04) Marriage

A Wedding for the Books

Moanique had visited The Death’s Head the day after DB and Boops had met, so that she could negotiate conditions for her living in The Cave which spread underneath The Zone, should it come to that. She wanted to have a back-up plan for herself, in case what she really wanted to happen fell through. Plan A was for her to do her level best to keep what looked to be an imminent and long-lasting affair between DB and Miss Boopadoop hidden from Old Man Bumstiff. Part of Plan A was for her to suggest to DB that he save his several-grand-a-week allowance, so he’d have some money for when the shit hit the fan. “Let me hold the money for you, in a bank account The Old Man can’t get to,” Moanique had told him. Oddly, DB saw the sense to it, stopped throwing money away, and gave it to Moanique for safekeeping. This convinced Moanique that DB was indeed very serious about Miss Boopadoop, his intended. And Moanique also suggested to Boops that she keep her day job. Boops wasn’t happy about that, as she still had sexual obligations to cover on that front, and she would have preferred reserving herself for DB. But Miss Boopadoop more than readily agreed to the arrangement, once Moanique promised to sweeten the pot on the home front by providing her own highly specialized services between Boops’ legs, so long as she kept her day job. The three of them—Boops, DB, and Moanique—continued to frolic together, all the way to the altar. Literally. Another part of Plan A was for Miss Boopadoop to disguise herself, so that when the security cameras photographed who it was that DB brought into the lobby, it would rarely appear to be the same woman. Sometimes Boops was a redhead, sometimes a

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 228

brunette; the hairstyles varied; sometimes she wore lifts in her shoes, sometimes not; sometimes she wore heels, sometimes flats. Once in a while, Miss Boopadoop even strapped her considerably large breasts with non-adhesive, cloth bandage tape, flattening them. At first the security people were fooled, and sent reports to The Old Man saying that all was normal. But the police reports that The Old Man received showed a couple of things that the senior Bumstiff found troublesome. One was that there had been no new fingerprints in the elevator for a few months now. (The Old Man knew that lots of fucking had been going on there, and kept a file of all prints found when the elevator was dusted for them, which was twice a week, just before housekeeping cleaned it.) Another item the police reports indicated was a remarkable drop-off in DB’s idiocy: no drunk driving, reckless endangerment, or bar-room brawls. Bumstiff Patrol was no longer busy. Since the two sets of police reports didn’t jibe with the reports private security sent him, The Old Man concluded that the security people were in error, and had them monitor DB’s visitors more closely. Once the photographs of the women were carefully scrutinized, all the evidence indicated that DB was limiting himself to just one partner. Clearly, DB had settled down. Any other parent would have been proud, but Old Man Bumstiff was alarmed: he really wanted his son to get so sick and tired of being a rounder that he’d buckle his ass down once and for all at age thirty. After several weeks of DB’s voluntary monogamy, Moanique suspected that The Old Man was discovering the sordid, monogamous truth, so she scheduled a meeting with him, in an effort to patch things up. For her, this meant Plan A was not going to happen, and she would soon be out of a job. She was preparing to go back down into the hole,

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 229

which suited her just fine. Her intention when she met with Old Man Bumstiff was to convince him to let young DB off the timetable, to allow him to marry a few years early. She started the meeting by telling The Old Man, who sat across his mahogany desk from her, that DB had changed earlier than expected, that so far as she could tell he was now a committed and responsible young adult, ahead of schedule. The Old Man’s response was to toss a folder towards her, which he suggested she read. It was a dossier on Miss Boopadoop, including both police and private investigator’s reports, and it was in no wise flattering. The folder started off with Boops’ low-life origins and upbringing. Her parents were both foundlings who had grown up in orphanages, which accounted for the chaotic communal living they continued once married. The report continued with Miss Boopadoop’s documented promiscuity, which started in her mid-teens, and it mentioned the incidents with Officer Friendly and Trooper Hooper, the later going into considerable detail about how DB received his black eye and Hooper’s discovery of what he took to be a vomit fetish. The dossier concluded by stating that DB’s intended was a despicable gold-digger, who kept on having sex at work in order to advance her status there, even though she was “engaged” to DB. “I know this looks bad, on the face of it,” explained Moanique to Old Man Bumstiff, “but a girl’s got to look out for herself, which is all Miss Boopadoop is doing at work: she’s just using sex to solidify her position there. I’m sure that once she’s married and taken care of, she’ll quit stepping out on DB, as there will be no economic incentive for her to do so.” Moanique failed to mention Boops’ lack of orgasmic history, which even DB’s enormous whang wasn’t remedying. Moanique herself was taking up the slack there, using The Vibrating Fingers to bring Boops off, and Moanique had come to

