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April 26, 2005: Mayor Terry McConn heaved himself up from the E-Z Boy. He needed
to go to the can. Good buddy and unofficial political consultant
Bob Slotsky lay sprawled on the couch-- out like a light. "He
never could hold his liquor" said McConn to Lara "Hottentot"
Tremor, local development lovely. Lara smirked and twirled
her brandy snifter. The hundred proof whirl-pooled like the
new HUD bucked hot tub at the Peanut King Motel. Where Slotsky
was silent partner. Though he wasn't silent now. His snores
could raise the dead.
While McConn used the can, Lara reflected. Shoveling manure
to neighborhood groups and covering up conflicts of interest
were OK for laughs, but the second tier city scene in Slaugerton
was getting to her. She was champing at the bit to take her
act on the road and leave the state of New Jorksacutt behind.
Preferably for Dee Cee. Dreams of federal appointments danced
in her head like crack happy go-go girls at the Peanut King
Gentleman's Club. Located smack dab in the middle of an
Empowerment Zone. Where Bob Slotsky served on the board.
Though he didn't seem bored now. He was twitching and mumbling
in his sleep. Lara moved closer-- hoping he might say something
she could hold over him.
When McConn emerged from the can, Lara was standing in the middle
of the room. Her face chalky. For a minute McConn thought she'd
gone overboard with the pancake. Then he saw she was upset.
"Hey Tottie what's up" he asked. But instead of answering, Lara
held a finger to her lips. With her other hand she pointed to
Slotsky's chest. Which was collapsing and expanding like a pair
of antique bellows. Though there was nothing antique about the
wire taped to the hairy acreage revealed by his gaping shirt.
McConn recoiled. A vampire confronted by a cross. For a minute
the earth spun out of orbit. Slotsky a rat! Why, he'd passed
McConn his very first graft under a table at the old Peanut
King Disco (now the Peanut King Assisted Living Facility for the
Elderly and Recently Paroled). Furthermore, that disco was
the very first property where he and Bob defaulted on an FHA
mortgage. Only to buy the building back at auction prices. As
Peanut Shell Ltd., they'd cut similar deals again and again over
the years. Always laughing and joshing about their "limited"
partnership. Now it looked as if McConn needed to limit the
partnership for real.
Taking Lara Tremor by the arm, McConn pulled her out to the
kitchen. He took a pad and pen off the fridge and started a
new To-Do list. KILL BOB, he wrote. Lara nodded. She took the
pen from his hand. WHEN? The answer was NOW.
McConn got a pair of wire cutters from a tool chest under the
sink. Lara went for an electric carving knife. No need to draw
a picture. The feds lost contact. And Slotsky died like many a
development project. Only a whole lot faster and at no cost to
the taxpayer.
After dumping Slotsky's body at the Peanut King Waste Transfer
Station, McConn and Lara decided to hit the Peanut King Motel.
They were feeling hot and sweaty. The whirlpool sounded good.
McConn stripped down and waded right in, but Lara kept her thong
on. Knowing a round of let's-pretend-you're-president would make
McConn putty in her hands. Lara had just gasped Hail To The
Chief when her cell buzzed.
"Damn."
"Ignore It."
"I better not. It could be news about DOJ funding for the Peanut King Homeland Security Center."
"Hello?"
Nothing but breathing. Raspy and labored.
"Hello??" Lara's tone started to sound like the one she used on
old people when telling them their home was slotted for
eminent domain.
"Laaaarrrraa? Itssss Bob..."
Lara didn't lose it. The dead were no biggie. After all, they
voted. Hell, she'd even helped them obtain mortgages. "It's
Bob" she said and passed the phone to McConn. She climbed out of
the tub. While dressing, she could hear the Mayor's end of the
conversation. Alternately wheedling and threatening. Apparently
to no avail. It sounded as if Slotsky was bent on revenge. And
as if he were being as intransigent as a dead drunk bum in the doorway of
Peanut King Liquors. Though this particular dead man was
walking-- and what's worse, talking.
To be continued...
Carola Von Hoffmannstahl-Solomonoff
"Murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ."
Hamlet, ibid., Act II, scene ii
Episodes of Revitalization, My Lovely
Revitalization, My Lovely; Chapter One
Revitalization, My Lovely; Chapter Two
Revitalization, My Lovely; Chapter Three
Revitalization, My Lovely; Chapter Four
Revitalization, My Lovely; Chapter Five
Revitalization, My Lovely Reloaded; Chapter Six
Revitalization, My Lovely Reloaded; Chapter Seven
Revitalization, My Lovely Reloaded; Chapter Eight
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