Wednesday, February 28, 2018


Gladyce collapses on Dorcye's knee.

Gladyce: you're my person. my security blanket. my comfort.

Doryce smiles.

Doryce: i'm supposed to be warming you up.

the buffet trays are all stacked and lined together for brunch, filled with all manner of Mexican munchies and Peruvian palettes for the palate, shining silver and salsa. Takatis from Van Nuys Boulevard is shipped in along with the horchata fluted fountain of green ivory.

Gladyce: dear me, i can't eat all that. still sick. though i hear the burritos in this place are quite alright. Saltado. lomo meat.

Doryce: that Wolverine is a beefcake. i would love to lick that long blade of his.

JUST THEN Genie Bouchard plants her dirty paws on the fleur-de-lis carpet of the lounge. she swerves her pink convertible all over the grounds inside and steps out with one foot in a Redbottom and one foot barefoot.

Bouchard: do you mind?

Doryce takes off her dusty-white nightgown, the only stitch of clothing she has on and hands it to the tennis girl.

Gladyce: what kind of genie are you?

Doryce: your last name sounds like a kiss in French.

Bouchard: French kiss! i always suspected.

Doryce, naked: worry not, my love, you stay sleeping, i'll be your blanket.

Gladyce: you not-so-secretly love this.

Doryce: why not use the hotel linen? the rolling basket's over there.

Bouchard: ew. the cleaned ones look exactly like the dirty ones.

Bouchard ties the article of clothing on each side by a velvet rope and holds it in place hung on the chandelier, wrapped around and twisted to form the makeshift tennis net. Genie begins practicing her overhead smashes of course. she tosses it to herself and runs backwards to catch it on her racket on the way down. the tennis ball that is.

Doryce: you didn't really need a net for that. your tennis dress is pearl-white and slutty enough.

Genie crashes backwards into the pile of buffet. but before she can hit her head Gladyce waves her finger around and miniatures Genie into the nice soothing sauna steam inside one of the buffet trays filled with leftover colding hot water. the ones used to heat the tacos for goddess sake.

Bouchard: thanks. i think.

JUST THEN DeMar DeRozan is in this place at this time.

DeRozan: i didn't touch this girl!

Gladyce: let's both of you have a seat. on my couch in my place.

DeRozan: sorry i'm just always on edge.

Doryce: what are you doing here, Double De?

DeRozan: serving food to the poor. i do little things like that that get no tv publicity when NBA life gets stressful. it's hard to put that damn ball in the hoop every night and keep your foot off the police or three-point line. especially with tree branches all up in your face. we're all human. we're not dinosaurs. we all get depression.

Bouchard: commendable. i should try that.

DeRozan: to get depression? sorry, it's an all-consuming disease.

Gladyce: speaking of not right in the head, what were you planning, missy? this is not the way to get ahead in life. this has gotten silly. making money is but the first step. a slippery step.

DeRozan: i do little projects here and there in the community, tinker with my hammer. i recently put up three billboards to commemorate the Oscars. they were hijacked on an anxious plane and commandeered and coopted for other nefarious purposes, like trying to seduce and secure LeBron to Philly. like that's ever going to happen.

Bouchard: it's in his contract, i saw it. he must play for every single NBA team before he retires or Michael Jordan is forbidden to speak to him. it was an eccentric clause slid into his contract written up by Hope Hicks on her way out the door as a goof and revenge from her Boss.

Gladyce: do you have a hole in your net? is Head your official sponsor? i mean, look at you!

Doryce: please, we've seen enough physical beauty this day for a lifetime.

Bouchard: clearly i hit my head. i can prove this in court. i mean how else do you explain me starting to go on bizarre twitter dates with random strangers? it's like i'm hard up unluckily striking out in the romance department, which is impossible. look at my ass.

Gladyce: you're seated on my couch.

DeRozan: you shouldn't do ANYTHING on twitter. twitter ate my Super Bowl tickets.

Gladyce: why do you have such a gaudy car?

Bouchard: shouldn't someone like me deserve to drive it? it's my real-life life-size Barbie dream car!

Gladyce blinks her jaundiced eye.

Gladyce: yes, dear, i transformed that for you long ago when i used to recruit. stick out your palm.

Bouchard: i swore i would never do that again after i visited my brother's frat.

a small tiny toy-sized verison of her pink Barbie dream car sits on her hand, Hot Wheels, Matchbox-style.

Gladyce rubs her blue eye.

SUDDENLY a torrent of floods rampages the hotel. the lobby, lounge, half-in-half-out patio, deck, front desk, and palm lights are all drenched. Genie watches in horror as a piece of wave dribbles into the buffet area, dousing the swatches of linoleum there that look like and are painted as cobblestones in a clear film of leaky linament. her list hackles up.

Bouchard: damn! that was my chance right then and right there!

she turns around gracefully.

Genie: we regret to inform you that your contract has been terminated and y'all will be escorted off the premises. your actions have caused grievous pain and distress. the splashing kids have no idea what the fuck just happened.

Doryce: how dare you kick two feeble infirm ladies out the door. no need to make a fuss over us, no one ever has, we'll see ourselves out.

Genie: i've been around middle-management all my life, fits me like a surrounding glove. my mom's a judge. yeah, they said that the sign which floated away read OOL. there was no P in it, cos there was no water in it!

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