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 230

suspect that a lack of having orgasms would be much more incentive for Boops to stray from DB than would be any lack of economic security. “So you’re suggesting I speed up the timetable? That DB’s responsible? On account of this floozy?” The Old Man asked Moanique. Moanique objected to the characterization, but had enough sense to keep her misgivings to herself. She chose to deflect that aspect of the issue. “The indications are that DB has turned himself around, and that Miss Boopadoop is the central motivator in your son’s conversion,” she said. “I recommend allowing him to marry.” The Old Man was livid. Although he’d learned enough from some of his earlier mis-steps that he didn’t show it outwardly, Moanique could tell he was enraged when she probed his mind. She was able to do that; it being another of the many things she had learned during her time in the outskirts of Nagasaki. That The Old Man was so angry made sense: he was used to getting his way and was so rich and powerful he hadn’t been contradicted in years. So Moanique was very surprised to hear The Old Man accept her advice, despite all the anger she felt roiling about in him. “Okay,” the elder Bumstiff told her. “Let ‘em get married. Hell, I’ll even pay for the full-scale church wedding that her parents can’t afford. Fancy-ass invitations, flowers, feast, the works.” “Thank you so much, Mr. Bumstiff!” exclaimed Moanique, truly happy for DB. Given how angry she knew The Old Man to be, she couldn’t believe he had actually agreed to the union. “But don’t expect me to be there,” The Old Man continued. “It’s the last thing I’ll do for that ungrateful imbecile son of mine. We’ll find out about that Boopadoop bitch

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 231

staying faithful to my son. ‘Economic necessity,’ you say! I didn’t get this rich appealing to peoples’ sense of economic necessity, by god! I found their personal weaknesses and manipulated them into giving me what I wanted. Once that whore realizes that dipshit kid a mine’s nothing without my money, she’ll stray like a cat in heat! Little bastard’ll come crawling back to me then. He begs and whines enough, shows me enough respect, I’ll buy the sorry sumbitch an annulment, and we can get ourselves back on track!” Moanique might have allowed herself to have been sickened and incensed, hearing The Old Man carry on this way. But her response to such nasty doings was to remember the carnage she’d seen in Nagasaki, and put things into perspective. She didn’t get angry at The Old Man, and she even extended her appreciation to the bastard across the desk for what little generosity he had shown. “Thanks for allowing the marriage, and for so generously offering to bankroll it,” she said with no hint of irony in her voice, while rising from her seat. Moanique extended her right hand to The Old Man, saying “I’ll have a wedding planner contact you, to make the arrangements.” They shook on it, then Moanique turned and left the room. The Old Man sat down in his chair. “Ungrateful dumbfuck!” he thought, still angry about his son. He’d expected Moanique to backpedal some when he let go with his tirade. For decades now, everybody had done just that. But being unflappable, she’d simply accepted his terms. And now he was forced to cut loose his son, into the goddamn dog-eat-dog world he’d been protecting him from. And the poor bastard would be marrying some gold-digger for whom there would turn out to be no gold. He realized he was glad he wasn’t going to attend the wedding, and he figured his son would come

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 232

crawling back to him, once the marriage failed. He figured wrong. DB and Miss Bopadoop made of sterner stuff. Stupider, but sterner.

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

So those fancy-ass wedding invitations Old Man Bumstiff had promised went out, and a seriously bitching wedding was planned, courtesy of Moanique’s diligence and Old Man Bumstiff’s money. Miss Boopadoop’s parents were ecstatic that their gold-digger daughter had struck the mother lode, and even more ecstatic that they didn’t have to pop for the ceremony. They eagerly anticipated having rich in-laws they could sponge off of. Moanique knew from the regrets and the lack of responses to the invitations that had been sent to the groom’s side that nobody—absolutely nobody—would attend on behalf of DB. Nobody would even stand up with DB in the wedding party. She rightly figured that the Elder Bumstiff had made it clear to his associates that they should neither attend nor send gifts, should they wish to stay in his good graces. Miss Boopadoop, for all her seeming popularity, was similarly tainted: she had developed such a reputation in The Zone and at work that no self-respecting co-worker or acquaintance would be caught publicly avowing any sort of affiliation with her. (Private affiliations were an altogether different matter.) So Moanique resolved to invite Big D and his crowd at the Death’s Head to fill out the guest list. When Moanique went to the Death’s Head to approach Big D about standing up with DB as the Best Man, she started off with the ruse of asking him to give a manila envelop containing a few pictures and sheets of papers to Pirate. She’d opened up The Whore Phone and had taken a few color photographs of its novel insides with one of

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 233

those new Polaroid Land cameras. She’d also written down what DB had explained to her of the circuitry inside, and urged Pirate to be careful when he examined it, suggesting he first try to figure out how it worked from the photos, construct a model that he thought might emulate its circuitry, and do his testing on the model, as the original was unique and needed guarding. She further wrote that she would pass the original on to him some other time, but she would want it back unscathed. All Moanique said to Big D when she handed the manila envelop to him was this: “It’s for Pirate, and it’s related to what we’d talked about earlier that you said you didn’t want to . . .” “Don’t think I can a-member yore givin’ me no vanilla envelop,” Big D interrupted her. Moanique knew Big D would see to it that Pirate stumbled across the documents. Moanique also sensed that Big D and his whole crew were delighted she’d paid them a visit. They were: at Big D’s insistence they’d pumped all their savings and windfall earnings from having taken “regular” jobs into Tokyo Tsushin Kogyo, and the value of their investment skyrocketed as the company’s stock did likewise. Moanique had followed the business licenses granted notices in the paper, and Death’s Head Enterprises had been awarded several. Judging from their many companies’ advertisements, which had also begun to appear in the paper with increasing frequency, the Death’s Head Empire had begun to take root. So the gang was delighted at the visibly congealing prospect of their collective financial security, and they now treated Moanique with deference and respect. She could have foregone being called “Mother Superior” and being hailed as “one superior mother,” but she understood that no offense was given, so she took none.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 234

