It was a Friday night in Merrilville Indiana. You might call it a suburb of Chicago but the natives would pull out your tongue if they heard you say so. Between shows I went to the open bar by the lobby to take in some live reggae music. The band was not bad but the dolts they have to perform to are a mixture of fat white salesmen with low priced escorts. Members of a group called descendants of the Smiths, some kind of nationwide family reunion with an all black alumni. And a couple of local vice detectives on a night away from the wife and kids. A table of four women asked me to join them. They had seen my first show. I recognized the loud one immediately. She had heckled me many times. The leader of the four was a horny little housewife of 18 years who used alcohol as an excuse to say things that most of us would never say sober.
"I once blew Bobby in an art gallery" she blurtted.
The other cackling hens all giggled and covered their mouths as if they had forgotten the thousand other debaucherous nights she had drunkenly shrieked the exact same words.
Jimmy, my opening act on the show, has a twisted look on his face. The likes of which I have not seen since Ruby shot Oswald. Sort of a look of excitement and surprise married with an unparalleled look of horror.
You see, I had earlier that evening, treated Jimmy to a screening of my renowned collection of pornography and video voyeurism, for which I am world famous and sought out by wealthy pedophiles and cranked up masturbaters as well as top members of Bill Clinton's cabinet.
One slow, less impressive, piece in my collection is a black and white, late generation copy, of a security camera taping that depicts a couple engaging in fellatio, the man leaning on a replica of the Venus de Milo. Who could possibly know that 4 hours after viewing that tape that we would be sitting across the table from the woman who played the supporting lead role?
