The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Four

 :  Bitsie DuPlessis stands opposite Amanda Napolitano in her lavish Uptown mansion. Stavros Phistemopheles recovers on the couch after revealing that his aunt Philomena Phistemopheles is coming to New Orleans from Greece because Oskar Hammar is back. And, thanks to Schramm…there’s something else.

With eyes blazing and a rictus of a smile on her thinning lips, Bitsie approaches Amanda and with dripping sweetness asks,

“Is there something you’d like to…ask me, Amanda? Dearest?” Bitsie fairly growls the last word.

“Not anymore, no!” Amanda bleats, looking to Stavros for guidance.

Bitsie slowly begins to walk around the lead glass coffee table towards her.

“But, you did, didn’t you? You were going to ask me a question. Isn’t that right? A question?”

She is now face to face with Amanda, who has no idea what to do.

“What’s the question, Miss Napolitano?”

Amanda is afraid to breathe. Last names are never good. Bitsie looks genuinely deranged, like a cornered chihuahua. Stavros finally puts an arm between them, giving Amanda the chance to slink away for breath.

“It isn’t a question, as much as a requirement.”

His deep, lush voice and Greece-meets-Irish Channel accent has always gotten to Bitsie. It was working now, but she knew she couldn’t give in. Digging her nails into her palms, she puffs up and demands,

“What requirement?”

Stavros walks past Bitsie to the mantle and stares at his reflection in the antique mirror before facing her.

“Aunt Phil said we will all be staying here. With you.”

If you knew what to listen for, you could actually hear the blood vessel in Bitsie’s head pop.

“Like hell she is!” she bellows. Swiftly, Schramm collects everything from the coffee table, as well as a few loose pieces of bric-a-brac around the room as he goes. Bitsie stalks the living room, huffing like an enraged panther.

“I’ll be God-damned if that woman is setting one single hoof inside this house!” She looks around ferociously for something to throw. There is nothing. 

“DAMN IT SCHRAMM!” she shrieks. Seeing the opportunity, Amanda tries to make a break for the back stairwell, but Stavros stops her. Hyperventilation has finally kicked in, and Bitsie comes to a standstill for a moment, trying to focus on Stavros.

“Tell me,” she says malevolently. “When Philomena made this grand pronouncement, were there bouzoukis and castrati belting it out on Mount Olympus? Or, was it more of a foothills kind of demand--”

Stavros begins to call her out..

“--STOP! You have no lines in this scene! This is my monologue, you just turn the pages and look pretty.” She knows the right buttons to push, and Stavros stands, momentarily de-activated. She moves steadily towards him. 

“Now, let’s ask ourselves some questions. Why would a woman who once told me I was beneath contempt want to stay in my house? Sadism? Most definitely. Maybe not the main reason for coming, but a medieval way to pass the time.” She directs her ire towards Amanda, who stands stock still as Bitsie approaches. “Is it because I’m so wealthy? Given that she’s responsible for most of Greece’s debt, I highly doubt that.” She takes another drag from her cigarette, and glides past Amanda, tossing the butt into the fireplace. Her back to them, she continues.

“All I can afford to ruin is a small duchy, maybe an island nation--freeze Amanda!” Bitsie’s arm shoots out from her side, pointing at Amanda who has started retreating towards the solarium.

“Sonofabitch”, Amanda hisses under her breath as she returns and sits again on the sofa. Stavros remains stolid, his eyes boring uncomfortably into the crest on the rug. Her tongue clicking in her head, Bitsie turns her eyes on Stavros, mounting the coffee table like a runway, and walking up to him until they are eye to eye. The stench of cigarette fills his nostrils as she breathes into his face.

“So, the question remains. Why does Philomena Phist-Up-My-Ass demand to stay in my home?”

Stavros stares back at her, his face like burnished marble. Cold and unwavering. Bitsie waits for an answer when suddenly, the phone rings. Bitsie turns suddenly towards the sound, nearly falling off the table, were it not for Stavros’ arm bracing her gently. Amanda jumps, startled by the sound. Without thinking, both women look to Schramm.

He is visibly surprised by this. Usually, he picks it up before it has even rung. This call got past him. For the first time, Amanda sees a look of genuine concern in Schramm’s eternally serene countenance. Bitsie looks surprised too, and nods to Schramm to answer it. Only Stavros is unmoved.

“Put it on speaker” he says firmly.

Schramm’s gloved finger presses the speaker button and the ringing ceases.

