No problem! Did you know there is a cult that worships the giant Sumatran corpse flower as a god? They call themselves the Aroma and they're based in California. In 1999, four members of the Aroma broke into the University of Wisconsin botanical gardens while the corpse flower was in bloom, cut it up and ate it. A cleaning crew found them in the morning, belly up like palmetto bugs."

"Why would they eat it?"

"To them it was a holy sacrament, like the eucharist. They had hoped to gain divine knowledge and immortality."

"They still around?"

"Well not that lot, obviously, but the cult lives on. I hear there's a branch in Surinam. Can you get me seats for the battle royal?"

"I guess you heard about that."

"Everybody has heard about it. It's historic. A former member of the British royal family to wrestle professionally."

"What about the Duke of Destruction, Prince Reinhold, Lord Whiplash and Princess Suplex?"

"I wasn't aware. This event may boost professional wrestling from a sideshow attraction to universal appeal. Villages in Africa have installed satellite dishes just so they can watch. Can you get me seats?"

"Worse comes to worst, you can always share our skybox. You ain't bringin' Rose, are ya?"

"No, Rose and I are kaput."

"Aw now I feel bad."

"It was for the best. She had the most irritating laugh. She made a nasal sucking sound, like a pig. 'Hahaha, snuckkkkk. Hahaha snuckkkkk.' Let's schedule the corpse flower for one week from today. Is that doable?"

Gary dug out his Fonebone. "Sure. Be here at nine."

"It would be wonderful if Krystal could make a cameo."

"I don't think she digs the corpse flower like we do. She's in training."

"Of course. I would be fascinated by her routine."

"Mostly drinking and watching kung fu movies. She's got some blow stashed somewhere. It ain't like Regan's a threat."

"Of course. Next Monday then."

As Garrison drove away, Rodell Grosz called.

"I want in on the royal rumble."

"I don't think so, dude. This is a high-class affair."

"I used to work at Wacky World! You can't get any classier!"

"Dude, the last time I saw you, you were rollerblading naked wearing a panda head."

"People loved it!"

"Sorry, Rodell. You'll have to watch it on pay-per-view like everybody else."

"Fuck that! I'll go to Thudpucker's and watch it for free!"

SIXTY-THREE

VEEBLEFETZER

Veeblefetzer Stadium was 20,000-seat multipurpose entertainment arena located on Biscayne Bay, one of the nation's premier sports and entertainment facilities and home to the 2006, 2012 and 2013 NBA champion Miami Heat, concerts, family shows and special events. One thousand tickets had been reserved for a lottery and people began lining up the night before. The ultra-modern facility looked like a hat box. Four garages served the arena, ranging in price from twenty-five dollars to forty dollars, the latter with valet parking.

The main event was scheduled for nine p.m., but Gary and Krystal left home at one to beat the crowds, arriving two hours later. Traffic ground to a halt a mile from the stadium. Gary turned the engine off and got out, standing in the truck bed trying to see what caused the delay. A man wearing a rabbit suit and a panda head stood in the middle of the boulevard vamping to a boom-box beat. A police car made its way down the shoulder, lights flashing.

The police car pulled up. The officer was young, wore aviator shades and had a brush mustache.

"Officer," Gary said, "I'm Gary Duba. My wife Krystal is the headliner, and we need to get to the stadium."

"Follow me."

Gary got back in the truck and pulled in behind the Dade County cruiser as it crawled up the shoulder. The cruiser stopped next to Grosz, who'd set up a beat box and a portable amplifier.

"I'm Panda Rabbit, the people's choice! A harmless herbivore, to give the people voice! When titans clash, I break out in a rash! If I were a car, I'd be a Rolls Royce!"

A boy of ten cupped his hands. "Pandas are highly endangered! They should not be made fun of!"

Grosz dipped and shuffled. "How do you know, you spineless twerp? Can you beat box boy, or only chirp?"

The officer approached Grosz. "Sir, pick up your beat box and leave or I'll arrest you."

"Arrest me for what? Rappin' to the beat? Get out of the kitchen if you can't stand the heat!"

The cop spun Grosz around, snapped on cuffs, and put him in the back seat.

"What about my gear?" Grosz howled.

Gary got out of the truck. "I'll get your gear, Rodell. You can pick it up later."

He put the amp and beat box in the back of his truck and followed the cruiser. Fifteen minutes later, they came to a traffic cop directing traffic toward one of the four garages. The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile and the Planters Peanutmobile were on the apron, waiting for permission to drive around back. When they reached the garage, Gary showed his VIP tag and a valet handed him a chit. Their backstage suite consisted of four rooms and two baths, with a built-in kitchenette. Inside was a gift basket stuffed with fresh fruit, macadamia nuts, chocolate truffles and a bottle of champagne. Krystal opened the card.

"It's from Kensington Gardens HOA."

She plucked the champagne and reached for a towel. Gary wrenched it away.

"Are you nuts? You've got a fight today!"

"Oh, come on! Her Royal Heinie? She's probably never been hit in the face! She'll curl up like a carpet worm!"

"You gotta be professional. We'll save this for later."

"I suppose you're gonna bitch if I do a little line."

Gary wrenched her backpack away and emptied it on the table, grabbing the bindle in a tiny Ziplock bag. "Everything is on the line tonight!"

"Oh, come on! We've already made more money than we can ever spend!"

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch. Anything can happen. A meteor. Murder hornets."

Krystal stuck out her lower lip. "Oh pooh!"

Knocking at the door. Delilah and Airwrecka entered, each carrying a gym bag. Airwrecka pointed at a straight-backed chair. "Sit."

Gary napped. When he woke, it was five and the prelims were about to begin. They watched as Major Sutton, wearing a red tux, took the center of the ring in front of twenty thousand screaming people.

"Good evening fight fans and WELCOME TO THE ROYAL RUMBLE!"

