Page 2 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Eleven

Life on Sealake Plantation

The scent of mazuma grifting on the breeze; Manny in his frilled
green eyeshade cooking books on the old iron stove; lily-liveried
servants bowing and scraping when Masta’ Don’s gilded carriage
pulls into the marble porte-cochere: these are the sights and odors of
Sealake, the largest pachyderm plantation west of the Maginot Line.
On one fine late summer morning, Masta’ Don, wrapped in his
monogrammed magenta robe, planted his pulchritude in the well-
oiled mahogany rocking chair on the veranda. His usual contentment
in the land of bilkin’ money after polishing off a large country
breakfast of cybercurrency and promissory notes suddenly fell from
his leathery features as his gaze swept across the green acreage. And a
scowl formed, of such Olympian proportions as might have distorted
the face of God upon the deity’s realization that his cosmogony lay
incomplete. He turned his massive shaggy head toward the open
door of the mansion and trumpeted loudly, “Bring me my royal
surveyors!”