“Bitsie, darling” says a rich female voice. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the DuPlessis mansion is such an oddity? Or, are you too drunk to care?”

Everyone recognizes the thick Peloponesian accent and wicked voice. Stavros glances to see the anger and color drain from Bitsie’s face. Schramm slowly backs away from the phone, retreating into the house like fog. Amanda drops the knotted tissue on the floor. No need for worrying now. Outside, under clear and sunny skies, what sounds like a lightning crack snaps them into clarity.

“I am coming to you tomorrow morning, my darlings. Bitsie, you will meet me at the airport. Alone! Leave your ‘servant’ at home.”

Bitsie looks for Schramm, who is nowhere to be found. A little chill goes down her back. For the first time in twenty five years, he’s not there.

“Stavros, you and Amanda will meet us at Bitsie’s lovely little cottage.”

Bitsie, in full Kaintock twang claps back,

“I think the phrase you’re looking for is 12 bedroom mansion, bitch!”

“Bitsie darling, well done. That was almost clever. Stavros, you will prepare my suites. I don’t want the butler in there. Amanda, you will prepare the adjoining suite for you and Stavros. And, Bitsie my darling?”

Grudgingly, Bitsie barks “Whaddya want now, Philomena?”

“I’ve taken the liberty of having some good liquor delivered to you. It will make a nice change from the swill you usually have. Stavros, you will sign for the delivery. And, pick up my cigars from my little Cuban men in the Quarter before you collect me. They are expecting you promptly at nine. Tomorrow!”

The phone clicks off. They stand in silence like unexpected mourners at a funeral. Stavros and Bitsie look at one another, both humbled. He extends his hand and helps her off the table. Whatever animosity between them all is now forgotten. Amanda goes to Stavros as Schramm appears behind them all. Bitsie looks at everyone and takes their hands. Meaningful looks pass between them. And, in unison they say,

“Shit”…This Is My New Orleans.

The Misson of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part Three

 : “All right, let’s go over this again.”

Bitsie DuPlessis finishes the last of her morning mimosa in the sunken living room of the DuPlessis mansion in Audubon Place. Looking at Stavros’ tortured face, she rises from her plush leather perch she calls her ‘big chair’ and walks over to the sofa to sit with him and Amanda. She reaches up and pushes a strand of hair out of his face. Her lips purse as she coos,

“Poor thing. Your eyes look like two holes burned into a blanket. I’m so sorry, sugar.” What she calls her “Kentuckiana accent” makes everything sound like either a heartfelt truth or a dirty joke. She settles in and takes his large hand in hers. “Now. If I remember correctly, the last time this happened was about four years ago, right?”

“Yes,” Amanda says, absently worrying some tissues into a crude rosary. “Same as last time. Sweating, writhing around, cursing in Greek. And not for the good reasons.”

Bitsie rolls her eyes at the gag, and turns back to Stavros who’s managed to crack a smirk. She smiles, and pats his hand.

“Honey, couldn’t this just be a nightmare?” she asks a little condescendingly. “Maybe something triggered you earlier in the day, and your brain couldn’t process it until you slept. Tell me, do you remember seeing anything that might have triggered you? Like, a large ball bearing, or a short, fat--shiny, evil round little man?” She grimaces at the thought.

Stavros grumbles and slowly stands to his full six feet, four inches. Walking aimlessly around the room he stretches out his considerable arms and massive back. The sound of vertebrae popping into place is strangely alluring.

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” he rumbles in his sonorous baritone. “Nightmares don’t…look like that. No, this was clear, realistic. He’s back. I heard the sound. I saw him in a room with the orb. And…” He trails off, worrying his hands through his long jet-black hair. 

Bitsie looks towards Amanda, who avoids her eyes by concentrating on her hands. The unfinished statement hangs in the air. Bitsie hates that. Already she’s feeling a little ill. She stands up and blocks Stavros, her five foot five frame a surprising match for his.

“And what, Stav?” she demands, fearing the answer.

“Aunt Phil called right after I woke up.”

The color drains from her face as her mouth slowly opens to a gaping maw that screams,

“Schr-AMM!”

No sooner does the name form in her mouth than he appears, bearing a silver tray adorned with a double shot glass of ridiculously expensive single malt scotch and matching decanter, two clove cigarettes in a crystal ashtray, and a silver lighter. Effortlessly, he swoops behind Bitsie and supports her weight as her knees buckle from the news, guiding matriarch and tray evenly to her big chair, and depositing both with balletic grace. Amanda, always mesmerized at Schramm’s preternatural timing, watches as Bitsie reaches for the scotch and knocks it back like water. Schramm presents her cigarette, somehow already lit, sets the ashtray and lighter on the coffee table and takes his place just behind her chair. Bitsie takes a long drag and exhales an impressive cloud of smoke that quickly disappears through the mansion’s air filters.

