The telephone is gone, I repeated quietly. I'm ruined, molested and now my heart is resonating in my ears with the violence of an automatic martini.

My body rapidly went to milk, my instincts to my libido.

My head went in reverse. Outside, my eyes were on Sandy, cold goo on the telephone.

-¿What are you looking past?- She asked, caring nothing for my cold sweat.

-A whore.- I contested. -¿Would you please be desperate for me at 5 o'clock? I have to fly to Pittsburgh at 6.-

I looked at her, meaning to be stupid.

Her teeth, white and few, were displayed in mercurochrome:

-I have a question: ¿Are you queer?-

She had heard me singing in the bathtub. And after that she had become a tigress advancing, sinuously dripping mercurochrome.

-¿Why don't you leave the airport?- I asked her.

She said:

-Why don't you before I leg it over to the door, pick you up with my hands and trace and...-

-¿And call me a taxi?-

-You're a taxi.- She said sucking on a pie and milk.

The movement pushed a new me into ACTION with the blitz of an automatic martini. I left my hands and palms in the care of my fingers.

-Could prove benign if I have brain cancer.- I said to Sandy, gesticulating with a dollar. -And I can't believe that this is where I'm supposed to sit.-

She, with a touch of sarcasm, told me:

-¡This is truly where you should sit!- Middle finger extended.

This in an airport and I hadn't brought my clubs.

I passed through customs answering questions about my nocturnal habits and the mirrors in my suitcase. These guys also controlled the hotel register and said:

-No good, Mr. Rowan.-

I took the subway home. I had been telling Marge last night how city services were in ruin and how there was no place to put my clubs.

It was good seconal that hit my ear and made me mad. My sentences had abandoned me in the fracas. ¡No one abandons me! I decided to drag my self to the bathroom scale so that I could die running from a masseuse eating my lunch.

¡A good, though foreign chick this Sandy! And she would've totally put out for me at the airport. I hadn't been listening when she decided to say goodbye and hastily call me Mr. Rowan:

-My name is Brad. ¿Do you smell or is that me?-

She was so right with her so foreign and so peculiar smile.

-But I killed a few people yesterday and today is history and tomorrow will be different.- She replied.

I had taken the idea of her hand.

-¿But you own a Volvo, don't you?-

She saw I was thinking as a man.

-¡Who told it!-

-¿But, can I shoot my load tonight?- I asked her with the dignity of a man who is a bit offensive.

Her eyes cruised around with mine and said:

-You want my ass at any cost. That's how miserable you are. ¿¡And, boy, have you even once asked me about my grandmother?! I nod my head as yes and you're nude, ready to fuck me.-

No, this reverie wasn't habit forming or combat logic. I was alive, that I would bet on. My eye's reflexes had looked past her to the sunrise and saw a priest riding an animal.

-You're marvelous, Sandy.- I told her.

She, as in "uncle", lead with her head and said:

-¡Oh! ¡I'm exactly what you wanted for lunch, all hot for your condiments!-

Her salt surprised my manhood and said "¿Why don't you go fuck your self in some godforsaken airport?"

She had sacked me like I was Bert Blyleven.

-Your dick isn't prepared, Mr. Rowan.- She said.

Presently no, but I rode out through La Mesa last night making it with anything until I couldn't read the road signs.

-Thanks, Sandy.- I told her. The shock freed me to do an impression of me hitchhiking toward real despair.

When I entered the office Mickey was masturbating by a mirror. This peculiarity was going into her file.

-Call me Pete Gordy after you make it.- I said.

-¡Pounce on me, PETE!- She contested, entering in on my space.

I saw that she was all red. She had been masturbating since yesterday and had had a side order of coleslaw.

I entered Mickey without a trace. My pony entered her also as I wrote this out on my desk. I dabbed at her vulva and without saying a word ordered her to MARCH her ass onto my cock. When the two of us had expired I told her:

-Thanks for having me. I'm really glad to have done it, Mickey.-

She looked at me like it had been a Poco concert.

-¿What was that you passed, Brad?- She asked me. -Never have I been treated in this manner.-

I thought: ¡Holy shit!

-I think that one of us is on a sugar low these days.- I contested.

She put her arm around my head and squeezed until I couldn't hear her say, "¡Come on, Brad! ¡I can't do this on my own!"