But when Moanique brought up to Big D her wish that he and his group attend DB’s wedding, Big D damn near shit, especially when he heard the part about him serving as Best Man. After all, DB’d shown him up pretty bad. But once she explained to him the game Old Man Bumstiff was playing—essentially one of a mean-spirited and controlling bastard publicly embarrassing his own son on his wedding day—Big D softened up some. He even took an active part in the preparations, further suggesting Pirate as another groomsman, as well as Boinker and Nellie as Maid of Honor and bridesmaid. Van Gogh, a member of the gang who’d lost an ear in a knife fight, was even tapped to be an usher, as he, er, cut such a striking figure, no pun intended. And when Big D realized that the ceremony would take place in a “cathaholic cathedral,” as he called it, he’d suggested that the seating be done simply: men on one side, women on another, “just like them damn Primitive Baptists. Thet otto throw them Papists fer a goddamn loop!” he’d said. Truth be told, the chief reason he wanted such a simple seating arrangement was that he figured that was about all Van Gogh and the other ushers could handle. Big D also suggested that Moanique make sure someone other than Old Man Bumstiff have some input concerning the newspaper coverage. “Fine jurself some reporter who won’t go a kowtowin’ to th’ Old Man. Otto appeal to some independentminded bastard the Fourth Estate,” he’d told her. “Spin this thing so’s it ain’t no story about some gazillionaire’s wild-ass kid throwin’ ‘is lifa away a-marryin’ a slut ‘n nobody’ll come; make it a story about a small wedding, bride ‘n groom independentminded lovebirds; best man—Del, just Del, not Big D, ‘n sure as hell not my whole birth name!—from the world-famous Institute of Advanced Studies; groomsman a up ‘n

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 235

comin’ ‘lectronics wiz, give up a high dollar career designing successful hi-tech Broadway extravaganzas to join a start-up comglomerate on the ground floor; maid a honor successful woman, noteworthy ‘chievements fields of biological research and criminalistic methodology; bridesmaid a selfless nurse, operational expertise sought out by the region’s leading doctors.” “Damn, Del,” exclaimed Moanique. “This’s great stuff! But I don’t get why you’re handing this to me on a plate, you being so pissed at DB and all. You don’t strike me as somebody who’d let go of a grudge that easily.” “Ain’t thet DB sumbitch I’m doin’ this fer,” explained Big D. “Some a it’s I don’t much keer fer how it is his Pa’s shittin’ on him,” Big D continued. Then he asked about Miss Boopadoop’s appearance: “The bride,” he queried. “Blonde, curly hair, lovely face, hour-glass figure, balcony you could do Shakespeare from, shapely legs you’d die to have wrapped around ya?” His description fit Miss Boopadoop to a T. “How the hell you know?” inquired Moanique, surprise in her voice and on her face. “ ‘Nique, ah’m kinda ‘barrassed to tell ya this,” confessed Big D, “but thet time DB nailed mah foot the floor, ‘ts on account a I durn near caught thet girl’s face with a bad knife throw.” “Shit, Del,” replied Monique, a bit perplexed. “Your aim’s never off!” “Aim weren’t off thet time, neither,” Big D asserted. “Aimin’ to the left a DB’s head, ‘n this gorgeous thing steps into the path, from out a nowhere! Only thet DB sumbitch’s quick thinking saved her.” “So you’re doing this for her?” asked Moanique.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 236

“Betcher ass ah’m doin’ this fer her!” answered Big D. “Sure as hell ain’t doin it fer thet DB. Still owe ‘im, fer’s ah’m concerned. Fer’s ah’m concerned, me ‘n him, we got unfinished business, on account a him leavin’ me with this damn limp! My bein’ ‘is best man, thet’s just part a temporary truce.” It seemed to Moanique that Big D was holding back something about his involvement with DB, or maybe the involvement was with Boops, but from what Moanique knew, that seemed highly unlikely. She didn’t even consider probing Big D’s mind for a clue: she’d tried it a time or two in the past and had found his mind way too convolutedly quirky, and she’d concluded that mining his brain was so labor-intensive as to preclude the effort. “Just don’t go ruining the wedding or the reception, okay?” Moanique requested of Big D. It was the best way she could conjure up to reign him in. “Hey!” protested Big D. “I’m a honor-bound gang member, not a goddamn jerk!” Moanique knew from his answer that Big D would be no trouble. She also knew the wedding would be one for the books. So far as Ma and Pa Boopadoop were concerned, the wedding was a serious letdown. Yeah, it took place in the most prestigious cathedral in Big City. And yeah, there was no lacking for flowers and ceremonial executants. But it was tough to contend with, the cathedral being such a cavern unfilled with any appreciable number of celebrants. The cretins from Lower Slobbovia, who arrived on their growling, souped-up motorcycles and who half-populated the pews, sure had a strange way of seating themselves—men on one side, women on the other. Even the Boopadoops understood that this seating arrangement was usually adopted by hard-core fundamentalist

