Tuesday, February 2, 2016

The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran, Part 28

: Arriving at his condominium with a snoot-full of liquor from work and a high dudgeon usually reserved for the holiday proper, Bruce Halloran enters the structure on Elysian Fields and St. Claude Avenues with the intent of total chemical inebriation. Carnival is here and Halloran cannot be bothered with any of it. He's too invested in the Carnivals and Mardi Gras of his past to be bothered with the "new" Carnival of the young. He thinks it out loud everytime he looks down upon the youthful revelers on St. Claude beneath his luxurious rooftop garden. Why should he be concerned? He spend his heydays in the bars and other evirons of the city long before these zygotes were even born.
Let them catch up with his memories. Of wild orgies and unexpected encounters with the young men willing to learn. Of the many, many years he marched with the original Society of St. Ann and all those supple, willing young men. Of the Mardi Gras' he had to run from the NOPD when they decided to go after the faggots to "make an example." Gritty, dangerous, lusty, and thoroughly satisfying. Until the world became politically correct and ruined everything.
Halloran sits down in front of his computer to check his email, Facebook, and Twitter accounts. Something may have happened during his 46 minute trek from the Westbank to home. Might have been important.
"Shit" he says loudly, turning from the computer monitor and walking over to one of the five bars his benefactor Sara Joy left him in his will. Of course the rub of having five bars is that you have to keep them stocked for whenever you feel like drinking. Fortunately he's been diligent in his ministrations and a fresh bottle of Bulleit Bourbon awaits his grasping fingers. Deftly he opens the plastic security wrap on the bottle and withdraws the cork in one fell swoop. Within seconds the gentle but distinctive *splish-splish* of newly decanted alcohol fills the copious rocks glass and is downed in the blinking of an eye. No amateur, Halloran drains the glass of all remnants of Kentucky's Finest and pours a second before the ice can melt to the point of dilution.
Satiated for now, Halloran wanders into the living room and stares inexplicably at the photographs and documents on the ill-fated romance of Phil Tupperman and the good Doctor. Suddenly, the house telephone rings shocking Pitts to his very core. No one calls him in the condo. The only reason he has the number is so he won't have to deal with anyone's calls. Halloran stares inexplicably at the dusty caller ID to discover who's calling him here.
It bears the secret number of his law firm. Specifically the extension of the prickly Master Tschantz. On the third ring he picks up.
"Morty's Mortuary. You stab 'em, we slab 'em" Halloran intones into the receiver, hoping for an incensed reply. In exchange he receives the pained but direct response he should have expected all along.
"Mister Halloran, this is Mr. Tschantz. It's been a very long time since I heard from you."
The boy thinks he's reached a messaging machine. All the better. He listens closely.
"I'm calling you to inform you that the firm has reviewed your case, along with my grandfather. They have decided, after long deliberation that you will require more time to fulfill your commitment to Mr. Pitts' will, according to the laws of the state. In all fairness I do have to say that I and my grandfather were more than happy to cut you off after Carnival, as per the mandates of Mr. Pitts. Still, there is precedent and the firm if following through. I will be contacting  you directly on Ash Wednesday."
Bruce sits back, more than a modicum of safety and frustration setting upon him. He's happy to have the reprieve but struck by the fact that he's had to be told. He both loves and hates young Mr.Tschantz but realizes that he's between a rock and a hard-place.
He goes back to the living room bar and pours himself another drink...This is My New Orleans!

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