“Martini, Martina?” Gary asked, as he poured vermouth into a glass. Martina blushed, taking the stem of the glass from Gary’s outstretched hand.
It was April 4, 1973, and Gary was in love. He had met Martina at a singles club for the mute in downtown Los Angeles, and though she didn’t seem to say much, she was perfect.
“My dear,” Gary began to pontificate, “Your left eye is like the coitus of a blood-stained dove and a dark brown pigeon. It is forbidden, and I must have it!”
“Bluuulllmmmphhhhguh,” Martina mumbled as Gary closed in. “Ggggggggmmmmsh!”
“Before I heard your voice,” Gary purred, “I was like a puma who had never heard your voice! Sing for me, angel!”
“HUURRRRRKKKKLLLLMGGSH!!!” Martina tried to shout.
“Yes! Yes! YESSSSSS!” Gary exclaimed, and turned to look out at the rugged beauty offered by his apartment’s spacious view. From his one-room maisonette on West 3rd Street, Gary had a magnificent view of the slightly larger building oppposite the alley his window overlooked. Frank, the meth addict, was here again today rooting through the garbage dumpsters like an olympic diver being strangled, and Gary noticed there was new grafitti on the wall that seemed to imply that his mother was a —
“Jorp?” Martina seemed to ask.
Gary sighed and turned away from his panoramic vista. “Yes, snuggy pumpkinkins?”
“Frrrggglp jihtt mmmfflrp nh craaaah tob plbbbbbbnsss krrz pelop oooooon tk.”
Gary beamed. “I agree, my exquisite termite lotus. It’s ridiculous that they would interrupt your ‘Friends’ marathon to boradcast a breaking news story on a self-immolating cat. The state of modern media today in this country is just preposterous, and I think that — ”
But before Gary could voice his opinion that would very well have saved the integrity of journalism and reignited the public’s interest in print media, there was a knock at his door.
“Well, who could that be?” Gary mused as he traversed the four steps to the opposite side of his apartment. Unlocking the eight deadbolts on his door, Gary asked in his most saccharine voice, “Who is it?”
“Just some old friends,” a gruff voice responded.
“Oh my, I simply do love old friends,” Gary said, and swung the door wide open, ready to embrace his new visitor.
But no welcoming hug came, and after about thirty seconds Gary finally lowered his arms andopened his eyes. It was then he saw the gang of poorly dressed Russian peasants. Gary’s eyes widened and his heart raced like Elmer’s glue made out of Seabiscuit.
“You sartorially challenged and quite contumacious bastards!” Gary shouted. “Martina, run! The Posse of Pugnacious Plebeians has come for me!”
Martina screamed as well as she could and threw herself out of Gary’s third story window. The glass, however, refused to break, and she crumpled unconscious to Gary’s damp floor. The plebeians stormed in, filling the apartment in a mass of arms and legs and vodka like a giant Russian Frankenstein Cerberus Rat King made of ham, and pinned Gary to his combination sofa/trundle bed/microwave.
“I just wanted to make the little otters happy!” Gary sobbed. “Was giving them tiny adorable accordions to play that heinous a crime!”
Martina struggled slowly to her feet. “That’s the most digusting thing I’ve ever heard, you pervert,” she spat, and strolled out of Gary’s apartment.