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 237

congregations, and from their attire and demeanor, this crowd seemed to know as much about religion as a hog knew about Sunday. The coolers the ushers had thoughtfully placed at both ends of each occupied pew were well-stocked with ice and beer in steel cans. That ghastly character with one ear made it a point to joke repeatedly about opening the beer with the “church key.” Before and during the ceremony, the guests noisily fished cold beers out of the ice, passed them down the aisles, punched open steel can tops, and glugged the contents down their gullets. The empties were casually tossed into the back pews. The guests also engaged in rowdy and raucous repartee across the aisles, the men and women alike tossing about crudely lewd remarks concerning their own non-marital biological experiences akin to the approaching conjugal consummation. The phrase “bust the bride” came up all too often. Ma and Pa Boopadoop each privately surmised that the male and female guests would have fornicated openly, were they seated on the same side of the aisle. Ma and Pa Boopadoop surmised correctly. Thus were DB and Miss Boopadoop married, and they entered the world as Dagwood and Blondee Bumstiff. The couple took the obligatory motorized spin the short distance from wedding site to reception hall, each of them seated on the handlebars of a kick-ass chopper. DB sat atop the handlebars of Big D’s bike, and Boops atop Pirate’s. (The parents of the bride had taken the limo.) The entire retinue of Death’s Head Crew followed, the choppers churning out the ominous sound of threatening thunder, the entourage of riders—some of whom now copulated atop their choppers—emitting the sounds of banshees behind the bride and groom. In lieu of tin cans, many of the choppers had been decorated with discarded sexual paraphernalia, fastened to strings and trailing

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 238

behind the bikes. Used and crusty condoms, disappointing dildos, dilapidated diaphragms, bloody tampons, non-functioning vibrators, cock rings, butt plugs, shopworn douchebags, soiled underwear and panties. “Listen, cocksuck,” Del hollered to DB, so he could be heard above the din as they rode to the reception. “Me doin’ this shit fer you, it’s just a truce on account a you’re getting’ hitched. Understand? You ‘n me, we still got unfinished business. Nobody nails mah foot the floor, not without somethin’ a his getting nailed back. I’ll be comin’ fer you, DB.” “What would it take to change your mind?” DB hollered back to Big D, whom he still knew only as “Del”. “Nothin’,” replied Del. DB wondered if that meant nothing could ever change Del’s mind, or if his mind could be changed were nothing attempted. He was deciding whether or not to press the matter when they reached the parking lot of the reception hall. “Here’s where you get off,” Big D told DB. “Thanks for the lift,” DB replied. He couldn’t think of much else to say. Pirate had something to say to Boops, too, as he drove her from the site of the ceremony to the reception. She still wore her white wedding dress, and she was way too frightened to face forward on the handlebars, so she rode backwards, facing Pirate. “God DAMN!” he told her. “If you ain’t a looker!” “Are we there yet?” Boops asked Pirate fearfully. “I kin see why old Big D feels so shitty about damn near puttin’ out one a those purty baby blues a yourn. So shitty he’s holdin off kickin’ ole DB’s kiester ‘til later.” “Are we there yet?!”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 239

Pirate himself began appreciating Boops’ stunning good looks, and his pecker started to swell visibly in front of her. “Ole Big D, he don’t want a screw just anybody. Not him,” continued Pirate, who removed his left hand from the handlebar and began fondling himself through his pants, in full view of Boops. Boops realized that the motorcycle was being steered with just one hand and became even more fearful. “Jeeziz!” she cried. “Are we there?! Are we THERE?!” “Old Big D, he’s really got it hard fer you, missy,” explained Pirate. “I know ‘im better’n purtneer anybody. He ain’t never tole me this, but ah kin tell: he keeps tarnin’ it over in ‘s mahnd, how come thet fuckin’ DB had a show up afore you thet naght. Then Ole Big D, he wouldn’t a throwed no knife, ‘n you’d be his’n ‘stead a thet DB sumbitch’s. He’s in love with ya, missy,” relayed Pirate, who had begun moving his palm very quickly back and forth over the swelling in his pants. “ ‘N ah cain’t blame ‘im fer thet,” said Pirate, staring right at Boops. “Ah cain’t blame ‘im!” “Ohh, SHIT!” screamed Boops, who was not so much offended that Pirate was masturbating in front of her as she was fearful for her safety. “Are we there?! ARE WE THERE?!” They arrived at the reception hall just then. “We’re there,” rasped Pirate, who was creaming his shorts. His eyes moved over Boops’ face and body while his palm vigorously rubbed himself through his pants. “Oohhh. We’re there,” he said while slowing the cycle. Boops took advantage of the fact that Pirate’s left arm wasn’t obstructing her path off the motorcycle, and she jumped off it while it was still slowing to a stop. DB was waiting for her, and he noticed her agitation as she hurriedly exited the vehicle. He also observed that Pirate was having an orgasm on his bike. “You okay?” DB asked his new