They could hear the crowd in the soundproof suite, like a 747 ramping up. Krystal was in her onesie with Steely Danielle on the breasts, and Habib Rodriguez on her rump, stretching in front of the big screen TV. Her hair was done in cornrows. Patrice, Floyd and Ginger had wormed their way into the dressing room. High fives all around.

"Noble mon," Patrice said.

"Gary, honey," Krystal said, "would you be a dear and get me one of those hot dogs from the concession stand?"

Gary pointed to the fruit basket. "Can't you find anything you like in here? Did you check the servie bar?"

"Please, hon. I just want one of those hot dogs."

"You're not gonna puke, are ya?"

"Of course not! I'm staying away from clams from now on."

"Floyd, you wanna come?"

Floyd was decked out in a Wacky World shirt featuring Regis Gator, Rapid Rabbit, Funky Monkey, Goth Sloth and Punk Skunk. "What else I got to do?"

They wound their way out of the guest suites down a utility corridor that led to the enormous arched hallway that circled the arena, restrooms and concession stands evenly spaced. There was a line at every concession stand as people lined up for soda, popcorn, candy, hot dogs, empanadas, tacos, nachos, and Cubanos. Major announced Baby Jane versus the She Bitch of Baltimore. Gary looked at the big menu made of white plastic letters on a black velvet background. Five bucks for a hot dog. Three bucks for a soda. Three bucks for a bag of popcorn, or you could get the family tub, for nine. Peanuts in the shell. Pretzels.

A warning bell went off in Gary's skull.

"Floyd, you want a hot dog?"

"Yeah. Ginger wants one too."

"Hell. I might as well get everyone a hot dog."

They headed back toward the suite with seven hot dogs and seven sodas. Sound burst through the tunnel openings like a locomotive. By the time they reached the suite, the She Bitch of Baltimore had defeated Baby Jane via horse collar and Major was announcing the next match.

"TWO MULES VS SISTER SARA!"

Back at the suite, Gary and Floyd handed out hot dogs. Five minutes later, the dogs were gone. Three hours remained before the main event. Because the bouts were mostly staged, it was easy to stick to a schedule. A bramble of unease lurked in Gary's gut.

Patrice sat next to Delilah. "Delilah, you kind woman, would you read my palm?"

Delilah took Patrice's right hand, palm side up, in her own. "Hmmm. This line is usually unbroken but here it's disrupted, indicating a possible cataclysmic event."

"What cataclysmic event?"

The lights went out, then flashed red as a klaxon sounded. The noise was magnified by the klaxons in the corridor and in every other suite.

"ATTENTION,” a voice boomed over the PA system. "PLEASE LEAVE THE STADIUM BY THE NEAREST EXIT. DO NOT PANIC. PLEASE LEAVE THE STADIUM AS SOON AS POSSIBLE IN A CALM AND ORDERLY MANNER."

SIXTY-FOUR

THE PLAN

The day before the fight, Bruce, Dave Bruce stood in the main terminal at Miami International waiting for a passenger who had flown in from Seattle. And here he came, unmistakably Waldo in his thick glasses, striped shirt and beret, carrying a beat-up suitcase. Bruce fell in beside the man as they walked toward the exit.

"Edgar Panny?"

"Yup."

"Let's go to the smoking area."

Exiting the terminal, they stood with a handful of nicotine addicts in a trash-strewn area marked by concrete barriers. Panny handed Bruce the suitcase. Bruce handed Panny an envelope.

"How does one get in this line of work?" Bruce asked.

"We Pannys have been smuggling exotic animals for fifty years. I learned from my father."

"Is he still in the business?"

"My father disappeared last year. My sister and I have no clue what happened to him."

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"He was trying out a new courier, but I never found out who. I have dedicated my life to learning the details of my father's death. When I find those responsible, I will act."

"Bit of the old hugger mugger, eh?"

"The suitcase is insulated. They should be fine."

Bruce retrieved his rented Chevy and drove to the Lamplighter Motel in Opa Locka. Once inside, he drew the drapes, put on heavy leather gloves and a clear plastic shield to cover his face, and carefully opened the suitcase. Inside a shoe box stuffed with shredded paper, three Vespa mandarinia, or "murder hornets" as they were more popularly known, slept, anesthetized by diethyl-ether. MI6 had identified Regan's vehicle as a black Cadillac Escalade, license number PW 145.

The next morning, wearing facial recognition fooling glasses and prosthetics, a backpack, a blue Paragon Valet Service uniform with Vern stitched on the breast and a laminated ID around his neck, Bruce approached the Veeblefetzer loading docks where the Weinermobile and the Peanutmobile were parked. Two men stood between them, one wearing a Green Bay Packers shirt and hat, the other dressed as a giant peanut with top hat and monocle.

Packer: "That baby's got a turbo-charged Dodge hemi. It would suck your hubcaps off, if you even have hubcaps, bro."

Peanut: "Not in a million years, bro. The Peanutmobile packs a supercharged 454 big block. It does the quarter in twelve flat. It would blow the mustard off your dog."

Packer: "Not in a million years, bro. The Wienermobile's been clocked at 125 in the quarter mile. It would crack your nut wide open."

Peanut: "Do you even drag, bro?"

As Bruce approached, Packer said, "Dude. Who's faster? The Wienermobile or the Peanuttiest?"

"Why don't you boys race and find out?"

The drivers ruminated.

"Say, guys, where do they keep the celebrity rides? Her Royal Heinie wants me to retrieve a make-up kit."

Mr. Peanut pointed across Biscayne Boulevard to a parking structure. "Bottom floor."

"Thanks." Bruce turned around and headed toward the front. Traffic was chock-a-block with four policemen standing in the road, blowing whistles and signaling. Bruce waited with several dozen until a cop blew his whistle, put his hand out, and stopped traffic so they could cross the street. Bruce entered the cavernous parking garage and noted a series of black SUVs lined up on the ground floor behind a sawhorse barrier. Several liveried chauffeurs stood around smoking, staring at their Fonebones and shooting the shit. No one paid him any attention as he walked purposefully down the concrete floor passing four black Escalades until he came to the one he wanted. It was backed against the concrete abutment with barely enough room for him to stand. Crouching between vehicles, he removed a 1206i Multi-Frequency RF Bug Detector, scanned for the vehicle's car alarm, set the frequency, and pushed the button, shutting off the car alarm. Lying on his back, he stuck a magnetic transmitter to the chassis.

