Chapter 10 - Last Supper

   I'm standing on the back of the big boat, looking back. I'm less amazed at what all is going on and being attempted than I would have imagined. You get used to things, quicker than you imagine. When Panic described the hell at the equator he was dumped off into, I remember how philosophical he was about it all. He said you just know in the back of your head, that things like this go on. You hear about them, you see the results sometimes. The carnage or harrowing reports on the news.

   These things change you. My beloved Wizzy, had a similar thing. When he was with the MP's long enough. He was around rape victims, the people that worked with them, and teaching classes to people afraid to become one of their ranks. He said it, too. In the back of your thoughts? You just know people get robbed, beat, raped and shot.

   They both had gotten philosophical about it all. I kind of knew these things went on, but now? I know. They said its like being slapped as a kid. Hey, you? Pay attention. This is important. They had different words and phrases, but they were just both artist renderings of the same idea.

   They both said the same thing, though. It changes you. They both reported being sweet, naive little boys. Growing up wondering about the big, bad world outside. The world you see glimpses of on the news. Then, you're out there in the right place for it, and you see it. It shocks you. Wizzy spoke of his first time around a broken rape victim with a sort of reverent awe. It shocked him, and he said it was like a lightning bolt crackling and sizzling in. Its instant devastation to your little world.

   He hadn't been raped, but he was shaken down to his core by seeing the results. It wasn't edited and filtered for the news or a documentary. He had grown up in a little world his parents had made for him, so that bad things like this were kept far from him. Now, here it was. His strong empathy told him, too. You think you're god-smacked? What's that girl going through. If you feel helpless and powerless seeing this, imagine being inside her, experiencing this.

   Panic saw rape, murder, torture, and human beings ripped apart and the carcasses savaged beyond all comprehension. Like Wizzy? He was god-smacked seeing the results.

   Yeah. It changes you. You have no choice. This, is the flip side of the coin. The coin of human nature. Then, if you land in the right place? Well, the wrong place, I guess. The MP's had to deal with bad crime. Wiz had to deal with war and terrorism. You realized as quick or as slow as you processed it, but in the end it was the same.

   Human nature? It was no coin. It looked more like a manhole cover. One of those big, thick, heavy, steel, round things. You flip it over? You see what's on the other side of what we see looking around on a pleasant day. What you had thought was a cistern of water, the nature of human beings? Wasn't. It was a septic tank, and the leech bed wasn't working.

   Human nature is festering shit.

   And you change. The sudden realization either burns you to a crisp, and you crumble and blow away like ashes the next morning after a fire. Or, it hardens you. Panic, making a knife? He takes a piece of steel. He cuts away what he doesn't want, and leaves what he wants behind. Then he files and sands the rough edges that were left. But when he's done? He heats it red hot, then dunks it in preheated canola oil. There's fire and smoke and a horrible smell. The oil swells and boils and overflows its container. But you pull your finished knife out, and its now hardened and useful.

   That's what they were. Their parents had young human beings to rear and fashion. Little human beings, little seeds containing all the good and all the bad that's inside humans. A tree can grow to shade you and be useful to those that stand under its protective branches and leaves. Respite from the blistering sun of life for a time.

   Or? A tree can lift a foundation with a root, and bring a house down.

   Good parents that both had, trimmed away the baser aspects of human behavior. They fashioned useful knives for civilized societies. But when they went out, the world heated them red hot and dunked them in the hot canola oil. It hardened them.

   After Panic is done making the knife. After he heat treats it? There's still something left. It needs an edge. Wizzy? Had Target, Elise, and the MP's to grind the now hard metal and put that angle and edge on it. Wizzy had been picked out by his final mentor, and had his sharp edge honed. Panic had this, too. Little Robbie honed his edge.

   The steel you start out with, isn't particularly dangerous. Its a flat bar of somewhat soft steel. Imagine a stick of butter, with the exception that its only as thick as a restaurant's prepared pat of margarine. The knife you make out of it? It looks dangerous. That was Panic and Wizzy playing sports. Running, lifting weights. Learning to fight.

   But its really not. You can pick up one of Panic's knives. Some of them look really wicked. But you can drag it across your wrist, without fear. Its got a blunt edge, though it looks as if otherwise.

   Hanging with the the MP's, or going to the equator with the military contractors as a technical support specialist. That's grinding the edge. But when a karma mentor picks one out to really play with putting that perfect honed edge on it?

   Now, you have something truly dangerous. You have a very serious weapon.

   Knives come in all shapes and sizes. Each has a primary purpose, too. It works for other tasks, but there's that thing it was designed for. I grew up on an idyllic family farm and ranch sort of thing. We had knives and other cutting instruments all over. The barns, the workbenches, and the kitchen. In mom's or grandma's kitchen? You can open the drawer, and there they are. Pick one up. I developed a bad habit of touching the blade gently with my thumb, to see if it was one of the good ones. Mom, dad. Grandma, grandpa. They all warned me. Stop that, its simply not a good habit.

   Mom and Grandma kept the wicked sharp honed ones away from my young grasp when I was helping in the kitchen.

   And one fine day in a kitchen? Yeah. My thumb opened up like my opposed digit had suddenly sprouted a twat. It was menstruating, too. Blood all over. Wasn't even one of the scary looking knives, either. One of the little ones. Grandpa had spent time sharpening and honing all of grandma's kitchen knives. Careful, I sharpened them. Yeah, yeah. I did touch the knives extra careful, an ever so light touch with my thumb. Thought I was being careful. But as grandpa said quite colorfully all the time... thought shit himself.

   The knives are all over the map. High school and big university linemen? Big, strong, scary looking. No ground and honed edge, though. Then? There's men like Little Robbie out there, all six and a half feet of kickboxing champion. Later a scout sniper. Any big scary looking knife might be dull, like the big football players. Wicked looking, but safe to run your thumb down. Not Rob. You so much as touch the edge, your thumb comes apart.

   You know to watch out for those big knives. Its the little ones that really get you the worst. Men like Skykid. Not tall, not thick and over muscled. Really friendly and ordinary looking, to tell the truth. He shocked even Rob and Panic, when he lured the enemy to where he cooked them alive. Then stood and watched, smiling, as they cooked and crisped up. Skykid, had been a little paring knife.

   Panic related to me, that a lot of Skykid's analogies come from food and drink. None of the little group said a word, as the men in the field first seared and then cooked. He said Rob had asked him quietly. Sky. You okay? And the response.

   "Dinner's done."

   No one said a word. They all used grim humor as a bandage.

   "Carolina fried zombie. Crispy on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside. Seared, then roasted to perfection. Should fall off the bone."

   Some nervous giggles and snickers had gone around. Then, a large bird landed. More were coming down from the trees up on the hill. Vultures. They could feast. Sky had just smiled.

   "Bon Appetit, boys. French fried zombie, buffet. No pushing and shoving. Plenty for all."

   Wizzy, Panic. Men like them? They weren't the little paring knives, but weren't the giant carving knives, either. They look like useful but otherwise normal utility knives. But any knife, really, might have that honed wicked razor's edge. The sort of knife that cuts you before you touch it, as grandma said.

   Some knives, like the university football team? A group of knives, in a drawer. Others, though. They have sheaths. The sheath is not just something handy to carry the knife around with either, sometimes. Like the knife you carry on your belt in its little scabbard. Some knives are in the sheath for more than simply a useful container. They might have a wicked honed edge.

   Uncle Sam had a few knives kept carefully sheathed. Little Robbie, a big intimidating one. Skykid, a small paring knife. Panic, too. Honestly looking like one of those not so little, not so big knives. An ordinary table knife, to look at it. A butter knife, even.

   Panic hadn't been meant to be dangerous. He was intended, to be an overly intellectual and overly sensitive guy. A clever computer programmer, a veritable artist with a keyboard for a brush. But someone had grabbed an ordinary appearing butter knife. Tested the hardness, and been surprised. Decided to play what the hell, and ground and honed an edge that would take hairs off your arm.

   You don't expect that out of a butter knife.

   Rob, the big turkey carving knife. Skykid, the little paring knife. And Panic. Butter knife. But, with an edge from hell.

   God, but what you can do with nothing but those three knives.

