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William Ellison snorted another line of cocaine off his genuine Louis XIV desk and used the rolled hundred-dollar bill to light a Cuban cigar. Impatiently he fed another plea from Meals on Wheels to the shredder. Man, what a day. He was tired all over. His arm was tired from beating Jimmy, his dick was tired from raping Stevie, and his eyes were tired from reading the fine print on the divorce documents that would cast out his loving wife Grace without a penny.
Five inches in front of him, the phone rang. William bellowed, "Sally! Answer the damn phone already! What the hell do I pay you $3.25 an hour for anyway!"
An eight-months pregnant Sally waddled into William's study. She beamed, patted her belly, and said, "The obstetrician says Billy Jr. is doing just fine."
"Great, great," William said. He wondered if he'd make more money auctioning the baby off on eBay, or should he stick with the same broker who'd sold all his other illegitimate children over the years.
Sally picked up the ringing phone and listened a moment. "It's that Mr. Dulles again. Do you want to be on the grassy knoll or in the Book Depository?"
"The knoll," William decided, "that way I can work on my tan at the same time. Well, I better get going if I want to catch my plane. You packed my bags and carried them out to the car, didn't you, honey? Good girl."
"Oh, Mr. Ellison, you will be home in time to take the boys to the movies, won't you?"
"Hell yeah. I can't wait to see their faces when Bambi's mom gets shot."
William jogged out of the house and vaulted into his 1965 Shelby Cobra. He popped open a can of beer as he accelerated out of the garage, running over and instantly killing Jimmy's and Stevie's puppy.
"Sally!" he bawled.
Sally poked her head out the front door.
"Sally, hose down the driveway and buy the boys another collie, they'll never notice the difference."
"Yes, Mr. Ellison. Oh, Mr. Ellison, can Stevie bring his little girlfriend from kindergarten to the movies?"
"Absolutely not. I know a gold digger when I see one. And Sally, tell that Sandburg kid to quit playing with my Vietnamese ear collection. I swear that kid has no concept of private property."
William roared down the fifteen-mile-an-hour street at sixty, narrowly missing a Girl Scout cookie girl. "Fuck," he muttered. He reversed, carefully aimed the Cobra and this time succeeded in flattening her.
His mobile phone rang as he hit the Interstate at warp speed. Taking both hands off the wheel and steering with his knees, he grabbed the receiver off his state-of-the-art, twenty-two-pound car phone and said, "Cochran, you better be calling me with good news."
"Actually, William, we've hit a snag. Pope John Paul refuses to sign off on your annulment."
"What? I paid Mick Foster some heavy bread to murder Bud Heydash and now you're telling me I can't marry Bud's wife after all?"
"Well, sure you can. Just go down to City Hall or find a Justice of the Peace."
"What the hell kind of a heathen do you take me for? I'm getting married in the Church and that's final. Next week they're gonna be calling him John Paul the First."
William no sooner slammed down the phone than it rang again. Cutting off a school bus and forcing it off the highway into a ravine, he snatched up the receiver and said, "Yeah? ... Valentine, I don't want to hear it anymore ... I'm running your ass out at the next board meeting if you don't can that show ... Nobody watches it but fag hags ... So the guy never makes it out of the fountain, who cares?"
William slammed down the phone and swerved into a handicapped parking space in front of Cascade International. He jumped out of the Cobra, snapped his fingers at a passing black executive and yelled, "Hey, skycap!" For a moment he paused to admire his reflection in the towering glass walls of the airport.
It was good to be William Ellison.
The End