Using a lockout kit with an air wedge to unlock the front door, reached back and unlocked the left rear passenger door. Discreetly opening the door, he slipped inside, crouching low, and shut the door behind him. He felt beneath the seats. Not much room. The cargo area was filled with suitcases. Removing the shoe box of murder hornets, he placed them discreetly near the tailgate. Sunlight caused hornets to become active, but Her Royal Heinie wouldn't leave the auditorium until well after dark. Bruce peeled the backing off a glue-on therapy light. He would wait until the royal party was en route before triggering the light by remote control.

Mission accomplished, he walked several blocks to the Li'l Greenhouse Grill at Overtown Park, sat outside, and ordered a cheeseburger. Now all he had to do was wait. His car was parked nearby. He would follow at a discreet distance and trigger the hornets once the vehicle was up to speed on the Interstate. Her Royal Heinie would die in a pile-up on the Interstate caused by murder hornets.

His waitress, a young Latina, wore a green skirt and blouse with "Debbie" stitched on the breast. "Would you like something to drink?"

"A Vesper martini, shaken, not stirred." He looked around. "Not very busy tonight."

"No. Everybody's at the wrestling match. You'd think the Heat was playing the Knicks or something."

"You're not a wrestling fan?"

Debbie rolled her eyes. "As if. But I would like to see Her Royal Heinie make a fool of herself. Oh well. I guess I'll just have to wait until they show it for free. What brings you to Miami?"

"Oh, you guessed I'm not local."

"Not with that accent!"

Bruce grinned. "I'm on holiday! Plan to visit the Everglades, see some alligators, do a little windsurfing, that sort of thing."

"You know, I've been here five years and I have yet to visit the Everglades."

"Where are you from?"

"Guatemala."

"Your English is excellent."

"Thank you."

"Bruce, Dave Bruce."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bruce. I'd offer to show you around, but all I do is work."

Bruce thought about asking her out, but there was no time. He'd be on a plane back to Old Blighty in the morning. A stir rippled through the diners. Voices rose. Police sirens sounded in the distance.

Debbie looked around. "What's going on?"

Bruce took out his Fonebone. "They're evacuating the stadium. There's been a bomb threat."

SIXTY-FIVE

DRAG RACE

An hour and a half later, Gary, Krystal and Delilah reached the truck on the top level of the parking garage. It took another hour to get out of the garage. Traffic was gridlocked on Biscayne Boulevard as far as the eye could see. Krystal turned on the radio.

"Veeblefetzer Stadium was evacuated this afternoon due to a bomb threat. Dade County sheriff's deputies are working with Metro Miami SWAT squad and bomb-sniffing dogs. It may take up to three days to clear the venue, which was to host the first appearance of the former Duchess of Ducats, Regan Sparkle, in her debut match against local hero Steely Danielle.

"Authorities are working to determine the source of the bomb threat."

Gary pounded the wheel. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

"Best not cash no checks," Delilah said from the back seat.

"Now we have to run the snapping turtle."

Krystal swigged from the champagne bottle. "Everybody's sheen it."

"But they haven't seen it with the duke providing color commentary!"

"Girl," Delilah said, "pass me that bottle."

Delilah glugged. "Has anyone spoken with the Ducats? Did they get out of the arena all right?"

Krystal pulled out her Fonebone and turned off the radio. "I'll call 'em."

"Hi, girl! It's Steely Danielle!"

A rift of concern creased Krystal's forehead. "Oh no. Oh no. Are you all right?"

"What?" Gary demanded.

"Omma put you on speaker phone, izzat okay?"

"We're trapped in traffic!" Regan wailed. "We're on our way to Sunset Island but the traffic here is appalling. I mean, we are basically stuck at a standstill. And there's some awful man dressed in a rabbit suit and panda head going from car to car, begging. I shan't be responsible for Larry."

Gary wrinkled his nose. "Is she talking with a Brit accent?"

"Well thank God you're out of there!" Krystal said. "They say it was a bomb threat! I'm just glad you're all right. We're going back to the trailer. We were kinda counting on that money too."

Traffic started to move. Gary pointed. "There's the one ninety-five up ahead. Hang on, gurls! We're almost outta here!"

"Turn on the radio," Delilah said.

Krystal turned it on.

"Police have arrested Ronald Baitch for making terrorist threats and attempted murder. The police found a truck bomb in the utility garage beneath the arena, filled with a mixture of nitrogen, liquid oxygen, and fertilizer. Police say it had the potential to kill thousands of people. Police located Baitch watching from the Museum Park Baywalk across the inlet. Baitch has refused to speak. He handed the arresting officer the following statement:

"I have warned Veeblefetzer repeatedly, and the Miami Heat in particular, that peanuts are deadly to people of allergy. I have tried to raise awareness about this situation for years. I have spoken. I have posted. I have tried to contact them over and over. But they will not listen. I have also warned them about the pretzels. They will not listen until it’s too late. Well now it’s too late."

"Ain't that the guy..." Krystal slurred.

"That's the dude planted the bomb on the airplane when I was bringing in those tarantulas! I hope he eats a peanut and chokes!"

"Have you been in an auto accident and the insurance company failed to give you what you deserve? The law offices of Habib Rodriguez specialize in insurance claims. You don't pay a dime unless we collect for you. Call the law offices of Habib Rodriguez today."

Important fanfare. "In further developments, we have learned that two years ago, Ronald Baitch was responsible for the bombing of United #298 which made an emergency landing in Miami minutes before the bomb was set to go off. Fortunately, all one hundred and twelve passengers and the crew were evacuated in time. Many who had been aboard the flight reported that minutes before the forced landing, the cabin filled with tarantulas. It sounds like something out of a horror movie, folks.