   The hell was Elise, then. Women aren't meant to be knives, not like the men. I guess women are the spoons. Not meant to cut or spread things, like the men are. Just intended to hold something. You can put a little bit of something sweet in it, and yum.

   In college, my first serious boyfriend there, perfect to and for me? Had been in medical school. I was leafing through one of his textbooks, and asked what that thing was. He explained, that it was informally called an... abortion spoon. Safe to shove up in there, guided carefully. Then, you pulled back on the teeny sheath built into the side. Exposing the curved razor. You don't expect a spoon shaped device, to have any sort of sharp edge.

   But, there she is. Just a spoon, in the kitchen. But she's no ordinary spoon, though she looks just like one. Someone needed to fool men that murder women after they rape them. They pick that spoon up and put it in their mouth, then.... so sharp they don't feel it, they drown in their own blood.

   Elise, like anyone in the business end of the military? Has an abundance of those wicked euphemistic phrases. She calls baiting and killing her prey... a retroactive abortion.

   Elise, is an abortion spoon. An ordinary table spoon, in casual clothes and no hair and makeup and clothes. A really fancy silver plated spoon, when she's dolled up for working. To entice you, to pick it up thinking its harmless. And when just the right guy picks her? She ventilates him. Mag dump from close quarters.

   I didn't need it explained further to see it. She had been beaten almost to death, raped and left for dead in an alley. She crawled out of the alley a couple hours later and somehow survived. And in the end of all things? She's rape bait. When you come for a taste, when the contact is not just made but its now confirmed. She ventilates.

   The psychology training in me can see it perfect. She's now standing over him. He's got 15 holes in his chest. He either bleeds out or drowns in a swollen river of his own blood. Whichever comes first. She watches. I know the look, too. A biologist, inspecting a bug on a pin some. If it twitches, it gets a coup de grace. Another trophy for her mantle.

   I'm standing on the back of this big boat, ruminating. I know when my edge was ground out. When Wizzy's blood and guts were blown into my mouth and eyes. The big case, all of us setting things right for what had been done to poor Little Lightning when she was still young and innocent? That, had shaped me. But Uncle Mikey, honed me. If Panic and Rob are the knives, and Elise is the abortion spoon? Then what even am I. I wasn't meant to be what I am. Not at all. I was raised to work on a ranch, for the love of god.

   I guess I'm a fork. If the men are knives, and the women spoons? I'm a fork, I would suppose. You can go thru something sideways, like a knife. Then scoop it up and eat it, like a spoon. Yet, I'm both and neither one. The universe wanted to first harden me, then put a wicked razor's edges on me. I can kill you, or feed you. Either one. And what are we together now. Panic, Elise, me. A knife, a spoon, and a fork. We're together a table setting.

   For someone's last supper.

   "Mademoiselle Testavino."

   That smooth, cultured and educated voice. The smell and taste of the ever so tasteful and expensive cologne as he walks up behind me. I can feel the little tingles. That's not the tingles of a woman impressed with the the money, power and prestige he commands. That's my skin crawling. I've felt this before, too.

   The first time I was in the presence of Mister Big, the criminal that ran a small town and held it fast in his grip. Like a person holding a baby bird, and squeezing in around it to keep it from wriggling out of his tight grasp. He had practice at it, and knew how tight to hold. Enough to capture and keep, not enough to squish and destroy.

   His son though. He squeezed baby birds and dropped them, laughing. At least you knew to watch out for the son. Mouthy and spoiled. The father? Right below radar. I knew who he was, and more importantly what he was. But you can still sense it. Money, position. Power. It is seductive. Women want this. The big houses, the nice cars. The gifts and trappings of having such a man. The gravity of success, coupled with that power. They're dangerous, too. Women like successful men, and they like bad boys. Men like these, are the ultimate expression of both.

   The more my skin crawls, the more I smile wistfully. Go on. Keep smelling the bait. Touch it a little, too. Convince yourself, its not poisoned. Not all poison is bitter and acrid. Some are sweet. You take a sniff. Then a little taste. Ah, sweet. A good thing. You wolf it down, like a rat taking the bait.

   Arsenic, is said to taste good. A more than lethal enough dose? Tastes like almonds.

   I'm an actor. Its what the universe wanted, its what it needed. I had to learn to make masks. Body language that fit and went with it. I got a crash course in rich. I could never be truly upper crust rich, no. I wasn't born to it, nor have I been immersed in it long enough to pass inspection.

   Panic and Rob know about camouflage. Use what's around you, or you'll be found out. I'm nouveau riche. "New rich", literally translated. My husband made good, and we're enjoying some leisure from that. We're not noble, we're just commoners that have proven they can be trusted not to hump the legs of dinner guests.

   I'm the psychologist of the group. What would attract a man with this much money and power. He's a multi-billionaire. Millionaire's women? His little fan club, and anywhere he goes. They thought they had their millionaire, and were happy. But most women never truly are. Always another step up, and some woman is showing it off. Oh. Your husband is a doctor? Mine's a surgeon. Hmm.

   If you can't have it? You still want a taste. I'm a fork disguised as a spoon. The wife of a common ordinary run of the mill couple of million sort of tramp that made good of himself? Will see the billionaire sometimes. Damn, I did good. I'm doing well, even. I have that 2 carat diamond. But that woman? Has a 4 carat sparkler.

   I can't steal her cake, but... just a little taste when her back is turned, showing off in some other direction. Just a little spoonful. No, I'm this man's bread and butter. I'm like waiting on the main course, and you have several hot rolls with melted butter. If you have too many? You spoil your planned big meal. Have none? You're doing without.

   Doing without? Not a thing a billionaire tolerates.

   I need to entice. The hot roll? Steams and sends that fresh scent and flavor out. When it hits your nose? You can taste it on your tongue. You've just got to have one. Poisoned bait? Has to smell just a little bit better then the other hot rolls.

   The irony is not lost upon me, that I smell like... almonds. All I ever knew? Poor girls wear cheap perfume. Rich girls? Wear the more expensive stuff. But the really rich? Don't. No, you hit a certain level, and that just won't do.

   No expense was spared to try this. If we didn't locate, or manage to have a shot at our prey? Nothing lost. I get to enjoy time on these big pleasure boats. Seeing what it was like, to wear heels and a nice evening dress. I got to pick out a couple expensive designed dresses. Evening wear. My sweats, my jeans and T shirts? Fine. But I need to be the pearl in the clam, when I doll up.

   Men are men underneath it all. Not their fault, mother nature designed them that way. They like women, and they enjoy time with them when they can. Maybe for marriage, only the upper crust would do. But for a hot roll? Whatever takes your fancy.

   Look around you, you know its true. Successful men? Poor men? Can stand around and appreciate any woman. Her success level, doesn't really matter. In fact? Specifically for fun, slumming it is a treat. Yeah, women know it, too. They know their man will fuck and devour that cute waitress, if they think they can both pull it off and get away with it.

   Mine won't, but he's always the exception rather than the rule. And don't think I haven't noticed some of these rich women around this boat, either. I've seen them look at him. Swimming. In the gym, the great equalizer of men. Sure, they wanted a successful guy to date or marry, but... mm. A pool boy. Well put together. And in his expensive double breasted suit? More glances.

   When he wants, he can put the vibe out, that air out. Men with more success can sniff it. They're dogs. One woman who sits by me when we take sun on the deck, smiled genuine and complimented me on him. Between dips in the deck pool, he was doing pull ups. Back full of tattoos. Not something these women encounter in their social circle. He's like the pool boy to them. Success is for all day. But that? It has its use, too.

   The other guys started doing it, too. Because men are alike underneath it all. He's showing off, politely. He's not in his twenties any longer, nor will he ever be again. Whatever he has now, he has to keep or never find again. He put his dejected, defeated look on. When he failed to get twenty slow, careful pull ups. Ten is more than enough. Fifteen? For athletes. The infamous Marines? Don't need but six or seven to pass muster in basic.

   Rob taught him twenty was the bare minimum to be on top of your game. Proof to yourself that you weren't all show, and no go. What the dangerous Redwater men called vanity muscle. You need to be strong, but trim. So you can move quick when you have to, and stay in motion for long periods of time. In a real fight? You can't take breaks.

   So more men were around, and they're all laughing, and seeing what they can do. One rich guy surprised him, and got 14. I saw him smile, nod. He smiled back. They gabbed and had a soft drink, one of those patented boy conversations about working out. Those two talk some now, and swim together, play volleyball.