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 240

wife. The Death’s Head crowd was scrambling off their motorcycles and swarming past the bride and groom, heading to the reception hall like so many locusts. “Yeah,” replied Boops. “Asshole kept his cream in his shorts, so I’m not gonna puke or nothin’. It’s just I don’t feel none too safe on those damn things.” “Good reason for that. They’re not safe,” asserted Dagwood. “Ready for the reception?” he asked. “Yeah,” answered Boops. “Let’s get through this the best we can.” Wise words. DB offered her his arm. She took it and they strode from curbside to the reception, looking quite the elegant couple. When they reached the outside door to the building housing the reception hall, DB opened the door for his new wife. “After you,” he said. Boops entered, DB followed, and the door closed behind them. They walked, again arm in arm, to the door of the room in which the reception was being held in their honor. They stopped at the door, and DB wrapped his fingers around the handle. He turned to his bride and looked at her, saying “After you, Mrs. Bumstiff.” “Why thank you, Mr. Bumstiff,” replied Boops. DB opened the door, and a cacophonous din assaulted their ears. “Catch this, fucker,” was one of the phrases they could make out. They stepped inside, Boops first, still arm in arm, and a full beer can sailed between their heads at near-lethal velocity. It had been thrown in feigned anger from Slicer to Puzzle, who managed to snatch it out of the air, and it hurt his hand some to do so. “Damn, that stings!” complained Puzzle. “Har, har, har,” laughed Slicer. He considered pain—even when inflicted upon himself—a matter of levity.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 241

Big D saw that The Honored Couple had arrived and jumped onto the table, right next to the wedding cake, which was a bit taller than Big D. He excitedly pointed to the bride and groom, hollering, “Look-ee who’e here. Hey, ya dumb fucks! Shaddup and look-ee who’s here! Goddam it, look now!” He was inexplicably happy for them. Within a few seconds of Big D’s admonishments, the crowd had left off their premature and overly-zealous revelry to gaze where Big D pointed, and they witnessed Mr. and Mrs. Bumstiff joining their presence. A genuine and heartfelt cheer rose from the assemblage: clapping, foot stomping, whistling, and several varieties of hooting erupted to a deafening level. After about ninety seconds, Big D realized he better try to calm things down, so he held his arms high, like Moses at the Red Sea. Even though his charges weren’t particularly religious, they understood this as a signal to shut the fuck up, and they complied. “Whew!” Del half-said, half whistled once the noise had subsided. A few morons took that as a call to whoop it up again, and they began to echo Big D, saying aloud “Whew!” Big D’s response was to have held his palms out, signaling the revelers to cease and desist, for chrissakes. They stopped altogether. “As best man a this here weddin’ Ah’m honored to hafta say a few words,” Big D addressed the crowd. “Now Ah’m not particular religious, but Ah do know the Good Book done tole Adam ‘n Eve to be fruitful ‘n multiply.” A few of the crowd—men and women—were heard to say “Yeah!” and “Multiply!” Big D continued. “Mahself, ah never could understand how ‘tis thet a feller that uz bein’ fruitful”—and here Big D made a limp wrist—“get much multiplyin’ done.”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 242

Big D waited a second for the subdued laughter to die down before he continued. “Mebbe somethin’ done got lost in th’ translation. Be all thet as it may, you two be sure to git on with it’’—he slapped his hands together a few times here, imitating the rhythms of conjoined hips during sex—“ ‘n do yore multiplyin’. Or at least go through the motions ever chancet ya git. Not right here, lessen yer both a mind to. Wouldn’t bother us none.” “Sure wouldn’t!” somebody hollered, and most in the party laughed lasciviously. Big D turned to address the groom directly. “But when ya do go to it, bang ‘er good, DB. Cause if’n you don’t, thur’s plunty others ready ‘n willin’ ta step up the plate.” Big D winked at Boops when he delivered that proclamation. “Now let’s hear it for the Bumstiffs,” Big D cried. He jumped high off the table and began a descent to the floor. By the time Big D landed, the crowd had resumed their cheering, and they soon hoisted DB and Boops onto their shoulders, making it a point to carry them the perimeter of the room before moving to its center. The noisome, rowdy crowd of well-wishers thronged the couple, vigorously shaking unopened beer cans they had picked from about twenty well-stocked washtubs, each big enough to bathe in. Even though the women were no slouches when it came to performing the up and down motions necessary to effectively shake a beer, the men were demonstrably more proficient at this, having had more practice, much of it not upon beer cans. Once the sides of the steel cans had swollen—near dangerously—their tops were punched open, allowing the cans’ contents to spray out upon the couple of honor, where the shower of suds was quite purposefully directed.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 243