"And now Mr. Baitch has retained famous criminal defense attorney Habib Rodriguez to represent him."

Gary pounded the wheel. "My ass!"

Krystal turned off the radio.

They got on the Ninety-Five and headed north, sun lowering on the left. Traffic was ferocious. The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile passed them at ninety, followed seconds later by the Planters Peanutmobile. Gary floored it.

"Fuck you doing, Gary?"

"See that Peanutmobile? Omma drive it down Baitch's throat."

"Stop it! You'll get us all arrested!"

Delilah put her hand on Gary's shoulder. "Slow down. Don't make me put a curse on you."

Krystal put her hand on Gary's thigh. "You want me to give you a hand job? Maybe that'll calm you down."

"Not on my watch," Delilah said.

The Oscar Mayer Wiener song floated in through open windows. Gary saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview.

"Here come de popo."

Four squad cars squealed around on the left, tires on the median, racing after the dueling behemoths. Traffic stopped. People got out of their cars and stood on the roofs. Cops had corralled the corporate vehicles. Two men leaned against the Wienermobile as police went through their pockets. Mr. Peanut leaned against the Peanutmobile, wearing his top hat and monocle.

It was dark when they finally inched past, Krystal hanging out the window with her Fonebone. She turned on the radio.

"We have just learned that Interstate Ninety-Five is at a standstill, due to a high-speed chase involving the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile and the Planters Peanutmobile. Eyewitnesses claim to have seen the drivers drinking this afternoon and arguing over whose rig was fastest. Travelers are advised to use alternative routes."

Krystal twisted the knob.

"Welcome to the Ferd Ludlow Show. Folks, I've been telling you for years and today we have definitive proof that America is under siege from alien forces. Do you really think a loser like Ronald Baitch is capable of planting a truck bomb beneath Veeblefetzer Stadium? Isn't it all a little too perfect? Two years ago, they arrest him for blowing up an airplane, and today he was walking around free. How did he get out? He had to have alien help. No other explanation is possible.

"We have a very special guest tonight, someone who knows a thing or two about alien invasion. He has led the Church of Necroeconomics and he ran for governor. Please give a big Ferd Ludlow welcome to Tallywhacker, the alien bull."

SIXTY-SIX

THE BOB'S ASS AWARDS

As soon as the warning sounded, Martin popped in. "We're leaving through the loading zone. Regan, please put on this trench coat, sunglasses, and hat. Lawrence, please don this jacket, sunglasses, and hat." He handed Larry a Miami Heat jacket and cap. "Her highness, follow me with your hands on my shoulders. Sir Larry, you follow Regan with your hands on her shoulders. Ready? Let's go."

The corridor was jammed with wrestlers, stadium employees, publicists, and hangers-on. Martin placed his palms together in front of him to form a wedge and within minutes, there were standing in the loading zone, in brilliant sunshine. Twenty minutes later, they reached the vehicle. The parking garage was jammed with vehicles all trying to exit at once. Two MPD officers stood at the Biscayne Boulevard exit trying to direct traffic. Larry got in the front seat with Martin, Regan in back.

"Must we wait for all these commoners?" Regan said.

"Now, now, dear, we're in the colonies. The classless society and all that."

"What a lot of rubbish! These Yanks are worse than our own bloody peasants!"

It was hard to believe Regan had been born in Cleveland.

They reached the exit. Larry rolled down his window and gestured to the nearest cop. "I say, officer! Hate to trouble you, old chap, but we really must be going."

The cop's snarl morphed into open-mouthed surprise. He blew his whistle, held out his palm, and motioned the Royal Carriage forward. Soon they were inching their way north on Biscayne Boulevard.

"Classless society, my arse!" her Royal Heinie griped.

"I say! You're turning into a right toff! Do come off it, darling."

"What? What did you say to me?"

"Just joking, my dear."

"Well, this is hardly a joking matter. A madman has threatened to blow up the stadium!"

"Black Sunday," Martin said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a movie about terrorists planning to blow up a football stadium."

"I forgot your love of movies."

"Also, Sudden Death, and Sudden Death 2."

"Of course."

"Have you seen those, sir?"

"I have not."

"What movies would you recommend?" Regan said.

"I recommend Alien Vs. Predator. It's about two hideous monsters fighting to the death. You'll love it."

Regan handed two bottled waters to Larry. She drained hers and opened another. Her Fonebone chimed the theme to Dallas.

"It's Boobsie!" she said excitedly. Boobsie Suefield was her agent.

"Boobsie! We're fine, thank you. We managed to escape that madhouse. I'm only sorry to disappoint my millions of fans."

Regan put a finger in her ear and listened. "What?"

The Escalade joined the river of metal flowing west on 195 to get to 95. The sun slanted in from the west. Martin turned the AC to the max.

"Who?"

The Oscar Mayer Wienermobile screamed past followed seconds later by the Peanutmobile.

Regan squealed. "Marvelous! Boobsie, you're a genius! Wait until I tell Larry! Listen, dearest. Let me call you when we get to the hotel. Oh! I'm so excited!"

She put the phone away and sat smugly, hands in lap, smiling like Meg Ryan.

"What?"

"I've been offered the part of Sabra in Barfalo 2: the Sickening."

"Congratulations, my love! This is a great triumph! Tell me more."

"I'm excited to be working with Mickey Orc."

"Marvelous."

Martin turned on the radio. "I just need a situation update."

"...the stadium has been evacuated. A SWAT squad is about to enter with a bomb dog. Police have arrested Ronald Baitch, responsible for the bombing of United Flight #298 two years ago. You may recall, that was the flight on which many passengers claim to have seen spiders. We'll be right back."

"Have you been in an auto accident..."

Martin turned it off.

"I haven't even seen Barfalo 1," Larry said.