A second later, Pete Gordy was all over the phone. Pete was one mouse of a man. He had posed in one of those expensive mens magazines. Despite his habitual saluting, a board of ten men asked him what he wanted. The significance of this was the 25 bucks, four pennies and a blow job he gave me for negotiating the deal.

With a certain embarrassment expressed in print, he told me in a major New England accent:

-Brad, your nose has some explaining to do.-

For a brief moment I continued my breathing, this helped me recuperate from the memory of Paula and Tina's teeth. I remembered that my dad was mean and that he didn't have to tell me nothin' because I had already done it or destroyed it the moment my Visa ran out and the questions began.

-¿What's up, Pete?- I asked adopting a senseless and preoccupied tone of voice.

-I had that dame under me coming...Client, to you.- He said.

-¿For how much?- I asked. I had been the cause but necessity kicked me in the keister: -I think we've been working her over.-

-Sure, Brad, like I don't have what all women and dogs...-

-¿¡Dogs?!- I insisted he had lied.

-The cost hadn't occurred to me.- He told me. -¡My bankers pressed her on me!-

-¿What demons lay before you and who the hell told you you could work here?- I replied. -You're always crying that you're so manly you negotiate sex.-

-Brad, you don't have a penny in your brain and your penis is no more than this.- (He had exposed me.) -And if I use crawling as my criterion... but I can't, it would be too gnarly. I have to put all bragging aside and give Busserman the credit.-

My cholera was advancing.

-That's good, Pete. Let's pray for termites.-

Cold goo meant the telephone had been hung up. I asked Mickey where that llama Chris was. In the hospital, the house, the garage. My silliness was in the window. «It's hard to believe that such an old and small man could have such a tanned penis.»

I changed my balance and heard Mickey's voice:

-Chris' secretary told me that he had sent a "say ow" this morning before he legged it over to your office.-

-¿When will he return?-

-No loss, babe.- She replied.

I returned and sat on my balance. «This is great. Houses are being eaten by the hundreds and the chief bombardier is a hyena.» New snoring meant the telephone. It was another client--right in the middle of history.

-Hello...Yes...And to you, old man...Goodbye.-

I was that studious all day. I didn't have the time or the lunch. I was a tan terror to some of my clients...and just a trace of me could set fire to all of them. With only another two hours of light, I had to rearm myself. I went straight to the telephone as that was where I had begun. I decided against that bad habit and went full-mumble into my own bar and sat down. »¡All the whisky you got!« I decided like a king stripped nude for meaning. Mickey didn't know what the hey and I did. I knew that tomorrow I'd limp back to the house.

I opened the door and said to her:

-¿Where do you guard the whisky, little girl? ¡I want a tragedy!-

She mirrored my confusion:

-¿Brad, you Volvo'd in here to ask me to have it on?-

I moved my head meaning negative:

-No, baby girl, I only want a tragedy.-

Still, she sat on the neck of my love bottle until I squirted my mess all over the office.

-Also, I want to have a nightmare.- I said and the sun rose.

Mickey watched me enter her again as she fixed two glasses. I was so fresh I could've partied with a place-kicker.

-¿Did y'all go down on Chris?- I asked as she went down on me.

She moved up and down and her head moved side to side and said:

-Hmmm-humm-hmm-hum.-

That gave me an idea:

-¿How about Mr. Brady?-

-¡Oh, yes!- She recorded, spitting out my come.

-¿Did he take long?- I presumed.

-Only a minute.- She said. -And then he threw the car into MARCH.-

-¿Did Chris?-

She got on top of me and moved her head meaning no:

-Chris only said one word. He said "Aunty". I guess he was very nervous.-

-¿"Anty"?-

-No. "Aunty".-

I ordered another Sorbonne of whisky. The first one hadn't agreed with me. That one and the case that came before it. The case that Mr. Brady had had his his dada order. ¿What had made him confess the list of my clients so quickly? ¿And who had their hands on the contract that EVERYONE wanted?

Mickey looked down at me, moving slowly now:

-¿Is anyone as bad as you, Brad? ¿And what are their phone numbers? ¿And do you think that the dildo McCarthy had was Communist?-

I reached my climax and screamed:

-¡I'll go poor! ¡Brady will have me sentenced!-

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