Monday, October 15, 2012


Mr. Gotu sidled up next to me at the watering hole and whispered out the side of his mouth without moving his lips, a talent he said he learned while ordering hits on rival deities, back when Moses still had dark hair.

"Listen, you've seen the way I mess with the world," Mr. G said, his voice a sandpaper whisper. "Earthquakes. Tsunamis. Kardashians. I'm responsible for the great calamities of the world."

I allowed how this was true, but said nothing else. One learns that interrupting Gotu during his manic episodes can be hazardous to a human's health. I saw the the G-dog stop a man's heart with a simple frown — just because the guy wouldn't shut up about Mulholland Dr. and how David Lynch should have used a red box instead of a blue one to illustrate the passage from dream state to reality.

("That'll learn him," Gotu muttered as he watched the wanna-be movie critic twitch on the floor. "I thought Lynch's use of Roy Orbison music was inspired, as it was in Blue Velvetand Naomi Watts has never been better. So bitch, please — spare me the red box bullshit.")

Lesson learned: don't fuck with Mr. Gotu. You never know what might piss him off. As a tarot-card reader once said, Gotu is cold-hearted and prone to fits of violence. That was right before he blinked and turned her into a fat stray kitten outside a Chinese-food restaurant.

But today Gotu was in a fine, silly mood, as magnanimous as he ever gets, and he filled me in on his latest mindfuck.

"This fantasy football shit fascinates me," he whispered, drinking a Mother's ("How's the craft beer?" I asked. "Meh," Gotu said. "I've had worse."). "I mean, allegedly intelligent adults sit around and waste hours out of their weeks, cobbling together sports teams based on who they think the best players are. They act like it's important — you know, like those people who are all batshit crazy over that new TV show, Revolution. I'd strike them all dead, but it's funnier to fuck with them."

He finished his Three Blind Mice and ordered another with a twitch of his eyelid. "See that group of punks at the corner table? All big-shot dicks, grunting and groaning over their fantasy football picks. So here's what I did — I know a guy who doesn't even watch football. Got a friend's dog to tell him what players to pick, like I did with Berkowitz and Sam. Now the dude's won the last two weeks, and before I'm done he's going to make bitches out of those other punk-ass mothers. Those jock-strappers are gonna wish they never crossed paths with Gotu." He rubbed his nose, and outside I heard two cars collide.

"Gotu, you magnificent bastard," I said.

"And don't you forget it," he said, slipping me a Vicodin. "Now let me tell you the spoilers for this season of The Walking Dead. You'll thank me later."

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