"I would rate it right up there with Saw IV."

"What's it about?"

"A bulimic buffalo terrorizes settlers in eighteen eighties Nebraska. I can find it for you, if you like."

"Thank you, no. What's this about, then?"

"Barfalo 2 takes place in the present. A group of engineers digging foundations for windmills inadvertently disturb the bones of the cursed buffalo, which rises as the undead..."

"Wait a minute," Larry said. "You mean as a vampire?"

"Precisely."

"But if it's bulimic, how does it get close enough to people to bite them? And wouldn't the, uh, bile sterilize or purify any vampire bite? Wouldn't this buffalo be its own worst enemy?"

"We'll know more when we get the script," Regan said. "The writer won the Bob's Ass Award at last year's Abraxis Film Festival for Never Say Nebudchadnezzar Again."

"And what, pray tell, is the Bob's Ass Award?"

"Orin Houtkooper is one of the sponsors. An impression of his dog's rectum, modeled in bronze and mounted on a handsome walnut plaque."

"Blimey! Is this a thing?"

"Never miss 'em. They're on Ruxtix. Last year, Drunk Octopus Wants To Fight won for Best Picture."

Regan pointed. "Turn the radio back on."

"...have just been contacted by the alien bull Tallywhacker. You may remember Tallywhacker for destroying the Miami Museum of Modern Art last year, taking over the Church of Necroeconomics, and running for governor. Tallywhacker said, and I quote, "'People of Miami. Aliens had nothing to do with this. Multiple alien sources have assured me that they are following developments but wouldn't dream of interfering. In fact, at least a dozen aliens were caught flat-footed on the arena floor when the announcement broke. Alien money has changed hands. Aliens were keenly interested in the outcome.' End quote. We'll be right back."

"Have you been injured..."

Martin flicked it off.

In the back of the vehicle, the sun beat down. The air conditioning didn't penetrate well beyond the second passenger row, and the murder hornets were warming up.

Four car lengths back, Bruce followed in his plain Jane Malibu, listening to the radio.

"Baitch handed the arresting officer a manifesto, which we have obtained."

I have warned Veeblefetzer repeatedly, and the Miami Heat in particular, that peanuts are deadly to people of allergy. I have tried to raise awareness about this situation for years. I have spoken. I have posted. I have tried to contact them over and over. But they will not listen. I have also warned them about the pretzels. They will not listen until it’s too late. Well now it’s too late...

Several car lengths ahead, someone leaned on their horn. The clash of metal. The black Escalade shot onto the right shoulder, striking the concrete barrier and doing a barrel roll.

SIXTY-SEVEN

IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED

Gary rolled north on Twenty-Seven, passing tire stores, Walmart, the Miramar exit, and miles upon miles of swamp. "Keep your eyes peeled for hippos."

Krystal put her Fonebone away. "Either she ain't answering or I can't reach 'em."

"Don't worry. If that bomb went off, we woulda heard it."

"Maybe this time they'll lock that shithead up for good."

Gary reached for the radio. Krystal knocked his hand away.

"What's your problem?"

"I don't want to hear any shit about aliens, and I've had enough Habib to last a lifetime!"

Delilah laughed and swatted her knee.

"How 'bout I put on some music?"

"All right."

"Doris, play some Tammy Wynette."

"Your Good Girl's Gonna Go Bad" burst upon them.

It was dusk by the time they reached State Highway Eighty.

"Grab that shotgun, Delilah."

"What for?"

"Hogs, hippos, I don't know what all's gonna pop up. We seen every kind of critter back there 'cept a polar bear."

"Just drive. This is suburban Palm Beach."

They turned onto Weldon Way. They heard loud music and laughter as they passed the Wokenoki Trailer Park. They turned a corner and the headlights picked up a large python crossing the road.

"Hot damn," Gary said, clutching the wheel.

Krystal elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't you dare."

"Aw shit! Can't I have any fun?"

"How many cars do you intend to sacrifice to the python god?"

Gary waited for the python to cross the road. A quarter mile from the trailer, they saw lights flickering through the mangrove. Gary stopped the truck and reached for his magnum in the glove compartment.

"Fuck you doing?" Krystal said.

"May be more Venezuelans," Gary whispered. "They tried to kill me last time."

Krystal turned around. "Hand me that shotgun, wouldja, Di?"

Delilah forked over the twelve gauge, dug around in her purse for her works and rolled a cigarette. Gary pulled onto the shoulder and parked, shutting the door quietly behind him. Krystal got out and sprayed herself with Off! She handed the can to Gary. Even with the repellent, the mosquitoes were voracious. They made their way through the swamp by bright moonlight, stepping on hummocks and roots. As they got closer, they heard chanting.

"Do the titan rock, lead with swingin' cock. Follow the giant corpse flower, it leads to personal power. Dance beneath the stink, it puts you in the pink."

They saw a half dozen men and women dancing around the giant corpse flower, holding torches, naked, bodies smeared with paint. Garrison Gland, face painted blue, led them. Krystal pulled out her Fonebone. "Okay," she said. "I think I got the whole chant."

"The History Channel will love this," Gary said. He stepped into the clearing.

"HEY!"

Men gasped and women eeped. They clustered together like meerkats, covering their private parts.

"Garrison! What the hell are you doing?"

Garrison hustled into the bushes and emerged looking like a tourist in a Hawaiian shirt and parachute pants. He cleared his throat. "Very sorry if we disturbed you, it was my understanding you would be gone all evening. I should have asked permission."

"Permission for what?"

The others retrieved their clothes and headed for the road their faces averted. Krystal ratcheted a shell into the chamber.

"Hold it right there."

A woman screamed. The rest stampeded. Gary put his hand out. "Let 'em go. Garrison, you ain't going nowhere 'til you 'splain yourself. First, you turn me in for innocently shooting a Florida panther, next, you diddle the wife of a client of a friend of mine, and now here you are on private property threatening my giant corpse flower."