Their wedding attire wet with beer, Boops and DB were let down to cut the first two ceremonial pieces of cake, which they fed to each other, washing them down with champagne that Moanique had uncorked. There were cases and cases of the bubbly, which the riders neither liked nor expected. The Death’s Head crowd figured that this wedding—like all the others they had attended—was strictly a BYOB affair, and they had more than amply brought their own. So far as they were concerned, the champagne was undrinkable excess. “You can’t drink the shit,” Nellie reasoned to Boinker. “All it’s good for is takin’ a bath in.” So while what passed for dancing commenced, Nellie redistributed the beer cans from one of the tubs and dumped its icewater into the kitchen floor drain. Then she began the laborious process of uncorking bottle after bottle of champagne and pouring it into the tub. She was by god going to take a bath in champagne! Out in the reception hall, people were dancing. The moderately-drunk best man had paired up with the bride. Big D was shorter than Boops. His face came up only so far as her collar bone, so his head was nestled between her breasts. Big D became aroused and wasn’t at all reluctant to press his erection against his partner’s lower thigh. His doing so reminded Boops of a dog that really needed to get laid. While Big D humped Boops’ leg through his pants, DB danced with Moanique. It was all quite proper, and none of The Death’s Head crowd suspected that she’d been his standby for so many years. DB and Big D sat out the next dance, during which Moanique paired up with Boops. Since two women dancing together seemed pretty kinky, both of them hammed it up, making goo-goo eyes at each other and bumping

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 244

monkeys. Everyone thought they were just being silly. Only the two of them and DB had any idea of the seriousness underlying the surface tomfoolery. The dance that Moanique and Boops shared ended abruptly when somebody began screaming in the kitchen, which was in the room next to the dance floor. It was Nellie, who’d been taking her champagne bath. “Oh! “she yelled. “Oh shit! It burns!” DB and Big D were the first to arrive in the kitchen, and they saw Nellie jumping out of the tub, hollering about her crotch being on fire. The men both realized the champagne had worked its way inside her and was now quite painful to her. They ran after her and finally caught her, each grabbing one of her arms and dragging her to the sink. DB held her in place while Big D took the sprayer and showered her between her legs. Everybody had spilled into the kitchen to watch the show. “That better, Nellie?” Big D asked her. “A little,” she replied. “It still burns on the inside.” “Figgered it might,” replied Big D, unscrewing the sprayer from the hose, the end of which he unceremoniously poked up Nellie’s hoo-hoo. He turned the water on. “Flush you out a minute or so,” he explained. “Oughta get better after a bit.” Big D turned to address the crowd that watched Nellie doctoring herself. “Nellie done took herself a bath in champagne, ‘n it got up ‘n her pussy, started a-burnin’ her pervert parts. Don’t know who ‘nvented thet shit—what’s a point a drinkin’ something thet done gives y’a hangover afore it gits ya drunk? Don’t make a lick a sense. Looks like it ain’t fit to be a-bathing in neither. Don’t know what thet shit’s good fer.” “How ‘bout drinkin it from Nellie’s shoe?” somebody suggested. “I seen that done oncet in a movie . . .”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 245

“You want a add the taste a feet ta thet shit?” Big D asked. “Hey, I seen that movie, too!” somebody else piped up. “It wasn’t no shoe. It was a slipper they drunk that champagne from.” “Damn!” swore Big D, beginning to get annoyed with his crew. “Still gonna taste like goddamn feet! Shoe, slipper! Make no nevermind!” “What about if you was to drink it from a sandal?” suggested yet another person. “Jeeziz Christ!” hollered Big D, truly exasperated with the stupidity evinced by his charges. “Now thet’s ‘bout the stupid-assest thing I done heard in a coon’s age. Ah tell ya, sometimes ah really hafta wonder if we’re not playin’ gym runny with a pinochle deck . . .” “Hey, Del!” someone interrupted, “how ‘bout drink it out a bra?” Big D stopped in mid-rant. Clearly, he considered this idea absurd enough that it harbored considerable merit. He turned to Nellie, behind him. Her condition had subsided, so she’d just begun dressing, but had donned only her panties. Big D saw that she was about to affix her brassiere and snatched it from her. (“Sorry Nellie,” he’d said.) He gave it a whiff. “Probably go right good with champagne,” he announced, more to himself than to the crowd. Big D stooped to pick up a half-empty champagne bottle near the tub Nellie’d bathed in. “What am I supposed to do for a bra?” demanded Nellie. “Hell, Nellie,” replied Big D, “beauties like those a yorn, shame to cover ‘em up. They’re mighty fine. Don’t need no bra.”

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 246

Nellie bent her head down and swiveled it back and forth upon her neck, alternately inspecting one breast, then another. “Really?” she asked. Mumbled declarations of “oh yeah,” “uh-huh,” “you bet,” and similar comments of assent passed through most of the men, as well as a good number of the women. On the basis of this positive feedback, Nellie decided to leave her breasts uncovered. Big D held one side of the business end of her bra in his left palm, his fingers retaining its shape while he poured champagne from the bottle into it with his right hand, stopping just short of the cup running over. He then took the contents to his lips and thoughtfully sampled it, swilling it about in his mouth before spitting it out. “Tits definite improve a taste this shit!” he pronounced. He pulled his favorite spring-action switchblade from his boot, popped it open, and cut the bra in two at its center. He held the two cups out, announcing “Drink up, folks!” The crowd and champagne moved from the kitchen to the dance hall, and once the word got out that champagne tasted quite good when drunk from bras, the crowd descended upon the bubbly like piranhas during a feeding frenzy. Most of the women—Boops and Moanique were the two notable exceptions—offered their upper undergarments to the cause, so that the females pranced about topless the remainder of the reception. Ma and Pa Boopadoop left in disgust. Moanique took advantage of the cover of the general debauchery. She offered to meet alone with Pirate in the kitchen, so she could pass to him the digital recorder she’d removed from the Whore Phone that morning. Just before getting into the limousine that took her, Boops, and DB to the wedding (all three of them furiously fornicating in the back seat) Moanique had had the presence of mind to have removed the device that had

