by Norm De Plume
The marine biologist awoke with a start. He turned his head to one side and hawked a big ball of cocaine-infused mucous onto the floor of the… Wait a second. Where the hell was he, anyway?
Ah yes. When he passed out mid-blow job in the men’s toilet, that hooker must have just dumped him in the back room. He’d awakened in this back room before. The 131 Club was one of the few places in town that still welcomed marine biologists parties and the subsequent brawls, broken furniture, high end call girls, and the other assorted debauched shenanigans that came with them, as long as the biologists had cash.
He rose- slowly- and made his way to bathroom for his customary morning vomit session.
Afterward, feeling refreshed, he splashed water on his face and checked himself out in the mirror. His custom tailored Arnold Brant suit was wrinkled, but still looked sharp. His stubbled face looked more hip than neglected, and as for his puffy, bloodshot eyes… well, that’s why Jesus Christ invented Michael Kors, then taught him how to make such smashing sunglasses.
Yup. A few lines, maybe a belt or two of Macallan, and he’d be ready to hit the red carpet at tonight’s Marine Biology Awards in Milan. He was up for a Best Supporting Roll in a Study of Zooxanellae or Other Intracellular Endosymbiants.
That afternoon, sipping a Sapphire and tonic as he waited for his flight in the VIP lounge at the airport, he wondered- briefly- if maybe he should have gotten into something a little for meaningful, but the thought of being some struggling film producer in a dinky apartment somewhere with a clean conscience and a wife and a closet full of off-the-rack Hagar slacks… well, that may work for some people, but not for him. Besides, people wanted to read studies on the growth of hermatypic corals in the photic zone, not watch some stupid movie.
And, as far as he was concerned, if the price was right, there was nothing wrong with giving the people what they wanted.