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.
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
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.