   He's politely not to be toyed with. Men with much more success, are friendlier now. There's pecking orders. It goes by money and success level. For men, perceived toughness level is a thing. Fame or even infamy, is another. How well known are you. The billionaire, for example? Our naughty billionaire. He can blend in and move around in public. Just another guy. His mistress, though. She's not only rich and pretty, she's well known. He can't bring her, if he's below radar. A billionaire, slumming it with ordinary millionaires and lesser forms of what to him, are the great unwashed masses. The millionaires? The same, they just learned to wash.

   The really successful, know when you just polished up a little. They know a poor girl, can be slapped into some nice clothes and painted up a bit. There's little secrets that tell that tale. Like when a girl says of her new dress. Oh, this old thing? My nice dress isn't back from the dry cleaners. I'll make do. Then, turns around and you see the little store tag she missed.

   The rich, have essentially private department stores, basically. You can't just walk in. I mean, you can? But when its obvious you're just window shopping, touching things out of your league. Fingering up the goods. You get politely or even less politely, run off. Can't have poor people germs lingering on your expensive thing you buy, you know.

   I got the seemingly polite but slightly snotty challenge, at the makeup and perfume counter. This is no department store, where poor girls learn or get clued in. Go there, you can try makeup and perfume you can't ever afford. You walk out, with it on.

   The challenge. An older woman, but sophisticated. She likely makes in a day, what it took me all week to make as a steakhouse waitress. You need some breeding to even work here, let alone shop unmolested.

   "Can I help you?"

   Seems polite. Passes for it. If you have it, if you know? You just smile, and tell her what you want. And you get all smiles and you get it proffered to you. But there's a slight sneer to it. Take offense? You clearly don't belong. Saw it happen to some poor girl. She got politely ignored.

   "I want to smell good."

   "Looking for a certain brand?"

   "That's just it. My girlfriends. I found out, I can't just go buy it. And? I want it."

   I gestured to the guy with me, Panic. Walking around while I did my thing.

   "My husband. With his new playmates now? A haircut. A suit, some shoes. He's a boy. My new girlfriends, though. One told me to come here."

   Achievement unlocked. I'm new to having means, and I was selected and sent to where I needed to be. Here. I got the beaming smile, and some polite making up.

   "And, are you wearing anything now."

   "No. I was told to be fresh as a daisy out of the shower. Water only. So you can get it right."

   The knowing smile, the nod I was in the know.

   "Your new girlfriend likes you. Any common tramp, can save up. Or get a gift for her birthday. The expensive branded stuff. You have a scent in mind? Perhaps something you liked."

   I shrugged.

   "I was told, to let the plumbers handle the plumbing."

   Another smile.

   "Yes. We all have some... base scent. Us. You don't want to just cover that up. Or? No matter how expensive the perfume, its obvious. You want your own scent, to mingle. With just the right thing. So you smell unique, and memorable. All your own."

   She pronounces "perfume"? As "par-FOOM". Either she grew up around the periphery of this, or its an affectation.

   "Well? Here I am. Do the plumbing."

   She stood back and regarded me.

   "Hmm. Italiano?"

   I nodded.

   "Anything else?"

   "Mom, dad. Grandma, granddad. All Italian."

   She nodded.

   "I'm not being rude. Beautiful women, come in all kinds. If you were Irish, and had that creamy skin and those cute freckles? Anything musk, and earthy scents. French? The airy flower scents mix best. A dark, exotic woman? Really shines with some coconut oil, some banana or mango. You get the right thing, it can turn heads."

   "And, a wop like me that made good. What's for me."

   "Italian women, run the gamut. The fairer skinned northern Italian, with the lighter eyes. The thicker, darker haired and deeper tanned southern Italian. Quite a range. You're not northern Italy. Too dark. But you're no Sicilian or deep southern, either."

   "Wow. Not too shabby. Do you know what Italian city my great grandparents were born in, then?"

   She giggled. Polite.

   "You don't have the thick, black rope for hair the Sicilians have."

   She leaned in, a conspirator's pose.

   "They bred with moors back in the day, its why they're that dark."

   She twinkled her eyes.

   "Many of those? The coconut oil, suits them best."

   Wow. The rich? Can call you a nigger and make it sound like a compliment. Fortunately though, it would seem that I'm only part nigger, to her.

   "Now. You're a central Italian. Your hair's not dyed. I can see the dark red highlights. Thick, healthy mane of dark chestnut hair? But not the black bull rope."

   Another sales lady got done with her customer, and wandered over. They smelled me, and talked. It was fun, to shop. My base, would be some light oil. Thinned, but not to hell and back. They both took turns smelling my neck, and different bottles. Seemed a nice, light olive oil was just the thing. For a base.

   Wiggle room, was on the top layer. They thought some natural food oil would be best. The younger sales girl that had trotted over to help? Had an epiphany.

   "I got it!"

   She came over with a bottle. They smelled me, then the bottle. The younger one beamed, when the older lady with her well practiced insouciance seemed to genuinely approve of her sudden insight.

   "Almond oil. I knew it."

   They asked if I liked it. I said I did, but it was for more than me.

   "Well. Let's find out."

   She gestured to Panic shopping around politely, waiting on me. As if he were a handbag.

   "You did say that's yours, not just the help. Yes?"

   "Mm, hmm."

   "Drag him over. We'll see."

   I got his attention, and wiggled my fingers. He came over.

   "Honey, I told you. Don't ask for prices. None of the other wives do that."

   Music to a salesperson's ears.

   "Sir? This is your meal, we're preparing. You should like the smell of the dish."

   He smelled my neck, and kissed my shoulder.

   "I like her best? Out of the shower. Still, she needs something."

   The older lady, the one who could call you a nigger to your face, and make you enjoy it? She has mad skills.

   "True love, and how sweet. And I'm just sure, you prefer her naked, yet... she has to wear something when she's out and about, no? See if you like it."

   I went to touch the little dish they were working in. So many drops of olive oil, and one drop at a time of the pungent almond oil. Until they both liked it, and me as well. I was going to touch my finger, and touch my neck for him to smell it on me, after smelling my scent. The younger girl's hand stopped my wrist.

   She immediately recoiled and apologized, but explained.

   "No. We might want to refine it, or... if he hates it? We'll try another one. Lavender, is my second choice. If you touch it, or put it on now? We're locked in, for today. It'll take a day or two, for you to be ready again."

   I looked at her, and cocked my head.

   The younger girl ran around the counter, and held the little glass dish up near my neck. So he could smell me, then she brought the test scent closer, with wafts. He liked it.

   "I could just eat her up, and in that? Devour."

   The older and younger women both giggled.

   "Stay. We'll see if the lavender works. We have our base, we have our top layer. The hint of mystery? Comes from the middle layer."

   The young girl beamed. She waved a little glass bottle of something.

   "The lavender. Its botanical."

   They added one drop of the lavender now, at a time. When it came up too much, they backed off a couple drops. Finally, they made a new batch. So many drops of olive oil, so many drops of almond. Then, so many drops of lavender.

   They approved. I approved. He approved.

   "Should we wrap it up?"

   He shrugged.

   "Sure. We'll take it."

   "I meant, how much."

   He smiled.

   "More than we need, for a month or more. Might even be a couple months. Its a working vacation, with the investment group I'm in now. No telling. Fix me up, ma'am. There's too much, and not enough. I want too much."

   She ran her well manicured getting on late middle aged fingers to gesture delicately over a row of glass bottles, with glass stoppers. To look like old fashioned decorative things.

   "Well. Normally? I'd think of a trial size. I could come back and get more. But on a boat, out in the open water? If she runs out, I can't very well have her topping up with expensive bat piss now, can I."

   She moved her manicured index finger up one. He wiped his hand up. She moved to the next one. When she went to the next? He just smiled.

   "We'll take the big one."

   "You said you'll be at sea. For an extended cruise, and maybe more."

   "That's the plan. Why."

   "The large decanters? Decorative, for the lady's dressing stand. You need to pick the smaller dispenser, that she'll actually put it on out of."

   "Well? What would you recommend."

   "Well. Glass is fine for the main jug of wine. But your drinking glass? Some prefer crystal."

