Heather Hartley
Director of the Feast


The god of good luck is winking at you. Dimples in his hairy ass. He sees that spring in your step. Yes, that’s shrimp sauce on his tux—on the white part, underneath his chin. He’s got a fork in his pocket, a wooden nickel under his tongue, and boy is he happy to see you. The censor between your legs is warming up. Hang on Sloopy. He tells you he likes to be spanked (for some kind of shock effect) but you could care less. Keep the champagne flowing! you say, even though this is something you never say.


Now he’s feeding you Swedish meatballs with a toothpick. He says, Hubba hubba—you are dressed to the nines! And what he says is not a lie. Not at all.


Though smorgasbords aren’t really your thing, here you are, standing in line again. Your friend’s gone over to attack the cash bar. Kill two birds with one stone, you know… That’s what you hear yourself saying. O, but it takes two, he answers, sphinx-like, though he doesn’t look anything like a sphinx.


Sidling up with two martinis he says, Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus. Now well into the swing of things, you swagger back, Shaken, not stirred?, and think what a shoddy 007 you would make and that this is no way to impress your buddy who looks a little bit like Sacha Guitry around the ears and then he looks at you straight in the eyes just like your grandmother used to and he points his pointer finger at you just like your grandmother used to (which isn’t easy because he’s still holding two martinis) and says, Cherie, mon amie, ma petite, mon ame soeur, ma toute belle—rien ne va plus.


Behind you, someone’s whining about the last days of Pompeii. A reception line forms on the other side of the ballroom. Just what kind of costume party is this, anyway? you ask him.


It all depends, he grins. Yuck yuck. You guessed right: Lucifer. Jump in.