By Gonz Blinko
Just as I got passed my security systems, locks, elevator, card key and thumb scanner, I entered my apartment, back from Italy by way of Seattle and I still hadn’t had a shower. I walked into my living room and slammed my shin into a coffee table that arrived while I traveled around the world trying to solve the Da Vinci Source Code. Through a torrent of profanity, I realized that my decorators must have come and left and that my apartment might actually be presentable again. I really need to watch out for that hydro, it causes some behaviors that I later find vvery difficult to explain away.
I sat in one of my nice new Leather sofas and picked up my phone to check for messages. The synthesized voice said I had six. I listened on and found that the first five came from various political and charitable causes the previous owner of this number had contributed to. The sixth, though, would mean a rapid change in plans.
The voice said, “Message six, 3:46 am, from 7 2 7 5 5 5 1 6 3 6,” that paranoid BC, I thought, he always has to call before I can even settle in. But, before I could delete the message out of hand, I heard his panicked voice yell, “Gonz? Sam? I need your help! There taking me away! It’s just like Hitler, the Senate is bashing the gays and the thugs are rounding up people with disabilities. I need help! They’re taking me to some kind of camp! This is all very scary! I’m told that I’ll be living with ‘lot’s of other nice blind people’ and, when I said I wasn’t very nice and probably wouldn’t fit in, they said I had to come anyway. Help me! This camp is somewhere near Sarasota and, word among other inmates says that we’ll be surrounded by well trained dogs and forced to march in the hot Florida heat every day! Weren’t the Japanese charged for war crimes for this? Help me, help me! Help…” and then a click.
As I placed the phone back in its cradle, it rang immediately. “Gonz,” I answered.
“Sam,” said my African Amazon Attorney.
“I guess you heard from BlindChristian?” I said, fairly certain why she had called me rather than Moes’ maid.
“No, Mickey Bald called me to tell me about it,” she said, “Apparently he’s in some kind of concentration/retraining facility for wise guy blinks.”
“Who runs the place?”
“Unknown,” she sighed, “I would guess it’s either the Blind Panthers and some kind of leftist reprogramming run by Chairman Mal or it’s Sy T. Greenbacks doing everything he can to avoid even the slightest amount of disparagement from prominent blinks.”
“Any idea which is more likely?”
“At this point it’s a toss up.”
“What should we do?”
“This can probably win us the Pulitzer if we uncover the conspiracy. The Da Vinci story turned out to be a flop but a reprogramming concentration camp for blinks, that sounds like big bucks to me.”
“Do I have time to pack?”
“No, we’ll buy new at the Tommy Bahama shop in Sarasota.”
“Can I shower?”
“Please, I had to smell you all the way from Seattle but make it quick and meet me at the Delta counter at LaGuardia in an hour.”
“What about weapons?”
“We’re going to Florida, we’ll hit a gun show as soon as we arrive.”
“I’ll work it out while waiting for you at the airport, we have little time, the clock is ticking and BC is in deep trouble and, if I need to remind you once again, as your attorney, I think it is a pretty good idea to keep your primary source of income alive and breathing and signing checks so we can afford our lifestyles.”
“That’s a solid point, see you at LaGuardia. Make sure you bring enough Valium.”
“Wouldn’t think of flying with you without it.”
To be continued…