   She picked an empty little one up, from the back where it wouldn't risk getting knocked over. She held it loose by the neck, and gently tapped it with the glass stopper. It rang out, like a musical note.

   "Well. That's just adorable. That'll do."

   "Excellent choice."

   He grinned and shrugged.

   "If you say so."

   She went on to politely explain that the stopper on the large glass decanter? Was a stiff food grade silicone. Tight stop, but wouldn't alter the scent. I was to be careful, because the little crystal stopper? Was for dabbing and trailing. Not, for traveling. With all of that, they added a glass pipette. She demonstrated it. Finger over the top of the glass straw, to pick some up. Then lift my finger to dispense. She demonstrated on another bottle already filled, then dropped it into alcohol, then water, and finally left it to dry.

   I felt like pampered royalty, but only lesser nobility. I was getting a sweet and polite lesson. So I would fit in with my new girlfriends, who had been previously above my station.

   Now though? Time for the up-sale. The older one, knows a live one when she sees it. Would not some sun oil be needed? Long pleasure cruise or cruises, and my skin doesn't look like I hide from the sun. Mostly olive oil, with moisturizers. Another expensive glass decanter, another littler one with another glass pipette to top up the day's supply.

   Crystal, of course. She made sure she showed me how to ring it, without risking dropping it. For showing off to any girls close enough on the sun deck who might get jealous, though just her smile implied that.

   The big glass decanters, and the little crystal? Came with well padded on the inside leather carrying cases. For traveling and moving. About the only thing that didn't cost more. As a big set of this crap? Real leather carry all gear, was just a throw in. This shit is well priced, to ensure the riffraff doesn't get their hands on it. After all, lord forbid some poor common girl didn't have to work hard to break into fucking the upper crust, you know.

   Which is all funny. After seeing it all? Panic thinks he can make this shit by the gallon, at home.

   I needed makeup, of course. And as the woman pointed out, the "war paint" was for "Indians and hookers".

   They painted me up. I was expecting more, but really it seemed to be less was more, to the rich. You wanted to look as natural as possible, while still getting the benefits of getting painted up. My skin tone was matched up to minerals. No chemicals, just finely ground minerals. So, this wasn't putting the foundation on with a putty knife, then painting my war face over that. Like any common whore would. Her words, not mine.

   You just brushed on as much as you could get, that was the foundation. She made sure I could outline my eyes, and the eyebrows. Again, mostly basic minerals. Natural oils. Instead of rouge, some red mineral dust. Iron oxide. Panic got a kick out of telling me later? We had paid good money for rust that had been finely ground and milled.

   Breakfast? Foundation mineral dust only. For that natural, I don't wear anything to breakfast look. Swimming and sunning, there wasn't much to worry about. Waterproof eyeliner and lipstick was all that would stay on. The color and shading, was only for dress up later. We all decided on what features would be a darker shade, to background it. And what needed popped out, foreground.

   They decided the iridescent lipstick, would be perfect for late night when I was all dolled up. Fine mother of pearl lipstick made the sparkly on my lips, to draw attention to my mouth.

   Again, he had fun with me after. Apparently, mother of pearl? I had thought my whole life, was ground up shitty pearls that didn't make any grade cut. No. He grinned. The inside of the clam? Is covered in what the pearl is made of. He could grind that up and make this stuff, if I wanted.

   Christ almighty. The rich, have us all convinced. Through advertising and models that sport the top brand cosmetics... that top name is the only way to fly. Then what do they actually buy and wear, when money is no object? Common, harmless ground up minerals. They wouldn't dare abuse their noble skin with chemicals and impurities.

   Apparently, all the truly rich? Are laughing up their sleeves at us. The more we spend to buy and use the expensive stuff? The more we're just marking ourselves as lower class.

   When this is all over? I can't wait to share all this with Little Lightning. After all, she was the clothes and hair and makeup girl in college. I was the rough and tumble farm tomboy. She had to teach me clothes, hair, makeup, and how to walk in heels.

   I finally get to give her a gift back in this department.

   After I told him that, Panic said that when this is all over? We'll bring her in once. Elise is now next, though. The ladies said they'll match custom perfume up to the lady we're taking traveling along with us. I'm sorry. Par-FOOM.

   She'll get her own scent, too. But, with an eye... or, I guess that would be with a nose, ha ha. With a nose for how we smell sitting together. The ladies said we'll each smell our own way, but with one of us on each side of Panic? They'll be mingling, producing a third scent.

   I don't know. I guess all this shit is what you do so it seems like you have something to worry about, when you're a woman of leisure. I'm embarrassed, that Panic had to remind me. Shoes. The men won't notice or mind the slightest, with tall heels when I'm all dolled up. My tan leg muscles handle that. He explained. Its the women. They'll know what cheap stilettos are, and as soon as their guy says I look nice? They'll be sure to make sure everyone knows I'm wearing hooker heels.

   What do the rich women wear? Hooker heels, of course. They're just famous designer names, and they're expensive. If you've ever broken a heel unexpectedly, you know how bad you can screw an ankle up or get hurt falling. The younger girl got to take the lead on my shoes.

   I'm now the complete opposite of a proud owner, of a pair of couple hundred dollar "scuff around" fuck me pumps. For a big night, though? He got me a pair that would let me pass muster around these rich cunts. I mean, who in their right mind wears a pair of heels a couple times a year. That cost more, than my first used dirt bike when I was young.

   Like I said, I'm ashamed of myself. Don't roll over in your grave, grandma. I'm working. This is just work boots, for this job site. At least there's some aspect of quality to the rich cunt shoes. When you break into "entry level" cunt shoes? They're designed around a titanium stem, for strength.

   We skimped. Peek a boo open toed fuck me pumps, with the leather buckle wraps he liked, and the girl gave the okay to. Chrome buckles, for structural integrity. Silver plated, for looks. The glitz on the straps? Affordable cubic zirconia.

   I mean, what kind of asshole wears real diamond studded shoes, that cost as much as a fairly decent used compact car.

   Well, they're out there. There's a long line of them, at that store. The young girl trusted to do my shoes herself? Said the only reason she's allowed to unlock the case and get them out, is because that's her mother.

   I had to ask. She rolled her eyes. They were getting rich ladies coming back in, screaming that they had the nerve to sell her a pair of ten thousand dollar pumps, that were fake diamonds and fake everything. Workers were stepping out of their own fakes and into the real ones, without the owners or even the customers noticing.

   Showing me how the shoes looked on her, I got it. After a couple pairs were out in the sales girl's size? She could easily step into the real ones. I asked her how that had turned out. The police tracked down that the sales girl was selling never used, never worn, top end designer shoes. Online. And? She's still in jail.

   You know, I remember reading once about Imelda Marcos. Deposed wife of of some... dictator. I think it was the Philippines, but don't quote me on the country. When they went looking for where the national treasury had been spent? Apparently, a good bit they were scratching their heads on to locate it, was in her giant closets. I found it hard to fathom, how a person could own millions of dollars, tied up in just... fucking shoes.

   Now I know.

   The short slender sales girl, the trusted daughter until they could find help trusted not to steal shoes. She was already gawking at seeing my muscular legs.

   When she saw my feet, she stared. Yeah. I know I have big ass feet, for a girl. Where did I ever shop for shoes at. I told her. Size twelve men's. D width.

   "Not hard, really. Anywhere that sells decent work boots has my size."

   I was in casual mode. My favorite work boots. Did I want to wear them home, to start breaking them in. So they were more comfortable, when I was on the ship. Real thick leather can be a bear. I relented. But only to the scuff around heels. I'm scared to touch let alone wear the nice ones.

   "I'll get you a box, for your boots."

   "No need. Honey!"

   He was nearby.

   "Mm."

   "I gotta wear these to break them in."

   He was in a pair of jogging shoes we share. The work boots would fill up a whole another shopping bag, but the tenners he had on? Tossed in fine.

   She just stared politely, as he laced up my work boots. We were getting ready to maybe go, when the daughter mentioned a swimsuit. I rolled my eyes, and Panic just started grinning. I let him handle it.

   "Ladies. I'll let you two in on a family secret. You promise, right?"

   They nodded.

