I had been partying with Winnebago Wallace and instead of a "beer and a joint" goodbye it had turned into two cases of brew and half an ounce of Cambodian Red. I was still blotto and passed out when Wally fired up the Winnebago and told me to get my ass out of his RV - he had rubber to burn and miles to go.
I had staggered out of his RV and walked up to my condo and immediately started hitting the hair of the dog that bit me. Grey Goose screwdrivers and black Afghan Hash. I was well into my third drink when the Captain had rang and ordered me to lunch. Slamming down the screwdriver - I shit, showered, and shaved and headed for the "Club" as the Captain referred to it.
The Captain was in his usual attire...pink Nike golf shirt, tan shorts, loafers with no socks, and his noggin was topped off with a jaunty Captain's hat. He's so tan that his skin looks like an old leather shoe left out in the Florida sun for a year or so.
I sat down and ordered a chicken salad sandwich and a double screwdriver...hoping to hell that I wouldn't regurgitate the sandwich. I had just enough time to light a smoke and take a pull off my Russian potato whiskey when the Captain started in.
"Boy, you look like shit!"
"Thanks, Captain." I don't know if he was really a Navy Captain, Merchant Marine, or what - because he never told me. But he had major pull in the Florida Panhandle and visited NAS Pensacola and Corry Station frequently when the government held certain kinds of "seminars. He was some kind of government spook. I just left it at that.
He definitely knew who I was though the minute I driven onto the Key from Mexico. Within days he had sat down next to me at the Jellyfish while I was pulling a cork and had warned me to watch myself and that there was a good chance that I might bump into someone who I had dealings with years ago.
He had slammed his shot of Jack and walked out the door without another word. Then surprisingly, within a month I was a frequent invite to have lunch at the Club or go deep sea fishing on his boat he kept moored down at Harbor Marina. I think he missed the life and enjoyed my stories of running security for the Cartel biker gang before things got real ugly.
And he often called when he had some info to pass on.
"Who were you drinking with?"
"Winnebago Wallace. He's heading for Wyoming to escape the virus."
He snorted. "That fucking vagabond? I certainly hoped you deloused yourself before you headed over."
Gulping down the screwdriver, I signaled for an encore.
He leaned over the table and whispered even though there wasn't hardly a soul in the place.
"I went to Cheetah's last night. Got a lap dance and she was so goddamn hot I shot my wad in my pants."
"You invited me here to tell me about that?"
"Sure! You wouldn't believe how hot she was. But I had something else to let you in on. You know that little blog you've been writing? Well I was at this meeting and I overheard that the Commissar of Perdido Key wants to find out who you are."
"The Commissar can go shit in his hat for all I care."
"Never the less. He's crapping in his skivvies about Escambia spiking when he said the virus was no worse than the flu. Then the bars closed and now he's worried about the beaches shutting down and the Trump Boat Parade getting canceled."
"Must be tough living in the Sanctuary on River Road. What was that last thing? A Trump Parade?"
"There's this idiotic Trump Boat Parade a group of brain dead locals are putting on the day after the 4th and the Commissar thinks that will be a huuuggge morale booster around here and he doesn't want COVID-19 shutting it down. Or anyone giving it a bad look or calling attention to it because of the pandemic.....such as yourself."
"What the shit is the whole purpose behind this Rally?"
"Really it's just a bunch of right wing dipshits drinking Budweiser and flying Trump flags driving around in the ship channel acting like Stepford Wives on meth and Busch."
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"But they've become a big propaganda tool for Trump. They don't cost him a thing. The bleach drinkers call them Trumptillas! And there will be Trump souvenir vendors all over the fucking place. Marinas...beach bars...and that means cash. And palms that want to be greased. So you might want to back off for a while." He leaned back with his palms up, "But I really don't give a shit. You do whatever you want."
"Sure, Captain. No problem."
THERE'S GOING TO BE MORE THAN BULLSHIT SHIRTS AND MAGA HATS AT THIS SHINDIG
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BUT THEN AGAIN, MAYBE NOT, BECAUSE SOMEONE IN CHARGE MAY HAVE TO GROW SOME BALLS!
Mahalo
fiksie
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