Amanda looks towards the coffee table. Where is the mimosa she had just a moment ago?

Bitsie turns on Stavros and manages to say,

“Stav, honey. You know I love you, right? I think you’re wonderful, I’d do anything for you. If Amanda hadn’t snatched you up, I’d have grabbed a rope and climbed you myself.” She takes another shot. Stavros and Amanda exchange a glance. Who refilled her gl--

“Tell me she isn’t coming here” Bitsie demands, putting the shot down a little harder than she’s planned on the lead glass coffee table. Stavros and Amanda look at one another, eyes wide.

“Christ on the cross, give me strength!” Bitsie wails, falling back into the plush leather of her big chair. Schramm appears on her right, deftly opening a folding fan and gently airing his boss. “No…no, I can’t. I can’t do it” she moans, struggling to sit upright and stub out her first cigarette. “That woman and I cannot be in the same city at the same time. I can’t take the stress of it. Knowing she’s out there waiting. Like COVID.”

Stavros bristles a bit, and says,

“She’s my aunt, my only living relative. She’s not a virus.”

“Oh no,” says Bitsie, sitting upright to face him. “You can get vaccinated for a virus. Philomena Phistemopheles is a blinding migraine in Mahnolo Blahnik stilettos and the skins of a small pack of wildebeests!”

Stavros’ eyes flare as he stands up to his full height, Bitsie stands up to him as well, her lower lip pouting out defiantly. For a moment, to Amanda it looks like an old mother rabbit standing up to a timberwolf. She fears for the timberwolf.

“Oh, big deal ya cypress!” she barks, smacking her little hand into Stavros’ stomach at just the right place to make him wince. “I’ve taken on bigger than you. And don’t you forget--” An arm bearing a grasping claw darts out into Stavros’ crotch, locking on like a vise. He flinches but doesn’t move away. “Don’t forget how sick I was the last time she was here. My headaches were so bad, I had to stop drinking!” Here, she…pulls Stavros down to her level.

“And I love drinking!”

She releases Stavros, who stumbles back to the opposite end of the sofa as Amanda rushes to his side. Bitsie watches the retreat and sinks back into her chair. She picks up a freshly lit cigarette and a fresh shot of scotch. The ashtray is clean and empty, and the decanter looks untouched. Even in their shock, neither of them can help but notice.

Schramm walks around to Bitsie’s other side and regards her with a stern look. Bitsie takes it in, the silence between them almost visible. Her eyes widen, as she turns her glare…on Amanda.

“Oh, shit”, she mutters, rising along with Bitsie on the opposite side of the cut crystal coffee table…This Is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hamma - Ch. 1, Part Two

 : Sitting upright from a sound sleep in their bed, Stavros Phistemopheles gasps for air. He is drenched in sweat, soaking the sheets. Next to him, his fiancee Amanda Napolitano is shaken awake, and sits up, pushing her shoulder length chocolate brown hair out of her eyes.

“Babe, what’s the matter?” she asks.

“Το ένιωσα ξανά! Αυτή η αίσθηση τρόμου!”, he gasps, pushing his fingers through his wet blue-black mane, pulling it back from his face. He’s panting as if he’s just run a marathon. His olive skin is ashen and clammy. Amanda, pale as porcelain, pushes back the dampened sheets and circles the bed to grab a bottle of water on his nightstand.

“Sweetheart, all I can say in Greek at this hour is ‘I need a toilet’ and ‘where is duty-free?’” Grabbing a scrunchie from her night table, she pulls her hair back into a pony tail. She opens the bottle and hands it to him, which he takes and knocks back. As she goes to grab a towel from the bathroom, she calls back “Translate please.”

Stavros, at any other time an imposing physical presence, sits with his broad shoulders hunched over his knees, like a great weight pushing him down. All he can do is pant for breath, trying desperately to slow his pounding heart. Amanda returns and begins drying his shoulders and back. She’s only seen him like this once before. And that was a nightmare she doesn't want to revisit.

Trying to sound calm and soothing, she breathes in and says evenly “tell me what happened?”