   "Despite what you might think, neither one of us grew up around money. Not yesterday, but... I recently moved up into a new career, and... some luck, some hard work, a friend made a few phone calls now and then... here we are. I never once in a million years? Ever thought I'd be working as a... here. I had to ask my one friend. What the hell do I tell people I do now. What's my job title. People ask me. He said, I'm an investor now."

   The both smiled politely. They do that a lot.

   "So, I'll just ask you. Does she... want, need. A new swimsuit? I mean, I like seeing her in the one she usually wears. My regular buddies never complained. My new work friends, though? We ain't been to a pool party with them yet. This, will be a first."

   The ladies both looked at each other, then back to him.

   "See... no one says anything to me. At least not to my face. When I was younger? I might have had some kind of job that... well? Guys just don't seem to be interested in messing with me that way. Now. The women? That, really is a different story."

   He smiled, then rolled his eyes.

   "We... what's the phrase here. When in Rome, I guess. Investing? Kind of like a poker game. Sure you're familiar with the phrase... all in. I went? All, in. The bet, paid off several times over. Its more me, than her, to tell you the god's truth. I'm sick of hearing snide comments from some of the wives. Now then. The point of all this, is simple. Based on this... analysis I've given you. What does she need, for swimming and sunning around the pool, with all these new girls."

   The mother tapped her chin, and glanced at her daughter.

   "Dear? You do pool parties. My tastes, are... a little dated. See what you can accomplish, would you honey?"

   The daughter was clearly pleased, much like being allowed to handle the shoes. She smiled easy and genuine, and took me by the hand and led me off. We sat at a computer, and she clicked around, showing me different swimsuits.

   In the end, it boiled down to a couple things. One, was there was no getting around it. She used the analogy of an old joke. A fat, hairy older guy? Wearing a Speedy. The old joke is you just know he must be wealthy.

   That broke the ice, for her to segue into the idea that your skin and body, would largely determine what was appropriate in the swimwear department. Propriety went out the window years ago. There were bikini bottoms that looked like shoelaces, and the tops? Pretty much the same thing.

   What was I comfortable with? I shrugged.

   "Come on..."

   She started with a sedate one piece, and when I came out wearing the swimsuit, she stared. I fidgeted.

   "What."

   It took the daughter a couple seconds to recover and smile.

   "Nothing. We, don't have to... never mind."

   She went and got me another one piece, and a string bikini. This next one piece? A lot less... sedate. Panic approved, but he's a guy. This thing though a one piece, was more or less some kind of attached thong for the bottom. The top part was... as daring as well. I could scarcely call it a one piece, other than the string bikini bottoms and tops were in fact connected, by strips of fabric that curled up around me and attached both together.

   "Go on. Walk around some."

   I did.

   She ran and got the pair of scuff around fuck me pumps.

   "Um. Most... you'll see nice heels for sunning. It, seems to make the legs, kind of pop out. Mom!"

   "Yes, dear!"

   "Would you give me your opinion, here?"

   The mother finally broke bearing, and covered her mouth after quietly blurting out.

   "Holy, shit."

   Then apologized. I shrugged.

   "Too much?"

   "No, no. Its actually fine, dear. You, can pretty much wear anything you want. I, didn't realize."

   "Realize what?"

   "Nothing. I'm sure, we just didn't realize, that you were..."

   "I was what."

   "A lady bodybuilder, or..."

   Me and Panic both chuckled. I answered for us.

   "Oh. No, nothing like that."

   "You, were in the Olympics, or something like that."

   I shook my head, no.

   She just smiled and nodded.

   We went back to the daughter selecting me swimsuits and whatever I needed to hang out with rich cunts at the pool on the sun deck. The daughter was trying to suppress a nervous smile. I was standing there. She was looking up at me, then over me, and back up.

   "Ma'am? I find it hard to believe, that... the women say anything rude to you."

   Panic chuckled.

   "Actually, ma'am. There's a lot of guys that won't say anything rude to her, if you could believe it."

   "I could see where that would be the case."

   I took back over.

   "I, uh. Look. I grew up on a ranch. My dad? One of those guys that kind of looks like a pro football player? Never lifted a weight in his life."

   "I'm almost afraid to ask how tall your dad is. I mean, not that its any of my business, or anything like that."

   "About, what. six six, maybe six seven? Something like that."

   She just nodded and I got another nervous smile. She made a motion with both of her hands. Lifting and lowering them. A pantomime of lifting a barbell.

   "I mean, I guess you... you know. Lift weights, and stuff like that."

   "No. Not really. I just... I have to watch my weight a little. The girls in my family? They hit a certain age, they kind of turn into cute cows. I don't want that. I jog, I play racquetball. We both like to jog. We, you know. Walk and hike a lot."

   "Oh. Well? Honestly. I'd go with... this one piece, here... and, well? Really the string bikini was fine."

   "Which color?"

   "Black and white are always the most popular swimsuit colors, if you don't want splashes of color or have some other solid color in mind. White, contrasts with your tan, that's always a popular thing. I'd go white one piece, and? Black string bikini."

   I shrugged.

   "Whatever you think is best."

   "Hmm. Maybe some studs on the black string bikini."

   "Studs?"

   "Bling. You get really tan, the black bikini kinds of... blends in. Makes it look like its not even there. A couple shiny things, draws attention back to it."

   We went back to the computer, and she finally got me the daring one piece, in white. Kind of... you know, sheer. She made sure I knew it would be not quite see through when it got soaked, but... I nodded, I got the idea. And, she got a black string bikini with little rhinestone looking fake jewels on it.

   "Honestly? I'd go with a nice pair of flip flops, too. The stilettos can get to be a bit much, though you'll see that a lot. Particularly in certain circles."

   I feel rotten. I've never once in my life, ever seen the point of a pair of flip flops that cost over a hundred dollars. But what the hell at this point, I guess. Panic? He was enjoying this. He was shaking his head now and again, and chuckling here and there.

   I'm fairly sure, he was enjoying seeing the mother daughter team now noticeably nervous, seeing me up close in swimwear. Hell. Been like this my whole life. Everyone assumes I'm a little chubby with jeans and sweat pants. Until the dead of summer hits, and people get to see me in shorts and particularly swimsuits.

   Not to mention. Little girly girls, that suddenly see exactly what my body looks like? Generally do a double take. I have to guess, of course, but... I think the mother might be wishing she could take back the "moor" snide comments. You know, politely calling me only half a nigger? She busied herself on what seemed like inordinately important little tasks she had been putting off.

   Panic's having a ball with this, at this point. He just "happened" to keep talking to the mom now, while the swimwear was being taken care of. The daughter, who had never once made a single snide comment even sideways within 90 degrees of my direction? Was a lot more at ease with me now.

   The daughter decided she wanted to know if we minded a little alteration on the one swimsuit. She liked it, but took pictures on her cell phone, to show me what she was thinking. She wanted the lines of the strings and connecting fabric? To come down with "these things". Rather than cross over them, where there was air beneath them. They were supposed to hug skin.

   She was indicating the edges of my back muscles. If I stretch or pick something up? The little curved "strings" that are the average little lady's lats. Well. My back and shoulders "move around" as guys say of another guy that has any muscle on him.

   Regular clothes, I understand spending a couple bucks to get them fitted to you a little. A guy that exercises can wear off the rack, but you want the waist or cuffs adjusted. Same with a woman's clothes. But alterations on a swimsuit? So the strips of fabric follow the edges of my back muscles? Its ridiculous.

   The farm boys I ran with, wanted to swing on a rope swing and do flips into the local pond we swam in. They wore their regular shorts swimming. So I did too. I played soccer, so? My soccer shorts were also my swim trunks. The only difference was I didn't lose my shirt, and for obvious reasons there. Not one farm boy ever thought anything was amiss with my swimming get up.

   When I hit "that age", though. I finally wore a bikini under my summer clothes, for swimming. One of my farm boys snapped my ass with a wet towel when I bent over to pick up my sun oil. He jokingly said that was for dressing like a whore, what was wrong with my soccer shorts. Oh, I got him back but good. I just missed taking his nuts off with my own wet rolled up towel, and the guys enjoyed the show.

   Honestly, though? I kind of deserved it, at least in some fashion. They accepted me as one of the guys, and never said or tried anything even when they were "that age", too. They accepted me. They didn't have to watch what they said or did around me, I was actually one of the guys. Privileged to anything they themselves were.

