Ma blinks her entire forehead and takes another bite out of her glass.
“You spent a hundred million pounds on . . . on . . . electric golf karts?” Ma moans.
“Affirmative to that, Ma,” I says. “And you know what Baby did next? . . .”
I waits and I waits but Ma won’t say what’s on her mind. The Old Girl just stares at the ceiling, a small thundercloud of cigar smoke gathering dark and dangerous around her noggin . . .
The silvery skyline of sweet home NYC? Puts goosebumps all around my ticker . . .
All things considered? It’s gonna take a braver line supervisor than Mr Pain to tussle with this appalling of a stink . . .
“¿Clashers?” Jesus whispers back at me. “¿Please? ¿What is Clashers?”
“A beautiful thing,” I tells him. “Fierce creatures clubbing each other to bits with big sticks while they dance to a timeless hormonal rhythm. Jesus? I’m talking about the sport of professional ice hockey, and it’s gonna be music to your eyes . . even if you no longer got none.”
When Coach Thrash stares at me straight on, his nose executes a three quarters left profile.
While his right ear?
Dangles from the side of his head like a mussel clinging to a rock at low tide.
“Hey, Monkeyboy. Want a banana?” Coach Thrash jeers.
Waving a bright yellow-flavoured gum wrapper at me . . .
This trick works awesome good: our out-of-control Bugatti fishtails like a bluefin tuna doing the Two Step, while a cloud of evil-smelling green smoke spirals up from the gearbox and into the cockpit . . .
“Where’s the Spondulix, for Pete’s Sake? The Squiddlies? The Chalupa? Nuggets? Wonga? You see what Mrs Main’s asking you?”
“Not exactly,” I admits.
“She’s saying where’s the frigging bread?” translates little Lordy Lord Kingface Dudley Main, Boss of All Bosses . . .
Tapping into the mood of the moment, Sir Basil le-Frotter-Scrote, Speaker of the National Crazy House, jumps to his feet and starts brutalizing the table décor with a bunch of overripe plantains.
“Order! Order! I will have a bit of order or bad things will happen!” hollers Sir Frotter.
As commanded, the chamber hushes—except for six hundred fifty politically-impaired lunatics who start braying “Bring it on, Baz!” at the top of their lungs . . .
