A million streetwalkers descended on me from the sky.

I was test-driving a SAAB inside my house. I couldn't get past the dining room chairs to get a cigarette. I drove to the window, then the door and then I saw Paul and Marge sitting on the table talking. I could see her legs and later, her head moving into his jeans.

I cleared my throat, asked a question and then indicated the time it would take if my head was in that position. That ended all negotiations.

The car detoured in front of the front door. I could hear the ruin of juvenile voices and a minute later: Jeanie's panting. My daughter knew nothing about what was going on. The world was hers and delicious and better than a sea of fur.

When Jeanie saw me parked there she parted her hair in sections.

-¡Father!- She exclaimed. -¿What the fuck are you doing in a Ferrari?-

A lamb's anger at the dirigible:

-¡I'm eating Fresca, my little ceiling!- I contested.

I had bequeathed nothing to her in my will and after she's dead I'm out for lasagna.

-I won't tell mother that you're sober and sailing through the living room.- She assured my ears.

I was no contest. The house was old fingers to her. It had a jacuzzi and now a car in it and still she asked, "¿How much?" Nothing I believed in was ever put right by passing a rooster through a watch.

My daughter was an intelligent chick who sometimes found it necessary to curse. And then my estimation of her would go all animal.

-¿Has it occurred to you how old you are, Father?- She asked and she meant and she looked at me in my car. -¿Have you told Mom the tuna's all gone?-

I moved my head, meaning negative:

-¡Nope!- I contested. -But as soon as I can, I won't.-

-¡Doh...!- She exclaimed. No Del Taco taco would convince her.

Lamb's anger: Jeanie was a city girl with all of the grace, grades, intuition and sexual propriety (do not back order).

-Here's an original question for a tart like you.- I said.

-¿What is it that has the teeth to think in yellow?-

She (eluding response) said:

-Nothing.-

-It also has incisors and algorithms.- I insisted.

She wouldn't look, she'd only talk.

-You're about as mannered as a robot and that's on your good days. Mom has an expression she uses in the house and that's "abracadabra"...-

I wanted to solder her carcass but I didn't have a blow torch.

-She's a stupid ditz.- I told her.

One of her eyes looked into mine while the other seized my hand saying "Let's go over and buy me a love life." She gained a sort of confidence by telling me:

-Father, I saw a photograph of your Mistress Schuyler in a magazine. She's very pretty.-

I sent for my toenails:

-That's nice.-

-The house thinks you're in love with her.- She told me.

I cursed in silence the bad decision to buy this house. My father wanted me to go for something with more juice and even more silence.

-You know too much.- I told her in my affected, superior tone. -He who believes in women shall die with no mind and no money.-

I was certain my reflexes saw a price in her eyes:

-You're a goof and the tipoff is your decrepitude, Father. And you know it.-

This dirge went out the mirror and into my neck:

-¿I have very few days in which to talk and you think that the tipoff is I don't have fun or fun or fun and I'm not romantic? ¿What are you? ¿A nerd?-

-But you're so enamored of her.- She insisted. -I was once suckered like you. I went to see a Clark Gable movie and...-

-¡Oh, get out, get out you insufferable adolescent!- I said a tad interruptingly. -And I'm not Clark Gable.-

-¡You're less operatic!- She contested running the door rapidly.

-Well, the adulation won't leave you with a nine-part mini-series.- I told her.

In her opinion I had transformed all my power tools into my mistress with all the romantic fervor of a dad.

-¿Isn't this serious terrible, Father?- And me all sure and all ears. -¡That she would use you like a vise! ¡You're so in love with her you'd vote for the E.R.A.! ¿Did you tell her that you've always been a simpleton and that your desires run the gamut from sex to sex?-

Any other time I would've turned on my c.b. and the angst would've come hobbling out all over my fingers. Instead, I felt like putting on my froggy flippers and fucking anything. «From the lab//To you//By nine»

¡My face was in pie and starting to baste!

-¡We're going to the dentist!- I said. -¡Uncle Paul has sold us a free visit and I want their advertising account!-

The more vile the rumor the greasier the signature. And that was PRIME GREASE in my corpuscles mutating into a lizard running furtively into the night. I hadn't encountered any toads and the night was no solution to my problem. I quizzed all sorts of Malaysian nationals and then punted a salad...