"Your giant corpse flower? It belongs to the world! The giant corpse flower is too important to be left to obscurity in the swamp!"

"How'd you like a punch in the mouth?"

Garrison's eyes grew wide. "You threaten me? After what we've been through?"

Gary pointed to the road. "Get your ass out of here and don't come back. And if I see one word about my giant corpse flower on your show, I'm gonna send the History Channel the video we just made of you and your followers prancing around butt naked."

Garrison put his hands up. "Don't do that. We meant no harm. We're leaving now. I guess this means I won't be doing a segment on you either."

"Kiss my ass."

They got back in the truck and drove up to the trailer.

"Oh no!" Krystal wailed.

"What?"

"The Ducats were in a car accident. Their vehicle flipped on the interstate!"

"Jeez, are they all right?"

"Doesn't say. Says they were all taken to the hospital."

"Well shit. That ain't good. Does it say what hospital?"

"University."

"Well, you girls go on in the house. Omma do a search for any Venezuelans may have pancaked while we were away."

Delilah got out of the truck. "Venezuelans?"

Krystal rolled her eyes. "We should ask Claude Balls. Maybe it's just performance art."

Gary grabbed his magnum and a flashlight and walked the perimeter. He smelled the giant corpse flower. He sent a feral hog squealing. His route led him to the end of the dock.

"Leotis, you there?"

"I'm always here for you, Gary."

"You seen any Venezuelans?"

"Not today. Of course, they could have approached on land and I would never know."

"Now you got me thinking. One if by land, two if by sea, right?"

"That's right, Gary. Paul Revere is one of my heroes."

"So if you see 'em coming through the swamp, you'll let me know?"

"I don't see how I can do that, Gary, unless you come down here."

"Hmmm. I got to tell ya, Leotis, I been through your three harbingers and I ain't got much to show for it."

"Can you describe the circumstances?"

"Well, the Venezuelan who crash landed in the woods had the first Batman comic. I sold it, but before I got the goods, the IRS confiscated every motherfucking dime. The rabbit turned out to be a whack job. Last I saw, he was dancing next to the freeway, wearing a panda head begging for change. The turtle glommed on to Prince Larry's wang, which increased his profile and marketability about two thousand per cent. Me, I'm still trying to make a living. We're gonna air the wang episode, which should increase our ratings and bring in some ad dollars, but the IRS is hip to that shit. All I got is my prize winnings from eating the most palmetto bugs, and what's left from the sale of Zap #0."

"Gary, I'm not sure I gave you the right harbingers. Let me try again."

SIXTY-EIGHT

TROLLING

In the morning, Gary and Krystal drove to University Hospital in Palm Beach. Larry and Regan were not badly dinged. The hospital had kept them overnight for observation just in case. Gary and Krystal ran into them in the lobby as they were checking out.

"Hey, where ya going? I was gonna get you flowers in the gift shop."

A flesh-colored bandage covered Regan's forehead. "Not necessary, although we appreciate the thought. The air bags deployed, and no one was seriously hurt."

"Why'dja crash?"

"Hornets," Larry said. "Someone planted hornets in the vehicle, and when they got in the sun, they woke up. They stung me on the neck." Larry peeled back his collar to show a white bandage. "They stung Martin on his hand. It was sabotage. It was a deliberate attempt on our lives."

"This is her majesty's doing," Regan said through gritted teeth. "No doubt about it. She simply cannot tolerate any of her brood going off reservation."

"Jeez. Did you tell the cops?"

"Yes. The police caught one of the hornets. It was enormous. I've never seen anything like it."

They walked out front where Martin, his hand bandaged, pulled up in a new white Escalade. He popped out and held the door.

"Mr. Duba. Good to see you again."

"Hold on a minute," Gary said. "I talked to Major and he's looking at a rematch on the twenty-seventh. Do you think that's doable?"

Regan's forehead rippled. "I don't know, Gary. This might be a sign."

"Oh, come on! You were looking at a ten-million-dollar payday!"

"Barfalo 2 starts shooting at the end of the month. What if I injure myself?"

"Oh, come on! What's that job pay?"

"It's not the money, it's the direction I'm heading. Captain Megstar dropped me over the turtle thing. Amber Alert has the part now."

"Well listen. At least let's have dinner before you take off. Why'ntcha come out to the trailer Thursday night? I'll grill."

"I don't know."

"Claude Balls will be there."

Larry took Regan's hand. "Oh, mummy! May we?"

Regan sighed. "Oh, very well. Is there anything I can bring?"

"Bring some Chardonnay."

Gary and Larry hugged in a manly manner. Krystal and Regan embraced. Gary and Krystal headed back to the swamp. They had just passed the Wokenoki Trailer Park when Gary spotted a python slithering across the road. Krystal punched him in the shoulder.

"OW! Whadja do that for?"

"Don't even think about it."

Gary waited for the python to pass. The trailer was as they had left it. The yard smelled of giant corpse flower. They went inside and cranked up the AC.

"Well hell," Gary said. "I might as well put the show together."

Krystal plopped herself in the living room with a bottle of Deep Eddy, a half gram, and What's Your Problem On Demand. Gary closed the door to his office and went to work. It took all day. He went on at nine.

"Welcome to the Gary Duba Show! We're back, and we have the Royal Ducats with us. I took the prince hunting the other day and this is what we caught." He showed all the footage. Comments poured in.

"Now that's a man, baby!"

"I feel better about Lawrence after seeing that."

"Hello, my name is Sudafed. I saw your profile on Facebook and would like to talk to you."

"Brilliant performance art."

Gary highlighted that. "Claude Balls, are you watching? I'll send you a link."

Claude Balls appeared on a split screen. "I regret I was unable to attend."

"We're having a little get together Thursday night. Why don't you come? The Ducats will be there."

"I saw footage of their vehicle doing the barrel roll. Brilliant performance art."

