I was in a bad part of town today — what’s that? No, I’m not at liberty to explain why. It certainly didn’t involve the purchase of drugs, prescription or otherwise. Frankly, I resent the implication. Lucky for you I’m in a good mood, or you’d be hearing from my attorneys.
Anyhow, where were we? Ah yes, bad part of town. Lots of poor people milling about, shuffling their feet, punching each other, coughing wads of bloody phlegm into their shirtsleeves, etc. Obama’s America in full bloom. And who should I see in the midst of it? None other than my former secretary, Lauren Cashtushy.
I powered down my Escalade’s passenger-side window and came to a screeching halt at the corner where she was standing. I laid on the horn.
“Ha! I see you’re finally working tricks, Cashtushy!” I said, wagging a finger at her. “I knew you’d come to this!”
She squinted at me and frowned. “Oh, for the love of crikey. I’m waiting for a cab, asshole. And I thought you were dead.”
“It takes more than an ill-tempered houseboy to stop this train! And by the way, you look terrible.” Which wasn’t entirely true once you factored in her age, but a woman over 30 might as well be a man.
“What?! Screw you, Carver.”
“Well it’s true! Look at you — you look like a housewife! Did that Prince Khalid finally make an honest woman out of you?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. We married last year.”
“Good call, Cashtushy! Your fruit was undeniably sweet when it was still ripe, but I think we both know it was getting dangerously close to the sell-by date by the time I went to prison. And that was more than two years ago!”
“You are such a pig.”
“Yes, but an extremely wealthy one,” I said, lighting a cigar with a $100 bill by way of emphasis. “Venture capitalism has been good to me, very good indeed. What about you? Still with Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs?”
“Good god no. I’m the dean of admissions for a Christian mail-order degree mill these days; much better pay.”
“What’s so funny?”
“Married and working?! You really got the short end of the stick there, Cashtushy! Ha ha! Ha ha ha!”
Cashtushy produced a canister of pepper spray from her pocketbook and pointed it in my direction. My catlike reflexes were too much for her, though. I stomped the accelerator and she harmlessly misted my back windows, causing me to laugh all the harder.
“Ha ha — nice try!” I cried. “Ciao for now, toots!”
She hurled the canister at my back window as I drove off, and I merrily waved at her through my rearview mirror. Ah, good old Cashtushy. Emphasis on the “old.” Speaking of which, I wonder what I did with all that candid bathroom webcam footage I shot of her a few years ago? It must be around here somewhere. And unlike the real thing, that Cashtushy never ages.