Derry, Northern Ireland

Derry, Northern Ireland
A book I'm working on is set in this town.

Sunday, May 28, 2017

A bit more...

I'm being lazy in posting these bits of A65 instead of writing a real blog, but it's all I'm thinking about, right now...well, that and the catastrophe that is the current administration. If America survives this and the GOP's treason, it will be the greatest country ever...but I'm not convinced that will happen.

Anyway, Adam is washed and henna'd and now faced with a complete make-over...and also a little stoned from Patricia's breakfast cookies...(and BTW -- his dog's name is albacore).


Once he felt clean, he dried off and found a comfortable bathrobe on a peg near the door, sandals in a pocket, so wrapped himself in them and took his place in the center of the office, once more. This time, half a dozen minions of Orisi stood at parade rest, all of them dressed in black turtlenecks, black trousers, black boots, and black haircuts. They looked so much alike, it was difficult to tell the lads from the lasses. The only part of them that moved was their eyes, which followed Orisi as he briskly circled Adam, snapping like a drill sergeant, "We got zero to start with, people, so face -- hair -- nails -- all of it gets built." The only time he stopped pacing was to yank the robe open to reveal Adam's chest and sneer, "No need to wax."

Adam just sighed and muttered, "Careful ... "

Orisi responded by spinning Adam around and yanking up the rear of his robe, snarling, "Ass, either."

Of course, that is when Patricia came in with another glass of juice and chirped, "Oh, my ... "

For some reason, Adam did not feel embarrassed or shaken. Instead, he merely closed his eyes and muttered, "It's for the Alice ... it's for the Alice ... "

It was Orisi who bounced from agitation. "Out, Patricia!" he screamed. "Out! You know Orisi don't do audiences."

Patricia merely smiled sweetly and responded, "You are so full of shit. And Adam needs another glass of juice."

"Thanks," Adam said. "Are you also washing my clothes?"

She gave him a laugh. "Honey, I told you -- I got no idea how the damn thing works."

"But ... but I need my y-fronts. I always wear y-fronts."

"And you still will," Orisi all but crowed as he held up a pair of black boxer-briefs. Very nice-looking. Quite comfortable, even ... except for the tiny silver and black sequins that made up a gloriously detailed fig leaf on the crotch.

Adam burst out a laugh. "You want to put glittery bits on my bits? Are you mental?"

The crew gasped.

Patricia scurried from the room.

Adam froze.

Orisi glared at him, a wolf-like snarl crossing his lips. He looked as if he were about to go for the throat, moving closer and closer. Without thinking, Adam backed away.

Orisi's voice became terrifying in its quiet control as his face returned to a shade of burnt umber. "Mental? Me? Son, that ain't possible, because I am Bernardo Giancarlo Michelangelo Orisi, not some fruit-loop from Montana, and you are MY man, now, so my rules apply, and you got no say in it. Therefore understand from this day forward, you will not eat on a night when you are going to be seen by anyone but your mirror. Nor, from this day forward, will you wash; you will cleanse, and you never, never, EVER utter the word soap in my presence, ever again. Nor will you just try things on, but from this day forward your clothing will be fitted to your frame. Every stitch of it! Because an Orisi man dresses from the skin out, beginning with designer briefs made from Egyptian cotton, with a thread count of twelve-hundred, min-i-mum. And understand this, as well -- if you ever, ever, EVER let plain white boxer briefs near your ass at any time in any way or any fashion, I personally will track you down and whip you to within an inch of eternity. And don't even begin to think I won't know, because I will. Do I make myself clear?" Then he whipped the briefs up, like a black flag.

Adam downed the orange juice in one gulp. And coughed. And reminded himself, "Es ist für die Alice. Es ist für die Alice. Es ist für die Alice." Then he took the sequined briefs and discretely pulled them on. They actually were quite comfortable ... except for how the sequined area felt odd against his crotch. Then he smoothed down his robe and stood back in the center of the room, still humming, "It's for the Alice. It's for the Alice."

Orisi circled him three times before he clapped his hands, triumphant. "Let's go, go, go people. We're makin' a man from this lump of clay, and we're late, we're late, for a very important date."

So off came Adam's robe and out came Orisi's tape measure and a gleaming tablet appeared in one minion's hands, and in quick-quick fashion, Orisi snapped the tape here and there and around as he shot out, "Waist -- 30.25, bend left, not too high; hips -- 39, like a damn linebacker; front rise -- 11; thighs -- 23.5, jumpin' jeebus, you are a linebacker; inseam -- 33, no break in the cuff; feet -- 10.5, wide, of course; shoulders -- 18; chest -- 41; length -- 30; waist -- 38, not too pinched, no Zoot Suits, here; bottom -- 42; sleeve -- 24; shirt neck -- 17."

By this point, Adam was well-beyond worrying about being half naked in front of a pack of strangers, even after he was jammed into a chair so the Minions could attack his nails with buffing and scraping and clipping, oh my. A mask of lavender and lace was smeared on his face. His hair was sliced and diced and buffed and burnished and tipped and coiffed and yanked and grabbed and spiked and unspiked and spiked, again. He even let a female minion sit next to him to touch his skin with colognes to be sniffed at ... and moaned over ... and wiped off with an alcohol pad ... until she started trailing up one of his thighs, and even then, all he muttered was a simple, "Careful ... " So she started using his calves ... and toyed just a bit more than necessary with the hair on them.

Through it all, Orisi scrutinized and grunted and growled and grimaced and snapped and snarled and everything else anyone could think of as his crew worked and worked and worked.

What made it bearable was downing another couple of cookies and finishing off another glass of juice. And despite the turmoil, Adam was building a nice, lovely glow ... so much so, he barely noticed as the process continued ... and continued ... and continued ... until Orisi cried, "Enough!"

The crew stopped dead. And stepped back. Hair mussed. Eyes glazed. Pants wrinkled. Turtlenecks askew. The walking wounded. And two seconds later, another minion arrived with a suit bag and carryall.

Orisi took the bag, held it as if it contained the purest gold, and said, "Now comes the final test."

He unzipped it, slow and easy, luxuriating in the sound of the zipper as it opened the bag wider and wider ... and he maneuvered if off the hanger to reveal ... a nice blue suit.

"Dress," Orisi said, as if in prayer.

Adam grinned, pulled on the shirt, put his feet into a pair of silk socks, stepped into the pants, tucked in the shirt, buckled a belt of the purest leather, whipped the tie under his collar and prepped it, then slipped into a pair of Italian loafers before he let Orisi guide him into the coat.

Adam marveled. "It's a perfect fit."

Orisi snorted. "Like I said, we ain't Wal-Mart. Wait here."

Then he led his crew from the office, and even from behind Adam could tell they were frazzled beyond belief.

"Casey," he heard Orisi growl, "you're payin' me triple, givin' my whole crew a shot of Stolichnaya, and if this was the Golden Globes, I still wouldn't let him out of the house."

Casey's voice shot back, "You're forgetting why I'm taking him."

"Jumpin' jeebus, I never forget anything, like that! But get yourself ready." He whistled and cried, "Adam. Come."

Adam barked like Albacore, laughed, then peeked his head out with the goofiest, crookedest, sweetest grin he could manage and sang, in a charming, jokey, growly voice, "Oh, I'm an Englishman, that's for sure, who's just had his first pedicure."

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