mingle, chattering brightly. Harvey and Victoria sat down together
on a large sofa that had been fashioned out of the prime natural
resource available in abandoned warehouses, that being trash.
“You know, Harvey,” Victoria said earnestly, “I didn’t think all
that much of you the first time I met you.” She paused, though not
long enough for him to point out that the feeling had been more than
mutual. “But I gotta tell you this. Beneath that hard, brainy exterior
I think there’s a real good heart in there. I can tell these things, you
know. It’s got something to do with the music in people’s voices.
Anyway, without a good heart I don’t think anybody can become
anything other than what he is. And let me tell you, that Vlad sounds
like an epileptic playing a kazoo. It’s all over the place. No rhyme or
reason anywhere.”
“I don’t feel my heart has been so in tune lately,” he confessed.
“Maybe you just need something to tune to,” she said, burying
her pride and kissing him full on the mouth.
Frustrated at the lack of music as well as something both alcoholic
and cheeseless to drink, the Ferns had begun to dig into the very good
hash that Milo had contributed and were merrily puffing away when
Milo returned to the party.
Milo brought two new guests with him, though they weren’t the
type you’d normally want to invite to a raucous party in celebration
of a major theft. That was because, while they both happened to be
fine conversationalists and excellent dancers, they also happened to
be cops.
“Okay everybody, this is a bust! Don’t move!” yelled the
policeman.
This was easy to do because they were pretty mellow already.
“What’s
this
guy’s problem?” complained one of the Ferns loudly,
indicating the policeman.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is, Dopey,” replied the policeman.
“We just caught your buddy Milo over here trying to rape a sixteen-
year old girl in a stolen automobile. That’s two problems. Then, if
that wasn’t enough, after a search of the automobile, we found a
pistol that had been reported taken from the scene of a hit and run
collision—
with another police car
. And as if
that
wasn’t enough—
judging by the dents, it seems pretty obvious who did the hitting and
running. A regular Babe Ruth, your friend. Hitting, running, stealing,
and kissing babies. So we’re up to four problems. Now as if
that
still
H O L Y S H I T !
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