Gary showed footage of the corpse flower dance, faces blurred. "Let's give a hearty Florida welcome to our newest invasive species, the giant Sumatran corpse flower! Unlike some critters, the corpse flower stays in one place and only blooms every ten years. Upkeep is minimal, and the aroma is something else! We're planning to sell corpse flower candles! Gwyneth Paltrow gave me the idea."

Claude popped up. "Shouldn't the whooping crane be considered an invasive species?"

"Good point!"

"I'll bring my bag of magician's tricks."

Krystal appeared in the office door, wearing a filmy black negligee, pupils dilated.

"Gotta go! See you next week!"

Gary woke to his phone buzzing. He had sixteen messages. Krystal lay on her back snoring. TMZ, the alphabets, Scuzz Daily, the Late Night Show all wanted permission to show the turtle. Overnight, he'd picked up sixteen major advertisers. He called Pincus.

"Pincus, I want to sign contracts with these advertisers, but I don't want the IRS to get it."

"Mr. Duba, surely with all these new advertisers you can work out an arrangement with the IRS. They don't want to put you in jail. They want money."

A woman said, "Can I make coffee?"

"Whozat?"

"Helen," Pincus whispered.

"Congrats! I knew you had it in you! Hey, we're having a little get together Thursday night. Why don't you bring Helen? I'll be grilling hog. I don't know what all I'll be grilling. Bring a salad."

"Hang on."

Gary heard Pincus whispering to Helen.

"Sure. What time?"

"Come by around five. Say. People love the turtle."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah! I picked up a half million new viewers overnight! I'm thinking if one is good, more is better. I want to do a series of snapping turtles pulling on celebrity wangs. Think of all the has-beens who will sign on just to get their face before the public. Randy Quaid, Caitlyn Jenner, Joaquin Closet, that kid from Home Alone... Omma audition some turtles."

"Be careful, Mr. Duba."

"I can't very well ask them to do something I wouldn't do. In fact, omma go out there right now and look for a snapper."

"I wouldn't do that..."

Gary ended the call, put on his boots and searched his toolbox. Wait a minute! He had the perfect lure. Bounding up the steps, he went through the bedroom closet and found the two-foot black dildo Barb had given Krystal as a wedding present. It was the source of her fame! Outside, he went to the giant corpse flower and rubbed the dildo back and forth until it smelled like rotting meat. Gripping the dildo firmly with his right hand, he stuck it through the open zipper and walked the swamp.

"Here, turtle! Here turtle!"

He circled the trailer squishing through the marsh until he came to the pier. Leotis burbled up.

"What are you doing, Gary?"

"I'm trolling for snapping turtles."

"'Cuz of you, ya big fish! I can't make sense of the turtle! Rodell Grosz is batshit crazy!"

"It's not my job to explain these things to you, Gary. I am but a conduit."

"Garrrrrry!" Krystal called from the deck. "Where's my dildo?"

Gary jogged to the trailer, dildo leading the way. He stopped at the steps. "Whaddaya need the dildo for? You got me."

"I'm mixing batter."

"Let me wash it off first."

SIXTY-NINE

RIBS

Gary shot a hog. Krystal went to Cane Toad Liquor and came home with two boxes. They set the boom box up on the deck and played Porter Wagonner. Floyd and Ginger arrived with an ounce of primo Winter Lights a friend had sent from Colorado. Habib and Auburn arrived with a case of Cutty Sark.

Habib and Gary leaned on the rail, passing the joint.

"What's that smell?" Habib said.

"Giant corpse flower."

"Can't you do something about it?"

"Well, I don't know what to do, Habib. It's just out there growing. Not bothering anyone."

"It's bothering' the ladies. It's bothering the men. What's it doing there?"

"Just showed up. Some folks are real excited. I'll show you the footage we shot later. I ain't got enough Febreze for the whole swamp."

"We could burn it."

"No sirree bob. I tried that with that gator. Didn't work out so good. Sides which, it's an endangered species."

"It's invasive. There are no corpse flowers in Florida."

"Want to bet?"

"How much?"

"A hunnert."

Habib thought about it. "Nahhh. I'll pass."

Delilah arrived, ejected Porter Waggoner and put in Smoky Robinson.

Claude Balls arrived via Uber, .45 at his waist, wearing combat boots and an old-fashioned fedora. "Where's the corpse flower?"

"Follow your nose."

"Do you want me to bring you some?"

"No thanks, Claude. You can have it. Just don't bring it here."

Balls stalked toward the jungle.

Gary turned to Krystal. "Maybe I should go with him."

"You're the host. Claude's fine. He's a survivor."

Barb and Jen pulled up in Jen's Solara, did lines, swigged wine, and danced. Pincus and Helen arrived in Pincus' Versus. Gary started the grill.

"Mr. Duba," Pincus said, "Helen wants to know if the Royal Couple are gonna be here."

"Doubtful. They were in a car accident and their chauffeur got stung by a hornet sting."

"Oh no!" Helen said, looking seventeen years old in black slacks and pink shirt. "That sounds serious."

Pincus took Helen's hand. "The Department of Natural Resources is concerned. These are the first murder hornets found on the east coast. Florida doesn't need another destructive invasive species."

"Y'know what we need?" Gary said. "Ocelots."

Delilah tapped him on the shoulder. "What's this I hear about a giant catfish?"

Gary felt ashamed. "I was gonna tell you. It ain't like he's my spirit animal or anything."

"Krystal tells me he's giving you advice. Gary, I'm worried about you. Are you tripping?"

Gary formed a beak with his fingers, put it to his nose and flung it away, watching for tracers. "I don't think so."

"Show me the catfish."

"Well, he's shy. I tried to introduce him, but he only shows up when I'm by myself."

"Go to the end of the pier and try and talk to it. I'm going to sneak up on it."

"Watch out for snakes and leeches."

"They won't touch me."

Gary waved Krystal over. "Watch the grill, willya? Delilah wants to talk to Leotis."

Krystal shook her head. "I don't know what you're on, but you need an intervention."

