I thought I’d evacuated everything out of Jeff’s old place, and I got home to find my house empty and a note about Mary and the kids moving in with her mother in Scotland for a while, and then I realized that I’d left the tutu behind.  I won it from a person who will remain nameless who couldn’t pay their debt in cash outright at Texas Hold ‘Em.  It’s not (honestly) that I wanted the tutu, so much as I thought that it might constitute some kind of evidence that would be prejudicial to somebody.

Anyway, I’m about a block and a half away when the ‘dillo goes by in a vintage Impala done up all low-ridey.  He’s standing on the seat, and I’ve got no idea how he works the brake.  I wave as he goes by, and in the rear-view, I see his brake lights and hear the squeal of tires.  He sticks his paw out the window and motions to me.  I back up.

“Hey, fuckhead.”

“Hey.”

“Just wanted to say hasta luego, pendejo!”

The tires spin, a thick cloud of toxic crap roils up, and he’s gone, with War blasting on the speakers.

I pull into Jeff’s drive.  Nobody’s around.  Not even that asshole neighbor who always seems to be in the driveway next door.  This is going to be easy, I think to myself.  At the door there’s yellow, “Do not cross, investigation scene” tape, so I let myself in the basement window.  I’m just about to leave when I hear a knock at the door.  “Oh, shit,” I think, brightly.  Well, I can’t get out of there without my car, so I’ve got to answer the door.  I stuff the tutu into my pants and answer it.

There’s nobody there.  I close the door.  “Fuck,” I think, “this whole gig’s got me paranoid.” I hear another knock.  I open the door again.  I’m about to close it, when I hear sobbing.  I look down.  There’s an armadillo with three little armadillos, weeping.  “O! Senor!” it cries, “Ayudeme por favor!  Busco mi marito aqui en Estados Unidos!  He esperado tanto, y ahora . . . ahora . . . aqui no esta!”

Well, to make a long story short, she told me that he’d left several years ago for the US, to make it on American Idol, having taught himself English from watching TMC, and at first there were letters and the occasional Western Union payment.  He’d sent photos from Vegas and Los Angeles, and asked after Armando, Jr and Armando Otro and little Isabella, but that eventually stopped.  She was heartbroken and destitute.  “Los pobrecitos,” she snivelled again and again into her embroidered handkerchief.  I thought I was trapped, until I saw Witheld pull into the driveway.  “Your savior is here!” I assured her in Spanish, and headed out the door.

“Dna,” he said, as I scurried past, “Wear our you gowing?”

“Hi, Witheld!” I replied cheerily.  “There’s someone who wants to see you inside!  Ta!” I hoped he’d notice the note and the cordite.

UPDATE: Jeff couldn’t be around for the 6 millionth visit, but it’s a milestone.  So raise a glass to Protein Wisdom, even if it’s just the lunatics & cetera.