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 247

announced “Bwaak! DB needs a fuck! Bwaak!” She had put it in her purse, and she had rewired the phone so that it would ring normally. She now handed the unit, covered with Saran Wrap, to Pirate and cautioned him to keep his fingerprints off of it. “I’ll want this back,” she’d told him. “Big D tells me you know how to work on color TVs,” she half-asked. Back then very few people even owned televisions, and none of them was yet color, which was rumored to be the Next Big Thing. The FTC was debating which one of several color-generating electronic systems to adopt nationwide. Pirate was one of the very few people ever who knew how to work on all the types that were contending to be the national standard. “Yep,” said Pirate. “See what you can make of this,” she requested, “but for Christ’s sake don’t get caught with it.” “Give it my best,” Pirate promised. Something about the whole matter of Boops marrying DB was eating at him, and he thought he might share it with Moanique, as it pertained to the dynamics at Death’s Head Enterprises. “Mother Superior . . .” he began. “Oh jeeziz!” Moanique protested. “We got a problem here, ‘n I think you can help fix it,” he continued, obliquely explaining his choice of how he’d just addressed her. “I used ta be in the theater a lot. Saw a lot a actors ‘n actresses, mismatched as hell in real life, did smokin’ Romeos and Juliets on stage.” He paused for a second. “And?” prompted Moanique.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 248

“Jeeziz god!” he exclaimed, his voice thick with regret. “Every pair of ‘em get to humpin’ sometime during the production. Happen all a time: leadin’ man ‘n lady make the beast with two backs.” “What’s your point?” Moanique asked. She had no idea where Pirate was going with this. “I know what it looks like, folks fall in love what shouldn’t. And I’m tellin’ you, it done gone ‘n happened to Big D. He fell in love with that Boops just now got hitched to DB.” Moanique didn’t know exactly what to make of Pirate’s story, although it did explain her sense that Big D had been less than forthcoming with her on the day he’d been so helpful with the wedding preparations. “When did this happen?” she asked Pirate. “The exact moment DB pulled that serving tray from in front of Boops’ face. For a second, Big D’s face looked like he’d just seen an angel, one he’d been hopin’ to see for years. Then his expression changed, and his face took on the look of a man who knew he’d lost everything. Big D’s innards got all sour and mean, ever since the moment after he got a good look at Boops’ face. Course DB’s nailin’ ‘is foot to a floor didn’t help matters none.” During his explanation, Pirate couldn’t help looking past Moanique, at the women dancing bare-breasted in the room outside the kitchen. He was wondering what Moanique’s breasts might look like, should they be exposed, like nearly all the other women at the party. He figured he was entitled to a look-see. Pirate’s right hand lunged for Moanique’s left breast, fingers outstretched to clutch it firmly. Moanique’s hand

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 249

intercepted Pirate’s. Before he’d realized it, she’d grasped his middle finger and bent it back. Pirate felt debilitating pain, through which he heard Moanique admonish him once more: “Don’t get caught. Bad consequences.” Pirate dropped to the floor, conscious that he was experiencing more pain than he’d ever felt before, all of it added together. Moanique let go of his finger, which she had seriously sprained. She’d chosen not to break it. Pirate lay awake, a heap on the floor. Moanique knew he’d recover in a couple of minutes. She left the kitchen and went out to the dance hall, where she sought out Big D, to tell him what an asshole Pirate was. This was not news to Big D, not at all. “Something else, Del,” she told him. “You’ve maybe guessed there’s a trick or two I know about the ether.” “Shit, Moanique,” countered Big D. “They ain’t no ether. Not since 1905 been anybody kep’ up on things thought that way.” “That’s there’s no ether is just the current thinking,” Moanique explained. “World’s just an explanation, anyway.” “No argument from me ‘bout thet,” replied Big D. “But where ya headin’ ‘ith this?” “Those dreams you’d been having about a woman, looks like Boops, that spilled into your everyday consciousness,” she half-asked him. “What about ‘em?” asked Big D, a bit testily. He’d never told anyone about them, so far as he could recollect, and it annoyed him that he’d either forgotten having told her or that she’d somehow become privy to the information.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 250

“I put them into your mind, years ago, after we met the first time,” confessed Moanique. “Nohhh!” exclaimed Big D. Moanique remained silent a few seconds, allowing Big D’s sense of self the requisite time for the news of this type of transaction to sink in. “Spoze ya done it through the dang ether!” declaimed Big D, his voice exuding a bit of irony. “Quick study, for a guy from I.A.S.” Moanique teased him. “Listen, your angel, it’s not Boops. I didn’t even know what she looked like, just that the two of you would be perfect for each other. So you haven’t lost her. You haven’t lost her because she’s not Boops. She just looks an awful lot like her.” “How you go putting her pitcher in mah head, you don’t even know how she looks?” asked Big D. You have to admit, it was a sensible question. “Doesn’t work that way,” replied Moanique. “Don’t know the exact mechanics myself.” “Hmmpf!” grunted Big D. “Got any other surprises fer me?” “Just this. And it’s a doozy,” answered Moanique. “Your angel, she’ll be sent to you by DB. So don’t go being any too hard on him.” “Sheeit!” swore Big D. “If the world ain’t one mysterious place. Just chock full a irony now, ain’t it?” Despite his bitching about it, DB’s mood improved considerably after he and Moanique had that little chat. He had some hope he could hang on to, now.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 251