Stavros swallows hard and is just about to speak when his cell phone rings loudly. All expression leaves his chiseled face, his eyes staring blankly across the bed. His heart rate slows almost instantly. His panting replaced by short, shallow breaths.

“Oh, fer Chrissakes!” Amanda grumbles, tossing the towel across Stavros’ still shoulders, running back around the bed to her nightstand. “It’s after midnight, who the hell is calling us? Rony, if that’s you, I'm gonna--”

The words freeze on her lips as she sees the caller ID. A sudden tremble wiggles up her spine. She picks up both phones from the charging pad. Silently, she walks back around, handing the ringing phone to Stavros, who takes it without looking. She disappears into the kitchen to make some coffee and text messages. He taps the screen blindly. As he raises the phone, the sound of a familiar ocean half a world away fills his ear. He closes his eyes and says defeatedly,

“Hello Aunt Phil”...This is My New Orleans.

The Mission of Oskar Hammar - Ch. 1, Part One

 : The pink, perpetually moist, round face of Oskar Hammar emerges from the Metairie Road bus into a sickly cloud of opal-amber diesel exhaust radiating in the setting sun. He steps down, narrowly avoiding a puddle only to land squarely on a string of beads left over from the recent parade. He stumbles, then kicks the strand into the gutter as the bus pulls away, another malevolent breath of smog engulfing him.

It doesn’t matter, he thinks to himself.

He makes his way down the sidewalk on Fagot, down Ridgelake and over to the remote one-block street called Shirmaine, down to the small post World War II starter home he grew up in. When he was a child, there were lots of houses like his in the neighborhood. Now, his and the other houses on the street are the only ones left, replaced over the years by pre-fab mini-mansions, each one taller and bigger than the last. 

Maybe that will change, he thinks to himself.

Even in the dark, the Hammar home stands out as the only one that looks deserted all the time. Arriving at home at last, he pads along the driveway to the carport, entering through the kitchen door. Inside is a time capsule of the late 20th century, all kept fastidiously clean and carefully used. It is the legacy of his parents. Well, his mother mostly. His father has been dead for 15 years. He was emotionally distant, violent, and poorly educated. Oskar barely remembers speaking at his funeral. But, he bought a solid house and paid for it all before he died. It was his mother he adored. She died early in the pandemic.

She was infected on Canal Street, watching the Rex Parade. Ash Wednesday night he rushed her in a cab to the hospital. The last he saw of her was being wheeled away on a gurney by masked nurses with their machines stabbed inside her. Ten days later she was lying in Tharp Sontheimer, one of the first to die after the shutdown began. No funeral. A solitary burial in Lakelawn, by her only surviving child, and a couple of masked strangers waiting for him to leave.

Oskar had always hated Carnival and Mardi Gras. Loathed it, actually. The only reason he went was because his mother adored it. The noise, the smells, the throws, the food, the crowds, everything he despised gave her delight. That was enough for him to endure it all. And then, it killed her.

Pushing the sweaty strands of pale blond hair away from his face, Oskar opens the door under the carport; the key slipping in like a familiar lover. Both lock and key are original equipment, wearing each other down over decades. Impossible to pick, his mother used to joke. Removing his shoes, he puts them into the little wooden box by the door and steps inside the darkened kitchen. 

Routine. Close door, lock door, put key on hook, flip on light. Drilled into him at five by his father, yelling in his face. Do it in order. Don’t miss a step. Make it routine. Flip on light!

A single circular fluorescent light buzzes to life over the ancient Formica dinette set against the wall decorated with a painted window and a wooden window box filled with plastic plants. The yellow walls, once the color of sunshine, have gone a pallid ochre. The small kitchen is avocado, but one well past its prime. The most recent appliance is the spotless radar range over the gas stove. His father installed it in 1975 for his mother because it was the latest thing. Everything gleams, with only a few chips of paint missing here and there. Despite being spotlessly clean, the room looks like how liver frying in onions smells. The brown patterned linoleum is in remarkable shape, due mostly to his late mother’s devotion to floor waxing.

She believed those commercials. The ones that promised health, happiness and domestic bliss were the direct result of a sparkling kitchen floor. He keeps it up for her, all of it regularly gleaming. Though, there is seldom any light to see it.

He takes off his jacket, hangs it on the hook near the door, and walks over to the sink. He pushes a button on the wall under the cabinets and another circular light above bathes him and the stainless steel sink in a ghastly blue-white light. 