My eyes ended and my pulse was dormant.

I had a pass to the office. I carried Paul to the airport. It was a tad musty and my underwear needed debriefing.

»-For the last time, ¡PUT YOUR PAJAMAS ON THE TABLE!-

»Negative with the head and all I could see was Elaine's car and her head in my crotch.

»-¡You and your stupid organ!- Her light bulb extending a dome over my manhood.

»I knew she was on to me. And I had a pretty good idea that she knew the who and the how.

»Her eyes were in contrast to mine.«

The road to the airplane returned my head to me and Paul.

-It's been sure.-

-Thanks.- Paul contested.

In the ensuing I noted certain species of albino men talking.

Impulsively I gritted my teeth:

-¡Paul!-

He detooled his penis and his Volvo toward me.

-This is only the first «round». ¿Ten-four?-

During the second round his car didn't reflect his expression. Later, when the sun rained:

-You're loopy.- I said moving his head with my hands, the other hand left to tend to my brazenness in a gesture of dyspepsia so sad I was flying higher than a plane.

When I entered the office Mickey was standing there cleaning, coming and acting desperate. She didn't know the day, the date or the time.

-Call Chris.- I told her.

She moved her head indicating the space:

-This is one desperate dentist.-

I had fucked her senseless, like they used to do or pretend to do in the movies. I sat in front of my mess, the garbage angling toward Peru.

When I entered her again I looked and she was laughing herself silly. I drove my cock in deeper on impulse, the seconal taking hold and returning me to this sentence. She looked at me in triplicate. I didn't know what to tell her. I sent in other sillinesses and moved my manhood around, exclaiming:

-¡Hi ho!-

and

-¡Hi ho!-

After various minutes of these animal utterances I was ready to come. This subject arrived quickly and without embargo. I had segued more than halfway into sin. That poor fin Mickey caressed my penis and told me:

-Brad...-

I let the sun rise, it was January.

-Chris Tyndall to see you.-

The air was salted from Miami to (¿como se dice "Cuba"?) Cuba. That is, if you took a left at the hub and ran like a toucan with a heavy can.

-¿What did you find so interesting and ocular and silly?-

He was brake light red. His intensity meant (and before that, his podiatry) that he would eat the words out of my mouth starting at 9 (sent and domed) and ending at 10 (suck me silly!).

-If that's what Brady wants, a base for making diamonds, I'll see if the old goat'll come over here.-

That was no contest but he was so red I began to see the veins in his nose and on his Roi-Tan. ¡The man had to get control of his sentences!

-You don't understand, Brad.- Chris continued. -Intention is a toy in the playground of fools.-

-¿Where?- My left leg didn't feel right. -¿Intention is in my "smoe"?-

For the first time he wasn't able to put a price on lexicon and he wasn't able to control my smoe.

-Okay, this house has what men want, sober men that is.- He was grating me. -You're a Hun and I'm this porky businessman yahoo who couldn't make it with Nadia Comenic for more than two minutes without laughing.-

I began sending tires into my drawers. Now we were where we were wanted, we were. This in triplicate and I tried the door. My demeanor conjugated.

¡No one conjugates me!

Mickey opened some windows, our quesadillas wanting the air to be free.

-¿Where the demon are those guys? ¡My Tidybowl has been AWOL all day!- Chris prayed to guten tag.

-It's true. I lined up men to have a go at Matt Brady.- I told him. -I made a deal with him.-

-¿What kind of deal?- He asked me. -Because all of our clients say the trace of his hand on their butts is still visible and will be for the rest of their hairy days.-

-Yeah, I know.- I said meaning to be cold. -Matt Brady told me that no one could resist him, that he had had hundreds...-

-¿And who came?- Chris asked. -¿That guy yesterday with his list of strokes and how to's?-

-¡I know Lady Di, Yo!- I was the salt of my silliness.

-¿Is that the kind of thinking you do without me?- Chris asked.

His list of Volvos sent the days into confusion.

-Matt Brady wants all guns listed as references.- I contested.

I was a mess on rye, hold the pickle.

-¿This Brady is of little convenience, isn't he?- Chris asked. -¿I mean, he doesn't seriously think I would go anywhere without my Sweet 'N' Low, does he?-

Chris looked at me meaning to be new wave and caring. His voice was cold and impudent and appreciated what was manly for me to control:

My smoe.

-Also, you're like Judas: responsible in name but not in company. So brace me and don't think of me as impossible or permanent or all green kama sutra resulting in a land mine of entrails.-

His eyes orbited around mine, reflecting the full gore of media ambition. I knew he was considering killing me and then the empress.

-Brady is a damn lizard if he abandons this contract.- He told me.

-¿Are you referring to the social treaty or the commandment that states THOU SHALT NOT PUSH PROUST BY TELEPHONE?- I asked, figuring it was the end of the conversation.

Chris moved his head, meaning "Negatori, you SRLF Cyrillic Reject."

-I'm authorized to offend only you. I've been through all that saliva with the empress.-

I sent out new-wave meaning:

-¿What do you mean precisely by "OFFEND"?- I asked.

The dude took a moment:

-Fifty million dollars.-

Negotiation redux. The company annually produced a beneficial 50 million bills.

50 MILLION DONUTS.

-¿Why is your tan so generous?- I asked him meaning the sarcasm to stick.

-The lowest.- He responded to God with obstinateness. -You're here and your dad's in a cab. There ain't a gyro sober alive who could make me piss on you and there ain't no job I dig more than demanding everything.-

The loco in me decided it was true, but demanding everything was not what I wanted to jar me into intimacy. If I have to stop negotiating that's all right but if I have to give away all my possessions and run screaming into fire...

-This Mr. Brady...- I said. -¿Does he deflect tax questions when you ask him? ¿Did you enter him when he was in traction?-

Chris was no contest. I examined his dental work as he held my heart in his heart.

-Chris.- I said. -I'll be in the house thinking about money and deserting the empress. I'll have the Contra Aid in my personal traveling toilet attache. I take full responsibility. ¿You know what's fucked about this country?--and this adapted from the faculty of the radioactive class of 1990--The more podiatrists we have the more money I can't get, the more sailors and bus drivers I pick up at any cost: ¡¡THE SALAD WAS DRY AND ELAINE WASN'T!!-

-Of course, Brad.- He said in his sizing-me-up-morbidly-like-a-gazelle tone. -You can have your propaganda and look at it too.-

I let him think his argument had convinced me:

-¿You really believe that, asshole?-

That was a tragic move. The gazelles and I were now too obstinate and there was no escaping the Sweet 'N' Low.

-You, Brad, are one of the most exponential persons in this company. There is no empress, no money and I hear your car was torqued too far by a woman. Your historical babble was pretty abysmal. I would've run but I was all out of Pez.-

-You had me convinced, Chris.- I told him.

He knew a corporate triumph when one reflected the dose-me-under satisfaction of his image.

-Already I know that abracadabra is from the Latin for convent.-He said and rode out on the mesa. He had damn domed all of my words. -Already I've told Mr. Brady that you sell raisins.-

My Volvo was a miracle with air deconditioning.

-Don't die without intending to, Chris.-

His manhood called me a man and his rooster was out and crowing.

-But Brad.- He said. -¡Yo!...-

I touched him and said:

-Don't confess your curiosities. My dog turned a neat trick with Mr. Brady and most of that meant Brady was a seriously sick and tartared individual...-

He zoomed out the back door with the microscope as Mickey contested:

-¿Yes, Brad?-

-Invoking that toad was personal. Now it's my turn to be despicable. ¿No more falsies, okay?-

This returned my thoughts to Chris, that permanent pie salesman with the habit of listening to raisins:

-¡Mickey! ¡¿You went down on Chris?!- The sun rose. -¡You're on restriction!-

She began to speak, changed the idea and instead sent her self out the door and down the road.

Everything was blurred. The truth was that most Americans would concentrate on how to be despicable with Mickey and her asp.

I had one idea: To repent.

-¡Chris!- I called in an altered voice.

I knew that God would vault down when he had his manhood in the palm of his door.

Chris understood my words and with the finesse of a cracker I ordered him to stop in the name of the Opportunity Effect, in effect telling him:

-Inform my secretary where I can throw away your correspondence. If I'm at Matt Brady's house then you can take my parsnips, it won't make much difference.-

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