Out in the hall where the ribald revelry continued, there were just a few wedding gifts, displayed on a folding table in the hall, paltry pittances coming from the bride’s side only. A spatula. A single tablespoon. A one pound bag of kitty litter. You get the idea. The sole offering either DB or Boops seriously appreciated was the hat Moanique gave them, to add to DB’s collection. It was the same hat she’d worn when she’d surprised them in the elevator, on their first date. They newlyweds had no honeymoon, but were chauffeured directly from the reception to their hovel of a love-nest, which had been considerately and elaborately decorated by The Death’s Head crowd with morbidly inappropriate taste, guaranteed to purge normal folks of all vestiges of erotic inclinations. The Old Man had evicted DB from the penthouse the morning of the wedding, so there was no returning to it. Moanique had foreseen this development, and a few days earlier had arranged to pack up DB’s things and have them sent to the apartment she’d rented for him, with some of the allowance money he’d been squirreling away. It was in a very run-down and dangerous part of town. She’d also managed to persuade a department head working for some uninspired business calling itself the Blithers Company to try DB out on probationary status at an entry-level job. DB started at this job—his first ever—two days after the wedding. Moanique considered the Blithers Company merely a temporary arrangement, until better employment came along. Plan A hadn’t worked. That’s okay: Plan A hardly ever works. But Moanique managed to get Boops and DB hitched, although their prospects were none too bright. At least she’d got them out from under The Old Man, which counted for a lot, even though Moanique believed so strongly she’d failed that she didn’t realize how much of a favor

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 252

she’d done for DB. She’d done better for him than his own father could have, getting him out into the world when he was ripe and ready, for better or for worse. When Moanique returned from the wedding to her own apartment she found Old Man Bumstiff there. When she saw him, she assumed she was being evicted, too, especially when he told her he’d used his contacts at the newspaper to try to get them to print the story of the wedding as he wanted it spun, but Moanique had beat him to the punch. He then admitted that he had to admire her for the cleverness she’d shown and he thanked her for having taken such good care of DB for so long. Old Man Bumstiff was so grateful to Moanique that he even offered her DB’s penthouse suite, as long as she wanted, without rent. No strings attached. All she had to do was to ask housekeeping to move her effects from one apartment to another. Moanique was no fool and accepted, although she intended to spend most of her time in the cave under the Death’s Head. The free penthouse was a very generous offer all by itself, and Old Man Bumstiff sweetened the pot by adding fifty thousand dollars severance pay. She accepted the money, provided it was sent to Death’s Head Enterprises as seed money. She explained to The Old Man that this was a business taking root, being started by an old acquaintance of hers. She suggested that if the company were to flourish, she might ask Bumstiff Senior for more serious sums in the future. The Old Man agreed to the condition. He knew that most start-ups failed, and he figured he had nothing to lose. Albert rang her room from the lobby, to remind The Old Man it was time to leave. The phone now sounded as a simple bell, which Moanique answered.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 253

“Hey, Mamie!” Albert called to her from the other end of the phone. He was pretending to ask for Maime Eisenhower. Unlike his twin brother Alfred, Albert enjoyed Moanique’s little jokes, which he’d return in kind. “Sorry, Bub,” Moanique answered. “Nobody that hot here. You’ll have to settle for Moanique.” “I really want the elder Mister Bumstiff,” answered Albert. “Kinky,” replied Moanique. She handed the phone to DB’s father, who took it and listened for a couple of seconds. “I’ll be right down,” he said. Old Man Bumstiff got up to leave. He walked to the door and opened it, then stepped over the threshold. He turned to Moanique. “Later,” he said, then closed the door after him. Moanique phoned housekeeping and asked them to move her things to the penthouse. She grabbed her purse and again walked from The Ritz through Big City into the center of The Zone. When she reached the outside door of the Death’s Head, she could hear the debauched revelry within. The wedding reception had moved from the rented hall to the bar. Moanique stepped inside the front door, and the place went silent. By now she was a welcome and revered personage, and the crowd inside the bar parted, making a beeline path from the front door to the Ladies’ Room. Everyone there knew that the cave below was her destination. Moanique started to walk the path cleared for her, and after a few steps a cheer rose up from the patrons. The cheering continued all the time she strode to the Ladies Room, where she found Big D holding the unfastened grate with one hand, and ceremoniously bowing with the other. He was in uncharacteristically good spirits. Moanique entered the shaft with her purse, and as she descended into the

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 254

cave she heard the noise above her change from the accolade she’d just been accorded into the type of raucous revelry she grown to expect from her fellow miscreants.

Toots and Boops – deBoyle 255