Oskar washes his hands for one minute. He has always done this, ever since he was a pudgy, sullen child. Digging under his nails, he looks at the scrubber his mother kept on the sink. A little yellowed poof of plastic netting attached to a purple plastic knob with the initials K & B printed on the top. It upset her when that drugstore closed down. It was the only memory of the place she had left. It has never been used. She wouldn’t allow it.

The whole house is a time capsule of his family, left nearly as it was when they all died. But, not for sentimental reasons. He keeps everything exactly as he remembers. That way he knows if anything changes. He dries his hands on the dishtowel, hangs it up neatly folded on the rack, and turns out the light.

Walking through the dark, stagnant living room, past the boxy furniture, he walks down the darkened hallway covered in honey colored wood paneling. Parents bedroom, sister’s bedroom, Oskar’s bedroom. Well, Oskar’s old bedroom. After his mother died, he put her things in storage, and his late sister Alecia’s things out on the curb and moved into the main bedroom. His petty revenge on Alecia for being born.

He opens the door, which swings away into the darkness. He steps inside and is bathed in light.

The room is bare. That peculiar echo of empty rooms is disturbingly absent. Only the hum. The window on the opposite side has no curtains, looking out onto the dark, bleak rear yard and tall wooden fence.

In the center of the room is a simple wooden chair at a small card table. On top of the table is a silver metallic orb, the size of a basketball. The room is perfectly lit, despite there being no light source in the room. And that light stops at the doorway and the window. From the outside, the room is still dark

Oskar found the thing years ago, drawn to the low-level hum it produces. Touching the orb sent him back into the past. At first, it was only the past of his immediate family. It required a lot of concentration and always left him exhausted later. When Alecia died in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Oskar went back and saved her, changing the world around him for the worse. His interference caused the deaths of both his father and sister. After that, his trips were strictly observational.

Until his mother died. The only one in the whole family he actually loved. The only one who mattered.

Oskar is going back again. This time, to save his mother. He has learned in his travels through time that merely plucking someone from their fate doesn’t work. You have to go back further. You have to fundamentally change the circumstances that brought about the conditions of the thing you want changed.

Oskar is going back further than he’s ever gone before. To the mid- 19th century. He has his agenda in place, he’s nearly completed the research. He knows the names, the places, the events he needs to change. He just needs a few more items before he begins the end.

He’s going back in time to kill Mardi Gras…This is My New Orleans.

A New Start for TIMNO

 As many of you who are fans of my This is My New Orleans series may know, my Facebook account was stolen on Juneteenth night, and has been deactivated. I have switched over to Instagram, and have decided to return to my old Blogger account, which I sort of abandoned eight years ago. I'm glad I rediscovered it, because I have decided to restart my current story of the time-meddling Oskar Hammar, and the team of Bitsie DuPlessis & company caught in another timeline where one of the City's most important cultural institutions no longer exists, and an unusual young girl and her dog who might have an answer.

Starting tomorrow, I will begin posting, from the beginning, the first episode of the (so far,) five chapter story. Thanks for following me over here, and I hope this is the beginning of a long friendship!

The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran, Part 30

: Bruce Halloran stares disdainfully at the drive-in movie screen of a television that dominates his living room. He sits on the expansive chocolate brown sofa, Miss Sara Joy clinging to his right hand, and the remains of a full go-cup of expensive neat bourbon. The images from Orlando are, sadly, all too familiar. People screaming, young gay boys running for cover, tear-streaked faces of young sorrow. The death of innocence and altruism. He's seen it before.
He flips between channels, each one broadcasting a steady stream of repeated images and news tickers abalze.

"...we have a lot of information at this hour on this individual. Who he is...he held his weapon legally, we're just now learning. It would appear that the suspect worked as a security guard..."

*click*

"--pick-up truck, racing to the scene of that incident, trying to get life-saving aid to...to-ah, to the victims of this massacre. Again, we don't know if this person actually survived the shooting..."

*click*

"...you know, uh, never is that kind of firearm standard issue for a security guard. We know that between two and nine am, he made a 911 call, gave his full name, and made a pledge of allegiance to ISIS--"

"--we do know, from the shooter's father, that he was angered several days ago in Miami when he saw two men kissing. His father says that was the motivation for him to go into this nightclub, Pulse, uh, a well-known gay club in Orlando, uh, and begin shooting his way into this club--"

*click*

"We are now getting word of an incident in Santa Barbara. A man has been taken into custody after explosives were allegedly found in the man's car, ahead of the LA Gay Pride Parade. Authorities are saying they have not yet found any connection to the incidents in Orlando last night and early this mornin--"

*click*

"And, what they have found, is that there are people, disenfranchised people, uh, troubled people out there who are susceptible to this--to the message that an, an action like this sends. Authorities have known for years about so-called "copycat" attacks. There are people out there who will see this attack, this massacre, and think seriously about doing the same thing."