   I hated girly girls, and they liked that about me. And here I was. Suddenly going all girly on them, out of nowhere. In some strange way, without knowing it? They sought to keep me happy. The way I was. And yeah, it wasn't that much later when I got my taste of hanging out with the girly girls.

   It didn't last long, trust me. I didn't walk back after a one year tour of the girl's crew.

   I ran.

   Yeah. It has been said, that I'm "built like a man" in the body department. Well, maybe in your family. In my family? I'm still the "little lady". Now that we're finally done, Panic's having fun trying to get the ladies to go out to lunch with us.

   "My treat. Honestly? You ladies have... just been incredibly helpful. I think. Come on. At least let me say thanks. I mean, the hell's even the point of making a few bucks, if you can't have a decent meal, you know?"

   The mother sent her daughter to lunch, but claimed she had to stay and balance the account and see to inventory. Again I have to guess, but... I think I just made her nervous.

   Eh. Wouldn't be the first time I made some little tiny girly girl nervous. Without saying a single word to her.

   So? Here I am. Smiling as suggestively as I can. Its late, and the middle of the week. I do spend time back here, at the ass end of the boat a bit. I'm in my best evening dress. My expensive fuck me pumps. The more this unctuous slug sets my skin to crawling, to more I smile and pretend I like him. My best tactic? When I'm not talking, I think of Panic.

   When that fails, I simply think of my precious Wizzy. My skin is threatening to walk away with me, so I'm looking at him now. He's smiling and shrugging. What can you even do. Superimposed on the dark water and stars.

   "Mademoiselle Testavino, I can see... had trouble sleeping, perhaps."

   Lord help me, but the sound of the French accent? Well, I'm sure it does wonders for most women. If it wasn't... him? Yeah, I can see it would sound smooth, sophisticated, and really nearly anything would sound good. I swear, in French? A man could say "your hair looks like shit", and it probably sounds all romantic and makes girls giggle profusely.

   The thing is, though. I'm so far down the karma road after all these years? I can no longer separate a person's character, nature and reputation... from mere physical traits. No matter how handsome, rich, suave this guy actually and truly is? I know he's a monster in a suit. Panic always referred to the time spent around the equator as simply hell on earth. This? Was The Devil that caused it.

   The Devil, it would seem? Wears a rather nice suit and has excellent taste. He has the cultured mannerisms, that allows him to pass himself off as unassuming and doesn't appear to be swaggering around.

   "Hmm. Perhaps. What gave you the clue."

   "Mademoiselle, is still in her evening wear. I would assume, had you been to bed and were back up? You might have worn something, more... casual."

   I smiled sideways at him. He ever so smoothly joined me to look out, leaning over the back railing. Like a snake moving in. You just don't notice it.

   "And this, is you being casual?"

   I had looked him up and down, to indicate his nice suit. He smiled. He has one of those charming ones, go figure. He has polite and cultured, unassuming... down pat. All while being completely relaxed and at his ease. I guess after your first billion, then you go on to get a couple more? You just reek of confidence.

   "Ah. Mademoiselle, is at her leisure. I, sadly? Am not."

   "You're on vacation. Walk around in swim trunks."

   "I? Must often mix... business, with my pleasure. As I am now. On this cruise. It is, the... cost of doing this business, I believe is how you Americans say this, no?"

   "What really is the point, of making more money? If you can't just take a vacation and relax."

   "Oh. I am... relaxed. This? Is all normal for me. While I am out of my country, doing what I am doing. I am always... perhaps, working is not the right word. You would say, clients?"

   "Yes."

   "If I can talk, and mix with people... and, find people that, might be in my line of work? I should do so. I do like many, American phrases. The, one I am now thinking of? Would be... I wish to get it right. A man is to... make the hay, while the sun is shining. Yes?"

   I smiled again.

   "Yes."

   He shrugged.

   "And, this..."

   He lifted his suit material and dropped it, for the little dramatic movement such made.

   "...this, would be... a uniform. For work."

   He shrugged again. He did it a lot. I don't think its a nervous tic, it seems to go with the whole, French thing. They say us Italians talk with our hands? He has all manner of hand movements and body language to go with his speech.

   "Well? What is it, that you do. You said, you give talks. You, give talks? For a living."

   "Oh. I am giving talks, now. That is, not my real job. It is simply what I do, for now. When normal, I... would do other things."

   "Such as."

   "We were talking, at lunch. Your husband. He said, he was an investor."

   "Yes. Its what he does now."

   He nodded.

   "I am... the same, I might say. I? Invest in things. And, a man does what he can. To see his investment, does... make the hay?"

   "So you're an investor, too."

   "More, less, yes."

   "What do you invest in?"

   He grinned.

   "You go first. Then I will go. Your husband. He invested. In what thing, did he invest."

   "He... basically? A small laboratory. There's this... sorry, not my field. Some, laboratory... thing. He had a friend, that ran this equipment. He, worked for a company that did this. My husband? Bought... this expensive... laboratory thing. And? They got a business running. It... paid for itself, before they needed a new... thing bought again. I guess it wears out, and its expensive. Now? They bought a new one, and... it has a 20 year lifetime. Unless you need to run these tests every day, you just send the tests out."

   He smiled, nodded politely.

   "I see. That? Was very good. So, your husband, with another man... started this business, yes?"

   I nodded he did.

   "That is not the kind of investment, I normally make."

   "Oh. You do... stock market."

   "No, not really. A stock, market... is a bet. The stock goes up? You make money. But, if the stock goes down? You lose money. I do not make... bets, like that."

   "What kind of bets do you make, then."

   "How to explain. I am remembering. Mademoiselle, said she grew up on the farm. No. Ranch?"

   "Yes."

   "That, is a business. To own and run, this ranch."

   "Yes."

   "Ah. I made the phrase, to make the hay, with the sun shining. Mademoiselle, is familiar, with the hay. To feed, the ranch."

   "Yes."

   "And hay. It is, tall grass, no?"

   I nodded.

   "And so. Every so many years, let us say, you have no rain. The hay? There will be very little hay."

   "A drought."

   "Yes. The drought. Now. When there is not enough hay, does not the cost, of this hay... go higher?"

   "Sure. Supply, demand."

   "Yes, exactly. Now. When one country, has no rain? And there is very little hay, and the hay is... short grass. Hay, is very expensive. But? Only for mademoiselle. Because, she lives where there is no rain this year. Now. On another country? They will have, too much rain. And does not the grass, grow tall and fast, when there is rain every day, all the time."

   "Of course."

   "Ah. You said it. The supply, the demand. This other country, has too much hay. From the too much rain. The price of their hay? Well, they... again, your American phrases... they, are... giving, this hay away? For almost free. They have too much."

   "Okay."

   "Ah. Here, is me. I will go, to the country with too much hay. It is very cheap there. I will buy all the hay, before it even grows. A contract. I have already bought it. They must sell it to me. As the contract, say."

   "You do... futures. Commodities."

   "Mm. The hay? Is a commodity. Yes. And yes, I deal in the future, of the hay. But? I do not do... futures. That? Is a kind of stock. A... bet. And this, is just on paper. Many people, have a piece of this... paper pie, when you do this, in this way. I... well, I do not cut the hay and bring it to the drought, myself, of course."

   "Naturally."

   "But, I actually... go, and buy the hay. Myself. There is no... the stock market, the... broker. The... salesman, that sells the paper. None of that. This, is... the man in the middle? No."

   "You cut out the middle man."

   "Yes! That. And so. In the country, where there is no rain. Not enough hay. Remember, the price of the hay, is high there. They need more. Here I come. I bring... all the hay. For? Everyone. This? Is, not a... bet. This? Is... it is not correct, to say it is a sure thing, but... very close."

   "I understand."

   "And that, is the basic idea. Now. This is the... simple explanation. There is much more going on. Companies, with the boats? The trains. The trucks. They? All want to make money. Moving all this hay. From rain to drought. Once I own the contract, for the hay will grow in the rain? I can now, make contracts. With the boats, the trains, the trucks. There is, some store, or place that sells the hay? Them, also. This? Is... more business. More, contracts. When you see this big thing, it looks complicated. And it is, it can be. But, the basic idea? Not complicated, at all. I am, helping people. The people with too much hay? Like my help. The people with no hay, they like my help. The people that have no hay to move on their... hay boat, hay train? They, enjoy my help, too. Here, another American phrase. Everybody, wins?"