Gary walked to the end of the pier and sat. "You out there, Leotis?"

The swamp thrummed. Loons called, macaques chattered, mosquitoes buzzed. Gary smoked an American Spirit. "Leotis, are you out there? Someone wants to meet you."

"No one can see me but you, Gary."

"Well how you gonna record that album then? Can't they hear you?"

"Gary, are you trying to crush my hopes and dreams?"

"It's just Delilah, my witchee woman. Listen. She doesn't have to see you. Why don't you sing something? She's a soul woman."

"What would you suggest?"

"She likes Smoky Robinson and the Miracles."

"Her name's Delilah?"

"That's right."

"Is she listening now?"

"Prob'ly."

"I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window..." Leotis sang. "I saw the flickering shadows of love on her blind. She was my woman as she deceived me, I watched and went out of my mind..."

Delilah popped up like a prairie dog in the weeds.

"My, my, my, Delilah...Why, why, why, Delilah..."

Delilah whooped and ran to the end of the pier. "Where is he?"

Gary stared deep into the water. "He's gone."

"Hold still while I search you."

"For what?"

"A hidden transmitter."

"RIBS ARE READY!" Krystal sang.

Gary and Delilah returned to the deck. As Gary sat on the top step with a paper platter of ribs in his pocket, two black SUVs and a panel van pulled into the yard. Gary spat ribs.

"Shit! It's the Venezuelans! Get the guns!"

Floyd raced to his Viper and pulled out a K-Tel with a fifty round mag. Habib put his hand on Gary's shoulder. "As your attorney I advise you to hold your fire."

Someone shut off the boom box. An eerie silence descended on the clearing. Gary and Floyd crouched on the deck holding guns. The front passenger window on the lead SUV lowered and a man waved a white handkerchief.

"We come in peace," he shouted. "This is a diplomatic mission. Did you not get our letter?"

Gary crouched. "Sorry! Ain't got the mail in two days! We pick it up in town. They don't deliver out here."

"Are you Gary Duba?"

"Maybe."

"President Elfuncio Quetzacoatl would like to speak with you."

"Bring him on!"

"Yes, if you would only be so kind as to lower your weapons. El Presidente comes in peace and with the greatest admiration. He has come to apologize for abusing your hospitality."

"Just so's you know, I got snipers in the trees!"

The man with the handkerchief got out wearing a dark green military dress uniform, a billed cap wrapped in gold wreaths, gold epaulets on the shoulders and a full plate of fruit salad. He strode to the bottom of the steps, came to attention, and saluted. "I am Major Rohero Sala of the National Bolivarians. Con su permisio, I would like to introduce you to his excellency, El Presidente."

"Bring him on, but no funny stuff! We're all on drugs and we're heavily armed."

A man popped out of the second vehicle and held the rear door. The president had a thick head and a thick mustache. He wore a black suit with a yellow, blue, and red sash from left shoulder to right hip. The Venezuelan Medal of Honor hung from his neck. He opened his arms.

"Senor Duba! It is an honor to meet you!"

Gary put his gun away. "Come on up, El Presidente!"

They embraced at the head of the stairs. Everybody took pictures.

"I was unaware of your accomplishments, Senor Duba. I have decided to honor you with the Order of the Bolivar. I have brought you a gift, Senor Duba."

"Well shit. You didn't have to do that. Just your presence is enough."

El Presidente clapped his hands. Four men in combat fatigues unloaded two wheeled cages from the panel van and pushed them toward the front of the house. The wheels squeaked. They stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stepped back. One animal in each cage, sleek and sinewy.

"Whatcha got there, El Presidente?"

"Ocelots. In your honor, we release them."

El Presidente clapped his hands. The men stepped forward and opened the hatches. The ocelots raced into the swamp.

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU MIGHT ENJOY: BIKER

BIKER BOOK ONE BY MIKE BARON

MASTER OF THE ACTION ADVENTURE GENRE, MIKE BARON DELIVERS THE FIRST BOOK IN THE INTOXICATING BIKER SERIES.

Josh Pratt is an ex-con turned private investigator. Ginger Munz, a woman dying of cancer hires him to find the son she lost as a baby. The child’s father is a sadistic sociopath named Moon who has vowed to kill her and Josh’s girlfriend Cass, for ratting him out. The trail leads to the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally and west into no-man’s land where Josh learns the monstrous fate of the stolen child.

Josh is the BIKER, caught up in a race for survival against a human monster on the road between heaven and hell at the end of which lies either salvation or damnation.

Baron spins a tale of unrelenting suspense and horror that moves across his narrative landscape like the roar of a chopper’s engine.

AVAILABLE NOW

GET YOUR FREE COPY OF THE TARGET H

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Thank you for taking the time to read Catfish Calling. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author's best friend and much appreciated.

Thank you.

Mike Baron

ALSO BY MIKE BARON

The Biker Series

Biker (Book 1)

Sons Of Privilege (Book 2)

Not Fade Away (Book 3)

Sons of Bitches (Book 4)

Buffalo Hump (Book 5)

Bloodline (Book 6)

Unfortunate Son (Book 7)

Road Runner (Book 8)

Khan (Book 9)

Florida Man Series

Florida Man (Book 1)

Hogzilla (Book 2)

Catfish Calling (Book 3)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mike Baron is the creator of Nexus (with artist Steve Rude) and Badger two of the longest lasting independent superhero comics. Nexus is about a cosmic avenger 500 years in the future. Badger, about a multiple personality one of whom is a costumed crime fighter. First/Devils Due is publishing all new Badger stories. Baron has won two Eisners and an Inkpot award and written The Punisher, Flash, Deadman and Star Wars among many other titles.

Baron has published ten novels that span a variety of topics. They have satanic rock bands, biker zombies, spontaneous human combustion, ghosts, and overall hard-boiled crimes.

Mike Baron has written for The Boston Phoenix, Boston Globe, Oui, Fusion, Creem, Isthmus, Front Page Mag, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine.