[Cheeks compressed upon the throne behind the Dutch doors, the Rorschalk unloads his offalatory burden with great relief and much splashing]
Oh, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you! It is the thrill of the BM and watching you neighbor fall off his roof! It is the wonderment of a bimonthly haircut and a pair of not uncomfortable shoes. Yes! Keep It Simple Stupid.
OMFG kiss me you fool!
[Then, with his confidence at an impressive high, he reaches for the paper, and finding none upon the empty roller, crashes back to earth...]
Oh God, that were I bounded in a nutshell! How and with what am I to wipe down my filthy ass?!
[then there comes steps upon the stair, bringing hope to an otherwise hopeless situation...]
Heark! what tread through darkness breaks? It is the loo! Nein! The stars crossed the moment my hand felt the cold steel of the unpapered roller, but thee, prithee, darenst thee double back upon thy road and fetch us up a roll?
[the steps upon the stair grow quiet... the Rorschalk peers through the cracks of the dutch door, wondering if a helpful shade shall pass before the light...]
[doomey appears on the stairs. he shoulders a hawker's tray, loaded with toiletries; soaps and sponges and salts and rolls of toilet paper and scents and rubber mats for the tub. he trudges up the stairs]
[he yells, hawking]
[he steps up, and then he turns, and he steps down]
oatmeal scrub! rubber duckies!
[and he continues downward, beyond sight and sense. gone]
[Jesus exits the cleaning closet, closes the door gently. He wanders over to the cherrywood, in Carol's direction. He leans up against the desk, his black tshirt grimed and his black jeans torn. He leans in and asides to Carol]
I just broke up a dog fight.
[Carol gives him a nod, and Jesus seems very happy to have recieved it. He pushes off the desk, and he twirls, and he stances himself before the cherrywood]
These two dogs were fighting over who was going to pay their Starbuck's bill. I broke that up, seperated those raised lips, those curled paws. Got a little messy.
[Jesus walks over to DePlancher's desk, leans up against it. He brushes dog spittle from his shirt front, swipe swipe swipe. He looks down on DePlancher. She's examining a particular capital. Jesus twists his mouth, his lips]
[Jesus purses his lips now. He decides to bother her not, and he pushes off the desk and wanders over toward Carol. He's slightly crestfallen, besmirched, upset. Carol stands and goes to Jesus. She grabs him around the chest and wrestles him to the tiles, and they struggle, him trying to rise, her trying to secure a demon, and sweat begins to flow. Carol gets atop Jesus and shoves her elbows into the soft parts just below Jesus's shoulders, and he goes limp, and she whispers in his ear, and the mirrorball stalls its rotation for a moment]
[then the mirrorball starts its rotation once more, in reverse]
[doomey stomps onto the Floor, his underpamts in full glory, glisteningly white. he leans in over the cherrywood, nods at Carol. he thumbs the Bose remote, exploding Zeke's Chiva Knievel. he jumps up and down on the tiles, starts to sweat. and then he twirls, his arms out, looking like a helicoper. and then the song ends. boligard calms. he moves to the cherrywood]
whoa, horses. whoa.
[tears in his eyes]
magic is in us.
[he becomes still upon the glass]
in us is the stuff of miracles.
[he looks up to the whirling mirrorball]
we are the makers, right? we're the nerds that make worlds, cities, homes. and lisa clark made wild strawberries, and manjeet singh, that motherfucking cocksucking mench made mincemeat. god christ, i do love america. both those sons-a-bitches have been Terminalized. and seeing as how they're from overseas...well i think they might just be hurt wonderfully. like a tatoo. but only because, right, cousin?
Hello, again. Sorry to intrude, again. I found the shitter. Thanks so much, Dep. Your directions were stellar. Maybe you were a GPS in another life. And you were right about the paper, too. There was none. Fortunately there was some cap spread out on the floor. Now I am looking for the meth lab. I know it's around here somewhere. Doomey? Meth lab?
[doomey remains still upon the glass. he swivels his head, spies the feller at the bottom of the secret stairs that lead up to the toilet]
the meth lab be out the door, up the block, through the deluge a bit, then a left past the yardsale, then down some stairs on your left. there should be door in front of you. knock twice, then bark like a dog. then piss all over yourself and tweet like the president. maybe they'll let you in.
[doomey breathes. he goes to the cleaning closet door, knocks loudly]
hello! please tell me you've found her a fucking dress by now! i'm exposed out here, you hairy bastard!
[doomey waits. then he wanders over to the cherrywood. behind the desk he sees Carol astride a prone Jesus. they seem to be having a conversation. or a struggle. one of the two. then Carol gets to her feet and turns to boligard. she peels off the clothes he gave her and tosses them at him. okay, she seems real pissed. Jesus rises]
[doomey's surrounded by his clothes. he picks them up and puts them on. he looks over at Jesus]
oh, so much better.
[he ties his tie but keeps it loose. he slips his shoes on, fully attired. he checks his pockets, pulls a pack of pall malls from inside his jacket]
i know she's for real, Christ. and now we know she whispers in your ear.
[doomey giggles. he leans against the cherrywood, grabs up a swan vesta and thumbnails it to flame. he lights his cigarette and sucks in some sweet smoke. he breathes deep, combs his fingers through the mess of hair on head, and then he glares at Jesus]
now would you go find her a fucking dress, christ sake!