“Lay it on me, boss man.”
“I’m about to ruin the moment.”
“It can’t
be that bad—”
“Fifty grand. Well, a little less.”
“Fifty grand,” I repeated.
“Yeah.”
“From the Super Gays.”
“Well, some of the Super Gays.”
“Not all of the Super Gays.”
“In this economy? People tend to be a bit more frugal. They can still be wary even this long after the market crash. It’s the curse of the rich.”
“So,” I said. “Let me get this right.”
“Uh-oh. You have that one tone of voice on. The one that means death. Or maiming. Or both.”
“The Super Gays, in their infinite wisdom, chose this particular moment to be frugal. Because of something that happened in 2008.”
“Um. Yes?”
“Mike.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you fucking with me on this?”
He sighed. “No, Sandy. Trust me on that. I do have self-preservation, after all.”
“We’re going to lose the bar.”
“Yeah, about that. I think we should—”
“If you can’t count on the Super Gays, who can you count on?”
“That makes them sound like a team of superheroes—”
“Now you think you have a sense of humor?” I asked incredulously. “Now is the time you try and be funny for the first time in your life?”
“Hey! There are at least three and a half people that think I’m hysterical—”
“I don’t even want to know what that means,” I snapped. “Mike, how the hell are we going to beat Darth Taylor and the might of the Republic with fifty thousand dollars?”
“Did you fall asleep watching Star Wars again?”
“It helps me to relax!”
“You don’t sound very relaxed,” he pointed out. Like a douche.
“Mike!”