Barth had to hand it to himself, or Gareth rather, for coming up
with the whole idea. What value do companies and stocks have when
the world is staring annihilation in the face? Now that he had
intentionally flubbed his mission, everyone thought all that stood
between mankind and manure was an unemployed blues singer
named after a piece of fruit. He was free now to take advantage of the
weakness of others, as his mentor Gareth had well taught him, and
buy up as many discounted shares in the world stock markets as he
could. Hironemous Wurst had already done so for him in proxy, and
by the time the last of four shows of “The Human Race” began, no
one could ever tell him something was none of his business, because
now practically everything was his business.
Meanwhile, among the multitudes who had liquidated their
stocks for insanely low prices, there wasn’t any time to mourn their
losses. Whatever liquid cash they had managed to squeeze out of the
now-desiccated fruits of their labor, they used to stockpile food and
put finishing touches on the shelters that might protect them from
the immanent floods, plagues, fire, and brimstone.
In the studio before the show, Bob and Muchoman were trying to
give Hopkins some encouragement, and blessed with a tremendous
amount of patience, he allowed them. No matter how ridiculous their
tips, he nodded politely and smiled.
“If you get freaked out that we’re all watching you, don’t worry
about it. We won’t really be watching,” Bob lied, “We’ll be too busy
planning a party for when you come back.”
“And take my Muchosuit. It will protect you from all harm. But
you probably still shouldn’t drink the water.” Muchoman began to
strip but Hopkins stopped him.
“Don’t worry about me, brother. I’ve got my Technicolor Lounge
Jacket to keep me safe. You guys have been a big help, but I’ve got it
all sussed out.”
“Where do you think they’ll take you?” asked Muchoman.
“Well, the kid here’s got an Italian name and they sent him to
Rome. You’re Mexican and they sent you to Mexico. The creep was—
I don’t know what the creep was. But I’m black, so I guess they’ll send
me to Africa.
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Muchoman said.
“Yeah, and if not, we’ll see you in Hell!” Bob said cheerfully.
The three of them ambled out onto the stage and took their seats.
H O L Y S H I T !
218
 |
 |
 |
 |