   "Yes. But you. You, win more."

   He smiled.

   "Yes. I usually do. But, is this such a bad thing? No. Am I to lose money? That would not be smart for me. No. I wish to make money. Here. Do not get... caught on? Money. It is just... paper. What money is? What money really is. A tool. Now, in some way. Your husband? He knows this. Did people, not want to run this... laboratory test? They wanted to find a laboratory. They want... they need? This test. When you give people what they all want, what they all need? They will give you, their money. Now. Your husband? He takes that money. And, he buys things. For you, for him. And the things he buys for you two? That, is what you really wanted. The money? Was just the tool, that gave it to you."

   "You make it sound so... easy."

   "Sometimes? Yes. Usually, even. But sometimes? No. There will be... problems. Can I go, back to the hay?"

   "Sure."

   "If there was no rain. And, no hay. Your government, it would want to do something, yes?"

   "I guess they would. People would be complaining. They have to do something."

   "Yes. There can be... many problems. Perhaps, I do not know. It could be, perhaps... your country, needing the hay. And the hay? Is in that other country. That country, maybe your American president, and their president? Maybe they do not get along. Maybe, another president, of another country? Would get angry, if your president gets hay from that country that has it. They might, make a different problem, if you get that hay. It can sometimes, have many problems. Another American phrase now. Some man might say, I know... everybody. Maybe, your president, can not get this hay from this other country. Well. Remember. I bought all the hay? Before it is done growing. I own it. I can sell that contract? To another company, in another country. Now? Oh, the good country, that you like? Now, they have the hay. Now, it is fine, to get the hay to you. See, the money is the tool. It would be silly, to move the hay, to another country. Then, to your country. The money. The paper? Is the tool. The hay? Grows where it grows. The people that need that hay? They need it. If I know many people, as you say... if I know everybody? I can do this thing. And you, your animals would starve. On your ranch. Do you care so much, where the hay at the hay store comes from? Not so much, I do not think."

   "You do make it all sound so... simple."

   "Mm. It is. It is... people? That make it complicated. If your animals needed hay, and, the next farm over, had hay? There you go. But. The more distance. Between you and your animals... and where the hay is? The more problems. And, the biggest problem? Is this. I? It is my job, to make people happy. I have to make as many people happy, as I can. But, unfortunately. This thing? Everybody, is happy. No. It is sadly, impossible. For everybody to be happy."

   "What do you do then."

   He shrugged.

   "My father, when I was young. Many lessons, all fathers do this. Make as many people happy, as you can. As long as more people are happy, than are unhappy? That, is the way you go. This choice? It makes itself."

   "And the unhappy people?"

   Another shrug.

   "What can you do. The world? It is a big place. There are, now I think more than six billion people in the world. You can not make every one of them? Happy. Now. If in this country, here... there are, say 300 million people. I can make them happy. But, there are, say a hundred thousand people, unhappy. Now, you tell me. What are we to do. Do you want, 300 million people, all unhappy? Or, do you want only a hundred thousand unhappy. I can not wave some... magic wand and make everyone happy. I do what I can. And yes, it can get complicated. When, the unhappy people make problems. Another father lesson, for me, when I was young. Every problem? Has a solution. In fact, if there were not some... problems? I am sure, the hay would already be going. From where it is growing, to where it is not growing. The more problems? The more it costs. To fix it. But? It just costs a little more for the hay, to pay for that solution."

   "Sounds easy enough."

   He sighed.

   "If it was easy? It would already be done. I have an easy time, finding problems. It is harder, to find solutions. I spend more time, fixing problems, finding solutions. Than I do, doing what I am supposed to be doing."

   "Is this what your talks you give are on?"

   "Oh. The talking. No. But, I have... bored Mademoiselle Testavino, far too much already."

   I adjusted his tie for him. Not really, its just a gesture.

   "If I was bored? I would have left. I couldn't sleep. Perhaps, if you were to... bore me? I would go back and sleep."

   "Mm. The talking. Boring, even to me. It is... all about.... taxes. As I say. Very boring."

   "Well. I'll make you a deal."

   "What deal."

   "Lose the tie... at least pretend, you're on a vacation."

   I smiled, and my hands slowly undid the tie. Naturally? Some expensive silk. I stuffed it in his coat pocket, then I lifted his chin with one finger, and unbuttoned his shirt. Then, a second button.

   "There. That's better. Feel more relaxed now?"

   "Mademoiselle, makes me feel more relaxed, and... more excited at the same time. Please, do not get angry. It is... just a little joke."

   I patted his chest a couple times lightly.

   "You're fine. So. Go on then. Bore me to sleep, with the taxes."

   "Mm. If mademoiselle insists, then I must."

   I smiled.

   "Eh. I am from France. You know this."

   "Yes."

   "France? Is... they have problems right now. More people? Seem to be unhappy, than happy. It is, an unfortunate time."

   "It happens."

   He nodded.

   "It does. In your country. America. It is, every four years? You all decide on who will be the next president. Everything is a problem, until it is settled. Yes?"

   "You seem to understand American politics very well. Every four years? A huge problem."

   "Yes. France? We are no different. And right now? We have settled that, and... still, more unhappy people, than happy people. Now. Another father lesson, from when I was very young. If more people are unhappy, than are happy? This is very bad. Unhappy people, and more unhappy, than happy? Very bad. And so. What are the people unhappy about? This thing, that thing, and other things. Now. I ask you. What can a government do? To make people happy again."

   "I don't know."

   "Aha! I return the compliment. Mademoiselle Testavino? Now, understands French politics? Very, very well."

   I couldn't help it. It was cute. This guy? He, is good. He takes smooth and suave to a whole another level. The French way of speaking with his accent and mannerisms? Doesn't hurt any. The Devil, it would seem? Can come across, as a very likable and personable guy.

   "But. A government. Any government, I think. Has only one way to make anyone happy. They take money, and they do something with it. And I ask you. Where, do they get this money? I tell you. The government, though they pretend otherwise. They truly have no money, of their own. Where does this money come from."

   "Taxes."

   "Yes. Now. When the government wants more money, to do things to try to make the unhappy people, most of them happy again? They need more money. You cannot take this money, off of the unhappy people. That, will make them more unhappy. This, will make the problems worse. France? Was unwise, and tried this. As you can expect? It did not work. And, it simply made things worse. More people were now unhappy. And so, in the time of it... aha. See him? He, has lots of money! Take more off of him, give it to us!"

   "Raise taxes on..."

   "You can say it. Mademoiselle, is on a very nice boat. She is not poor. Perhaps, one time, a long time ago. But, you are not poor any longer. Who do the unhappy people, always want to take more money off of."

   "Rich people."

   "Yes. Not just me, but also the other men, like me. I mean, this is always the way poor people think. Take more money, off of the rich men. Give us things with it. Always. It, is all they know. I do not fault them for it. They... are like children, in a way. When you are a little girl. You think like one. I have no cake. I ate it. Now, that girl over there? She has a couple pieces of cake. Take some, give me more cake. Your mother, your father. They will try to explain it to you. Or, tell you no. And what does a little girl do, very young. You cry. You kick your hands and feet around, perhaps. But, you are a child. It is normal. Yet, when you are grown up? You should not still think like this. But? Eh. What can you do."

   "So. Your government, wants to tax you..."

   "You can not say it?"

   "France wants to tax the rich men, more. To... do things for unhappy people."

   "Ah. France? Does not want to. Unhappy people, arguing, complaining. They, want this. But. Here, we come to the... that part."

   "What part."

   "Oh. Most people. Oh, the French? They are rude. It is all right. I hear this, many times. It is of no concern. I take no offense."

   "Okay."

   "When my country wanted... always, I go back to the hay, your ranch. You understand easy."

   "Yes."

   "France? Wanted hay. A lot of hay. They wanted it. They needed it. There were many problems, with getting the hay. But? I solved many problems. I found many solutions. And? I brought enough hay, for... say, 15 years of hay. Oh, the government was happy. The people? Became happy, with what got done. Everything? Was fine. I... was on the television. I get... oh, a medal, from our French president. Oh, I was a wonderful man."

