Monday, June 19, 2006

LIKE LAST TIME, ONLY BETTER

The hours and paperwork continue to build up at the office, the chance for full MoCCA recovery still lies somewhere out in the distance and the summer has begun in Ernest — damn him for saving it. What I should have done this weekend is fall asleep in my space hammock, drink some space cocktails and let a space prostitute cool me down with some sort of space fan.

But Jack Action was coming up to J.C. and he wanted to get the band together for one last big score. Well, we all know how these things go. We began on Wednessday night with a friendly game of poker, little did we (King Leisure, DJ Wetmouse and myself) know we were all being seduced back into the real game. That game of life and death. The game of Suave Prospects.

We fell into our respective roles more easily than we squeezed into our old pants. At first, we dismissed Jack Action's plan as unfeasable, and besides, we didn't DO that sort of thing anymore. But before long, we were each figuring out how we could make the plan happen — if we did it, which we weren't going to do.

I woke up the next morning — still a bit drunk, still a bit stoned — and I could see what Action was getting us into. So I fled. I holed up in my office and tried to live as normal and ordinary a life as I could. The mundane drudgery of office work. The dull wits of my co-workers, the long hours toiling on pointless tasks, the double-speak, the uncompensated overtime.

I called Angella Bassett and made plans for an ordinary evening. I had to get away. The Suave Prospects had lived too close to the edge for too long. We had played it fast and loose and got out before our number came up, but that just meant our number had time to wait and plan. And I didn't want to be there when the number sprang.

Met 'gella at that jazz club she worked at, the one Richard Crenna runs. I helped her close the place down for the night and we danced amongst the upturned chairs to some dusty old Mingus records.

But there was something bothering me. Something sticking in my craw. That craw in my pocket. It was the cash from the other night's poker game. I had cleaned up, and the feel of easy money was suddenly more alluring than my critically acclaimed girlfriend.

Maybe, just maybe, I could pull this off. This one last big score. Maybe our number wouldn't come up. Maybe 'gella would never ask where the money came from. Maybe we'd be able to finally open that Tahitian jazz club I see flittering in front of my girl's eyes. Maybe no one would get hurt. Maybe Suave Prospects could really make this thing happen.

But we all know how these things end.

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