Someone slips me a Mickey and I wake up next to Minnie. Barely breathing. OD’d. Call 911. Who do they send? Goofy and The Pup.
Nax kicks in and she’s up and swinging – knocks the Goofball flat on his ass. Pluto hightails it. Now Mickey comes in from the fire escape. Slaps her once, twice, hard. Get out on the street, he says, and don’t come back till you bring me some real money.
Minnie looks daggers at him, but straightens her bow and exits with as much aplomb as her condition will allow. Meantime, Mickey hooks his thumbs into those trademark straps and nods toward the door. Treat ‘em rough, he says, apparently to me, otherwise they won’t respect you.
Goofy wakes up, shaking his noggin, literally spirals for eyes, a virtual galaxy circling his head. Which way did they go? he mumbles through those now loosened gap teeth ‘cause Minnie packs a hell of a right.
That’s someone else’s line, douchebag, sneers Mickey. Sue your ass for plagiarism. And before you can say “fair usage,” Goofy has his piece out and whips the mouse across the snout. Waiting years to do that, he says, grinning.
Mickey’s still out cold when Pluto and Minnie enter stage left; the one bites off his tiny mouse equipment and the other slits his gullet. Then exeunt omni, la-dee-da, except for the x’d-out rodenticide upon whose nose a fly has settled. First responder.
Downstairs, I’m watching Minnie and The Pup ease on down the road, cross under the animated El and vanish behind a kiosk in front of which a chipmunk scampers up and down waving an Extra! and yelling Moida! Moida on Tent’ Avenue!
I’m pretty sure this is the Bowery, but hey, that’s not what signifies here. What’s a drop of misinformation in a sea of bullshit? The real question is how the Keystone Kops are gonna play this and, you know, the possible ramifications. So I hang a louie into the Blarney Stone, where I’ll cool my heels and see how things shake out. Donny knows me going way back. Before you can blink, he’s set me up: Jameson’s neat and a Schlitz.
Might be here a while, amigo.
The D-bird shrugs, puts my money in the register, wipes down the counter with his wing.
Mi casa es tu casa, he splutters, trying to sound like a hep cat. Just don’t –
Yeah, right – don’t quack up.
Ever hear a duck guffaw? Not something you get used to, but it goes with the territory.