keg?” Doug cheered as he walked in, “Hey! Isn’t that Mrs. Brady
Bunch?”
“Shut up, Doug,” Melinda said.
“What? Why are you dissing upon me like that? Hey, where you
going?”
Melinda strutted up to the stage and grabbed the microphone
from Wade and Bob who were singing “We Are the Champions” as
loud as they could.
“Bighaired bitch,” said Wade.
“Okay,” Melinda yelled into the mike, “Who’s in charge here?”
The crowd yelled back merrily, “We are!”
“Listen. I’m Lemon Hopkins’ wife,” she exclaimed with crocodile
tears, “and I demand to know who’s accountable for the terrible
tragedy that has befallen him.”
“What?” Doug said, shocked, “Wife? I am not knowing about any
of this!”
“Who is in charge here?” Melinda shrieked.
“That would be me,” Johanness Barth called over from Yeshua’s
former chair, smoking a cigar and surveying the madness. She
strutted over to him.
“You’re responsible for this show?” she demanded.
He blew a mouthful of smoke in her face but she didn’t blink.
“Yes, I am. I am responsible for many, many things now. What the
fuck do you want, bimbo?”
“Besides your nuts in a Cuisinart, I want reparations for the
wrongful death of Marcus Hopkins. I am his legal beneficiary, and his
wife.”
“You are a bimbo and you will get nothing,” Barth responded
calmly, “Now fuck off.”
Barth decided that since he was now the richest man on the
planet, he had no more need for style, and so felt free to curse as
much as possible. In fact, he found it kind of pleasant the way certain
words in particular rolled off the tongue. He resolved to make up for
lost time.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Barth said smiling at her. He pulled out a
lighter from out of his pocket and lit up a fresh cigar, puffing
mightily.
And then he burst into flames.
Melinda had taken the initiative by directing a thick jet of
flammable hair spray at his cigar. She screamed, “Go to Hell!” Then
H O L Y S H I T !
234
 |
 |
 |
 |