Page 4 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Eleven

“A little decorum, please!” Masta’ Don glanced through the
windows nervously. “This ain’t a china shop, you know.” He had
ordered his gooney bird guard to shoot on sight any paparazzi poking
their long lenses toward his gaudy audience chamber.
“Righto!” Muskox began singing “I’ve Got the World on a String”
off-key, accompanied by a wink easily mistaken for a facial tic.
“You do, eh?” Masta’ Don smirked. “You’re quite a puppeteer
now. I recall you started out on a paper route in Podunk. Let me tell
you something, Sonny: you got a twitchy reputation—not like me!
You’re in my house now, and you better be careful.”
“Whatever.” The bearded bull hummed another bar and stopped.
“But remember: I'm rubber, you're glue; whatever you say bounces
off me and sticks to you.”
“Bah! Let’s get down to brass tacks. You got how many million
addicts on the hook? Keep ‘em all dancing to my tune, Buddy, and
I’ll let you play with my chemistry set and toy rockets.”
Muskox snorted, ruining the cleaners’ mop-up.
“I’ll take that for a start. But I want the keys.”
Masta’ Don glowered. “No one gets the keys but me. No one. I’d
give you my Swiss bank account passwords first. You ask the
Matriarch: I wouldn’t even let her near my golf cart.”
“Then I’ll take it out of you in no-bid contracts for high tech. I’m
going to start a feed lot on Mars. Damned if I’ll pay for it.”
“Fine, fine. Where do I sign? Not my money either.”
Muskox did a little dance on his back hooves. “Yippee! I’m on my
way to glory land! See you later, masticator! I can hear those mighty
engines roaring on the launch pad now. What’s that old saying? Ad
aurum per astra.”
And he was off. Visions of sugar plums scrolled through his head.
What a jerk, thought Masta’ Don. The old plantation would not
be threatened by the likes of Muskox. Just give the greedy guy a big
‘ol slice of virtual pie. He pounded on his repeatedly repaired and
reinforced desktop.
“Where is my royal conehead?”
And immediately a whiff of brimstone mingled with the other
pungent ambient aromas. A large mantis stood before his bulky boss,
its protruding cranial bulge betokening a higher level of cunning and
guile than its slight stick-like figure would suggest.
“Ah, looking good, there, Roy.” Masta’ Don’s beady eyes focused
on his legal advisor and confidant. Here, the pachyderm reflected,
was a poker face you could bank on. “Found any good bugs lately?”