real world update, part eleven

So um, it's Saturday night a little after 11:00. I'm standing at my open door looking out at two tired looking guys in suits holding luggage. I stand there for a moment simply staring and somewhat numb from the vodka.

One of them, the older fella, sighs a greeting, "Hey Colt, your father called. He sent us down from the corporate office. . . "

I slam the door in his face.

And wait. And wait.

There is another knock. I open the door. "From the office? I gave at the fucking office."

Slam.

Again I wait. And wait. And wait.

Hmm, testing their patience, or mine?

Either way, who really cares? I know the bastards aren't going away. My father's, The Bastard, dogs are more persistent than the fucking cops. They oughta be, they get paid a buttload more.

I open the door. The older fella pushes past me into my home, "Colt, we don't have time for. . . "

"Don't have time? Don't have time!" I feel myself growing belligerent, that's definitely the vodka. "Look at this thing on my fucking ankle. I'm not going fuckin' anywhere! I've got all the time in the world."

"Exactly. Now let's get to work."

The other fella struts past me and now both men are standing in my luxurious hi-rise condo looking out my beautiful windows at my marvelous views of downtown. I close the door and stand there staring in bewilderment. Damn that vodka. Eventually the younger dude, Adelstein, gently drops his bags into an out of the way corner. It seems as though he is saying something like, "Yo Colt! Wha'dup dahg? I really dig your crib. Pour me a drink! Where dem honeys at?"

I say "seems as though" and "something like" because either from the vodka or from that last big hit I took off the stash Diego left or probably both, he sounds a whole lot like that fucking teacher in those Peanuts cartoons. Shit man. You're already annoying. Just shut the fuck up. And no, I don't know why he talks like that.

But he just keeps jabbering away about partying in the ATX and hooking up with fly ass bee-otches or some such crap, looking at me with this dumbass look on his face like I'm a Santa Claus or Jesus or a fucking rock star. Cripes man, it's not like I'm Diamond Dave in his prime or anything.

And he just won't shut the fuck up. I just turn and walk away.

And while the younger fella's justa jabbering, the older fella, Richardson, quietly sets his stuff down on my imported Italian glass dining room. He sets up a laptop, plugs in a printer and wanders into the kitchen. I try to tell him that my house is not his fucking office and to get his crap off my table but he ignores me.

I hear him shuffling through my kitchen cabinets and drawers, banging around in there. Richardon hollers out "Is there no fucking coffee? Cripes, man! What a fucking crock of shit!" I hear him rip the cellophane off a pack of smokes and the sound of a Zippo clicking. In a few moments the air fills with unforgettable stench of those cheap ass Benson & Hedges cigarettes he started smoking in the 1970's after their marketing campaign convinced him it was classy.

The poor old fool. I hear him fumble through the fridge, virtually empty except for a few styrofoam takeout trays with leftovers from that yuppie hole. He is still cussing about the lack of coffee. Eventually he settles for a glass of water from the tap. He walks out of the kitchen, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips, his water in one hand and a dirty bowl he got from the sink that he has already begun using as an ashtray in the other. He carefully places them on the table. He sits down at the table in front of the laptop. As he sits he loosens both his red silk company tie and his belt with the corporate logo buckle. I don't know if he wear all that corporate logo shit because it's part of his uniform, if he actually thinks it looks good, or if he is just a cheap-ass sorry bastard and he gets the company swag for free. He's a fucking tax lawyer by training, so I betting on the last one.

Richardson leans over, opens his briefcase on the floor and pulls out two folders. He meticulously sets them down side by side on the table. One folder is green. The other is red. He explains to me that the green folder contains something he calls "evidence for the defense". The red one contains documents he calls "evidence for the prosecution". It's three or four inches thicker than the green one. You can clearly see the case against me has got girth, baby, girth. But really now, who really believes what you read anymore. So whatever man, whatever.

I look back in my living room, and Adelstein has settled onto my sofa, shoes off and reclined. He has put on my iPod and while jamming out to something I can't hear he chugs heartily from my bottle of Grey Goose. It seems he also has made himself quite at home.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I speak in a low controlled scream.

"Why Colt, we're here to help you."

"I know that. But specifically, what the fuck are you doing in my house?"

"Helping you. Your father gave us specific instructions to find a way out of your current legal entanglements. And he also refused to sign off on an expense account. He said you got plentya room in your three bedroom condo. We're staying with you."

"Holy fucking shit. The bastard."

The conversation flows like that for several minutes. I'm cursing my fate and my father, The Bastard, and Richardson keeps babbling on about the job he's here to do and how I'm stuck with them.

While I'm ranting, Richardson pulls out one more folder, a standard plain manila folder. He sets it down by the other two. "So what's that one for?" I ask.

Richardson picks it up so I can read the hand-written label on the tab: 'PLAN B'. "This is what we do if Plan A" he says while gesturing at the colored folders, "doesn't work." He shifts his grip slightly and one side of the folder falls open.

It is empty.

Mother fucker.