Mute.

Just then, the tinny strains of Blondie slurring "I Know What Boys Like" oozes from his cellphone, causing Miss Sara Joy to leap down onto the carpet and take up his usual place beneath the coffee table. The screen is filled with an unattractive picture of Ambrosia, the drag queen he's recently befriended. It usually makes him smile. He taps the screen.

"Hello Ambrosia, whom are you under today?"

"Nobody you've done. Are you watching the news?"

"Yes. When I said I was feeling nostalgic, this wasn't what I had in mind."

Ambrosia snorts a little in response.

Bruce takes another swig of his bourbon, and says with a slight gulp,
"Ah, yes, the good old days. When shooting faggots was all the rage. Better spruce up your closest, ladies. We're goin' back in."

"I've seen your closets. In Japan, that's a boutique hotel."

"HA!" guffaws Halloran, startling Miss Sara Joy. "Give me liberty, or give me closet space! Patricia Henry. What about you, Ambrosia? Got enough room in your closet?"

"Excuse me?" she trills. "I have never had any problems passing."

"I know several barstools that beg to differ."

Ambrosia laughs shrilly, forcing Bruce to pull the phone away from his ear. She calms down. There is a silence that goes on a little too long before Bruce says,
"At least this time around, it's not the cops coming after us."

Stunned by this unexpected moment of sincerity, Ambrosia takes a moment before speaking.

"Well...that's true. But, let's be honest. They're coming for everyone."

"But it's always us. Always! It is always pissy, self-important, soulless zealots that come for us. That hurt us, and kill us. And they always have the same excuse. 'It was God's will.' Leviticus whatever-whatever...blah, blah, blah. pow! Dead. At least now, the funeral homes will take a dead fruit...goddamnit...they've always hated us because we dare to exist. And it's always the same goddamned question--who were they hurting? Who was being harmed by a bunch of gay boys and fag hags in a dance club, ferchrissakes--"

"Halloran! They're terrorists! This is what they do!!"

"Then why weren't they terrorists when they were killing us back then?!?"

He trails off, finishing the rest of the bourbon in a large gulp. He sits for a moment, feeling the burn all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He's gone further than he wanted to go. The hollow of his chest tightens as he remembers all the times he's seen his friends beaten and shot. Things he's kept buried for decades, now demanding to be present. He bites the inside of his lip until the taste of copper begins to fill his tongue. Taking a deep breath, he brings the phone back to his ear.

"...sorry, I...I had to--"

"I know, I know. You had to drink, you old sponge." Ambrosia says, brassily. "Tell ya what, let's make a strike for democracy and fighting ISIS by stepping out tonight for a cocktail. If we don't drink, the terrorists win. My treat."

Now it's Bruce's turn to be momentarily stunned.

"Did I just hear the words "my treat" come out of that filthy mouth of yours?"

"Yes, Virginia, there is a bar tab. Where shall we meet?"

"I'm a lazy queen, just come over to Kajun's. What time were you planning from rising from your crypt?"

"I refuse to be seen before 7pm."

"I'll see you then. And bring your big girl purse, I'm thirsty!"

Bruce stabs the screen triumphantly, ending the call with the last word. He looks back to the screen, still flashing the same footage ad infinitum. He brings up the sound again.

"--but they have focused on the report that he was enraged by gay men recently. We spoke to one of the neighbors in the housing complex where Omar Mateen lived. She told us that there was an apartment where a group of gay men lived, and in recent weeks, the shooter, Mateen, had spent time in that apartment, he was seen coming and going from that apartment in recent days. So, authorities are not certain yet if this is a hate crime or a terrorist act."

*click*

Across the city, Avalena Beasley turns off her burner cellphone, and drops it into her purse. Looking up, she stares at herself in the mirror. Right now, she's a middle-aged woman in a middle management position, who works with a hateful, vicious old queen named Bruce Halloran. In four hours, she will be Ambrosia Delight, drag queen of indeterminate age, who's best friend and biggest fan is Bruce Halloran. Carelessly, she pulls a loose strand of graying hair from her face and replaces it behind her ear...This Is My New Orleans.

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.
Nothing.
"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!