Category: Holidays

Two Lunatics in Search of an Author

The plates were empty, the champagne was warm, and the kind of trouble that only shows up after dessert was already circling the table like a vulture with a reservation. Linda and Pussy slipped away toward the ladies’ room in a swirl of perfume and promises to get themselves ready to return to Casa de Jonny and give Jonny and Boris their Valentines Day gifts, a night of violent anal sex without lube.

Boris tilted his champagne flute and chased the last rebellious bubbles with his tongue. The little pug adjusted his white tie and tails like a diplomat preparing to start a war.

“Ever notice something, boss?” he muttered, voice low enough to dodge the waitstaff but loud enough to land like a brick. “We’re catnip to every dame in Van Nuys. Me — a pug with a vocabulary and a tuxedo, cruelly castrated before I was shipped across the Pacific. And you — a 64-year-old moron with a disposition like a cracked ashtray, dating a legendary pop star who looks 25 on a bad day despite her being born in 1946 and suffering from Parkinson’s Disease.”

Jonny blinked slowly, like a man trying to read a clue written in invisible ink. “What’s your point, Boris?”

Before the dog could answer, a thin man with a pencil mustache and a tragically ambitious French accent glided up to the table. The restaurant manager. He smelled faintly of garlic and deadlines.

“Messieurs,” he said, bowing just enough to suggest either respect or indigestion. “Monsieur Werker requests that you conclude this philosophical digression. He intends to dedicate several pages to… how do you say… your evening of bareback cornholing, and your existential debate is slowing the rhythm of the narrative.”

He clicked his heels and vanished toward the kitchen like a stagehand fleeing a spotlight.

Jonny stared at Boris. Boris stared at Jonny. The silence hung between them like a bad alibi.

Finally, the pug sighed, straightened his bow tie, and delivered the line like a verdict.

“My point, pal,” he said, “is that none of this makes sense… unless we’re just characters trapped inside a pulp crime novel.”

Wet Christmas

It was Christmas Eve, and the rain came down like it had a grudge, rattling the windows of Casa de Jonny while the four of them hid from the world in velvet chairs and bad intentions. The tree glowed soft and guilty in the corner, presents stacked beneath it like evidence nobody planned to log. Jonny slipped into the other room when his phone rang, the door closing on the sound of the storm, and Linda watched the black water streak down the glass like tears that knew better than to fall. “I don’t know how Santa can make it through this,” she said, her voice filled with holiday sentiment. Pussy snorted from the couch. “Who cares? We’ve got our loot. If a few third-rate countries wake up empty-handed, the planet’ll keep spinning.” Boris said nothing, as he was too addicted to the way Pussy licked the castration scar where his nut sack once dangled to want to upset his woman.

Linda was drawing breath to unload on the tomcat when Jonny came back, his face set in that way that meant the night had just taken a sharp turn. “That was Saint Nick,” he said. “The rain grounded the reindeer. World’s flooded, sleigh’s useless. He needs our turbo boat to cover the mess.” Pussy grinned, all teeth and trouble. “Fine. Just tell the elf to knock first. I’m giving Boris his Christmas present when we go to bed and I don’t want some little green freak to interrupt his barks of ecstasy.” Jonny was already stripping down, pulling on a waterproof thong like a man who knew fate didn’t wait for modesty. “You don’t get it,” he said, voice flat as a dead battery. “We’re not lending the boat. We’re driving it. North Pole. All four of us.” Outside, the rain hammered harder, like it approved of the plan, and somewhere in the dark the world waited for a Christmas delivered the hard way.

When I’m 64

The monthly meeting of the Jonny Pals came to order the way all bad ideas do—too late and with a hangover. Smoke hung in the room like a guilty conscience while Bro Joe banged a chipped coffee mug against the folding table and cleared his throat like he was calling witnesses to the stand. “It’s December,” he said, squinting under the flickering light, “and that means Jonny’s birthday is coming up.” The legendary Junior Ranger leaned back in his chair and sneered. “How old’s the moron gonna be this year? 35? 36?” Rosie De Candia, the recording secretary, thumbed through her almanac like it was a police blotter and froze. Her eyes went wide. “64,” she said. The room went quiet. “That can’t be right. Have you seen the way that guy eats? I had 28 in the Death Pool and nearly choked when he blew past that. Anybody got him older than 64?”

They took a poll, the kind that ends friendships, and the verdict was unanimous: Jonny had outlived every reasonable expectation. “Well, shit,” Bro Joe muttered, letting his eyes drift where they weren’t welcome, toward the gorgeous Davida Bourland, who stared straight through him like he was already dead—something that had become fashionable after the Washington Post ran that unforgettable list of his accumulated STDs five years back. “This changes things,” he said. “I was banking on Jonny checking out so I could inherit his fortune and square up with the mob.” He spat on the floor and shrugged. “Turns out Boris has the money, and he hates my guts. So instead of cursing Jonny’s longevity like a bad rash, we’re gonna celebrate it.” He cracked a crooked grin. “This year, we throw a party to end all parties. If he won’t die, we might as well drink to it.”