   "The good old days, eh?"

   He sighed.

   "Yes. And, when a lot of people are happy? All is better. But. Today? All forgotten. Like little children. Take their money. Give it to us. As I said, like little children. But, all grown up. Now. If you take all my money? The next time France needs... another 15 years of hay. I can not do this thing. Remember. Money? Is the tool. And now? I will be... the French, are rude. I will be rude, again."

   "Go ahead."

   "What. I did not create these problems. No, the government, they did. Now. When things were all well. When times were good. Did... anyone come, and give me money? No. Why then, when times seem bad. Why do they think they should point at me. Aha. Take his money. He has a lot of it. You see, my government? They must have had lessons, like I had. When they were little. When more people are unhappy, than happy? You can't have this. Make the most people happy. Well. Right now, to make more people happy? Take more rich people's money. No! This, is the tool. You will have no hay, next time. As I said, they think, like children. And? I must be very rude, and I will try, to promise Mademoiselle Testavino. This might be the last time I am rude, perhaps."

   "Its fine. Go on."

   "Take, one of the unhappy people. They, have maybe some little bakery. They make, the baguettes. I am happy for them. Ah, I say. Your baguettes? Very nice. They are happy. But... if the, baguette shop, this bakery, it closes? How, is this my fault. It is your fault, or, perhaps the government's fault. I have no part in this. Why should I pay for this. And? Very, very rude, but... that little bakery? How much do they matter. Another bakery, next street. Me? Men like me. We matter. I brought the hay, for 15 years, for all of France. Without me? France, had even bigger problems. Now. The bakery. France will live, with some other bakery. And a poor person? Who does nothing. They matter less. And so. You want more and more of my money? Which is the tool, which brings the things people need. The things, that make more people happy. One day? I said... no. Other men like me? We all said no."

   "How do you tell the government, no."

   "Easy. I like American phrases. You do say, something... you cast ballots, with your feet?"

   Took me a second to cut through the idiom.

   "People vote with their feet?"

   "Yes! That. And so, I ask Mademoiselle Testavino. Where are my feet. Not, in France. I have money. I, can live anywhere. Men like me? Are doing, what I am doing. Well, those of us, that live in France. So? You get... none of our money. Until you stop this. Or? I will live somewhere else. And. This, is what the talks I give say. Men like me? I explain this. As you say, I make it sound.. simple? I make this sound simple. If the money you want in taxes, is more than it would cost me to live somewhere else? I would be a fool not to... vote my feet."

   "You, are in tax exile."

   He eyed me and grinned.

   "Yes. You see, what the French Government fails to understand. You can have money, in any country you wish. I do not need to leave my money in France. And, if you insist. To be taking the money off of the people that matter more, and giving more and more to people that do not matter? You will not fix things. Now. If the children are kicking and screaming. That, is one thing. I expect this, from children. But... the parents? The French government. They are acting like children as well. I spend, very little time in France now. Until they fix things. My money? Will spend no time in France. Other countries? May not mind having us there, instead. We, can get that country, hay for 15 years at a time."

   He paused.

   "I get no... medal, on television, right now. Not in France."

   "Oh. You? Are the bad guy now."

   He laughed.

   "I am not. Yet? Now, the French government. Can point to me, and the men like me. See? This, is why you are so unhappy! It is not so. But? They say this, so they have something to say. And, I can prove it. These people, were all unhappy before I did this. How is me, leaving? Now the cause of this. Impossible."

   I patted his chest lightly.

   "Poor guy."

   "Hmm. But, I am not poor."

   I almost laughed. He does sound very personable.

   "No. It means... poor guy? Is, the same as me saying... sorry this happened to you."

   "Oh. It does not matter. I, am in the business? Of solving problems. Finding solutions. Of finding things, and getting them to where they need to be. In this matter? I would say... the hay, in France? Needs to be somewhere else. The hay? Is men like me, and the tools we have. The money. The answer? Fix the problems. The problems, they created. And we will return. Until then? A very long... working vacation."

   "You seem like you found a solution."

   "Eh. The solution? Is temporary. And so. Have I bored Mademoiselle enough, that she might be able to sleep? Talk, of this. Its boring. It should put you to sleep."

   I forced myself to look out at the water. So I could lean my head on his shoulder for a few seconds.

   "Yes. Thank you? For boring me. It, was very nice of you, to do that for me."

   He paused then chuckled.

   "Mademoiselle? Is very welcome. And, I thank you for, the cravat. I am more relaxed now."

   "Hey. Glad I could help. I, don't have problems like this."

   He chuckled.

   "What."

   "Your husband. The... investment. It paid well, yes?"

   "It did."

   "And, if he takes that, and does the same again, some other way? It might pay well again."

   "It might."

   He paused again.

   "If, you do that many times? You may one day find your husband, to have similar problems as I have. Who knows these things."

   "Well. I hope we don't have those problems."

   "And I will hope with you. But? Life is shit. We do with it? What we can."

   "I guess you could look at it like that."

   "Eh. A person can look at one thing? Many different ways. Until they find the solution."

   I said nothing.

   "But? I see your head falling. I have now bored you enough, you might sleep. I will go now. I thank you? For my cravat."

   "Huh?"

   "Oh. I always forget, sometimes. You, call it... my tie. Cravat, tie."

   "No problem. Good night."

   "I hope it will be good. I would not have your... husband, unhappy with me. For talking to you so long, so late. Some men are jealous."

   "Mm. He's fine. I only unbuttoned your collar tonight, under your tie. I'm sorry. Under your... cravat."

   "And I thank you. Perhaps, you and your husband? Might take dinner with me. And some friends. Tomorrow night."

   "Business? Or pleasure."

   "Mm. Some of both. Your husband, he invested in something, yes?"

   "He did."

   "Well? He might one day wish to invest, again. I am always looking. For where the... hay comes from, next time."

   "Oh. I'm pretty sure? We... don't have the kind of money, that... men like you have."

   "As you wish. Yet? There are many places, at the table. Men like me? We locate the hay. We find where it needs to go. But, there are many other things. Perhaps I could bore mademoiselle. One last time. Before we go."

   "Sure."

   "American phrases. Big fish... little fish. Big pond, little pond. There are, different fish. Of all sizes. Yes?"

   "Okay."

   "If I am one of the big fish? Fine. But, there are many little fish. These little fish? Follow the... big fish. Example. Again, mademoiselle does so well. With the hay."

   "Go on."

   "Easy numbers. Let us say, some big fish. Locates the big hay. This hay? Does not move itself. Many little fish? Take that big load of hay. To all the places it needs to go. I bring the hay to your country. Then? The many smaller fish, line up. Take the hay where it needs to go. Many hands, less work. You and your husband? Might well be one of the smaller fish. As I say, easy numbers. If we are talking about one million dollars in hay. One man, might have that one million dollars. Or? Ten men, might have 100 thousand, each. We, call this... the feeder fish."

   "Hmm. Lots of little investors, are like one more big investor, like you are."

   "Yes. And? Good food and drink. There is not a... sales, pitch? We don't look for investors. We... allow them to come. I say, come and enjoy yourself. One night. Now. The big fish? Take the... risk. The feeder fish? Standard investors. No risk. A contract? Is a contract. Even if the... big hay deal, were to fall through. The, big fish? We are responsible, for the contracts."

   "Well. I tell you what. I'll see if my husband wants to come. He does all that."

   "Well then? Adieu. Which is goodbye, from a rude French man. And, if we might talk again? I would enjoy that. But, I want you to remember something, Mademoiselle."

   "Yes."

   "You, and your husband? You, are beginning. To... matter now. You? Can be part of the solution. To, the next hay problem. This? Is making the bigger number of people happy. These people, on the streets of France right now? They are creating problems. And why? Because like children, they don't know any better. Come tomorrow night? You can see what solutions look like. And? I will have the pleasure of your company. As I said. Adieu. I hope to see you and your husband."

   "Perhaps."

   He did the French thing, and kissed my hand. Then? He gave a little nod and walked off.

   I watched Wizzy, superimposed on the dark waters and starry skies for a time. Until my skin quit crawling. Because with what I know from Panic. And Mikey. From Little Robbie and Skykid, too. I read this man's coded language now.

   I know what his "solutions" look like.

   Absolute hell on earth.