The World According To Smones
chapter nine
[previous chapters below]

Jewel wonders if Myron has lost it, letting some homeless derelict wander into the house, then going off on this idiotic tangent about Jesus, omigod, what was next, was his brain turning to soft spongy mush, sitting around the house all day, talking to the cat, writing his little stories, and when is the screenplay going to be done and sold or a movie deal for one of his novels since they could use the money, you could never have too much money, jewelry, yes, she had plenty of that, but what about the 86-foot Nordhavn yacht they’d talked about, with a crew of flunkies in white uniforms, which would give the neighbors something to chew on, moored out in the bay in front of the house, dwarfing the others’ paltry little runabouts and fishing boats with their primitive outboard motors, so what was it with this fishing nonsense anyway, smelly grown men huddling together on pathetic puny boats to drink and smoke cigars and tell each other smutty stories, like dirty little boys, tormenting and killing fish which hadn’t done anything wrong except swim too close to them, not that she was a bleeding heart about killing fish, she liked her poached salmon as well as anyone, but it was all too stupid, though speaking of fishing, maybe it was like calling clients all day to place commodity trades, so she sort of got it, but instead of using a hook and line one-at-a-time it was more like seining with a net, she wasn’t dinking around with individual fish, she got entire groups or schools or flocks or herds of investors lined up against the wall and shot them with a single phone call, rat-a-tat-tat, and they were mostly men, so it helped, if and when she met them, or video chatted, that her breasts were high and round, rat-a-tat-tit, and she took good, really good, care of herself, far beyond Dress For Success, more like Dress For Seek ‘Em Out And Kill ‘Em, maybe she should wear a pith helmet with thigh-high boots, safari skirt and blouse, carefully unbuttoned to expose the tops of the milky orbs, of course, and just like the fish couldn’t resist the bait, the important (impotent?) men in their little uniforms, dark jackets with dress shirts and ties, always ties, the necktie the only part of the uniform permitted to non-conform, allowed to express the pathetic male ego, o look at me, I’m wearing a red Nicole Miller covered with little zebras, o but mine is better, it’s an Armani so subtly dyed, but mine is all red, is all blue, because I’m powerful like a President or a Senator, and it made her want to puke, it was so stupid, stupid like this bullshit with Myron sneaking her into his little story about Smones, who called her a tart, was that really Myron himself being furtive and sticking it to her, his own secret thoughts coming out of one of his so-called characters, and the business about her endless prattle driving him insane, so when she got home she’d put him up against the wall, figuratively speaking, or maybe for real, shake him out of his stupor, find out what the f was going on with him sitting at home all day and the homeless Jesus guy and the screenplay she’d heard so much about, with his purported writing partner, Tad, that weasel from Los Angeles, yeah, you didn’t have to be a weasel to live in Los Angeles but it helped, since L.A. was the place where all the boys and girls who shit on you in high school went to live and pose and fornicate and lie to each other and desperately strive to have the last — no really the LAST — laugh, and she knew this because half her clients lived in L.A., pompous pricks in and around the movie business, mostly lawyers and agents and executives, mostly men, few if any stars because the stars never touched the dirty stuff themselves, that was what they had lawyers and agents for, and it was purely a matter of who could screw whom without getting screwed, which was what made it all so much fun.


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