Count of Monte Bistro

They sit down huffing and a-puffing some hundred fifty decimeters apart.

"Where is that Armstrong fellow now," asked the Scott.

"He's back from the moon."

"Not that one; that Louis fellow."

"Louis? Oh, the King. He's out shooting peasants."

"You mean pheasants."

"No; he at the range shooting peasants. I hear he's looking for a new piss-boy. Interested? I could get a word to him. Great benefits. You'd never want to throw in the towel."

"You've got those kind of connections? Wow. Here, let us get connected here. Let's hook up. Cum on. Besides, as head of state I'd thought he'd be on State Street; that great street where you just want to know . ."

"I know; I know: The time of your life. I knew a man who thrashed his wife."

"Look, I don't think you'd be a wanting that piss-boy job, anyway. You'd be overflowed with work. Just like working in a factory manufacturing line. Same old; same old. Just go on back and drain those blue-blooded bourbons of their precious bourbon and bonbons down there on Bourbon Street. Then maybe someday you'll play at the palace."

Fearing that they might get hung-up and he'd miss the tide, Basie rejects the indecent proposal and runs off. The Scott tries to follow in hot pursuit but finds that while he'd been sitting he'd been getting ants in his pants that now made him have to dance. Quite the handicap when you're up against a sprinter rather than his splinter.

Basie makes it to the dock but when he goes to the dock master and has him run his MasterCard to pay for the fairy fare, his card is declined.

"How about visa then," he pleads.

"Nah; we don't accept Visa. We're onto you wetbacks' visa trickery. Besides, there's too much identity thief with you frenchees trying to sneak across. All you frogs look alike to us, you know."

"Sure, says the one raghead to the other."

"Come on man; do I look French? Do I talk the talk? Do I walk the walk? I'll even sit in the fairy section on the ferry. Come on man; at least steer me to steerage. Those steers don't smell to me."

"No; not even in sewerage class, friend. It's booked solid with steer dung steered there from steerage."

Basie becomes desperate and delivers his knockout punch.

"Okay then, master of my cock; I mean dock; let's call my fiend the piper up there on down here. You'll just love his rendition of Oh Danny Boy."

"No; no; not that."

Basie cups his hands over his mouth preparing to give a howler.

"Anything but that, you terrorist."

And that does it. Basie has the master's number, and it sure ain't Oh Danny Boy.

The dock master gives him a waiver for the wait for the morning tide, plus a copy of an old Field and Stream. He is out of there, waving goodbyes from the crests of the waves to the dock master and blowing kisses to the piper all the while he is shouting "Roll Tide, Roll."

At substantial cost, all the tide charts now have to be adjusted. Basie doesn't care. To him it's good tidings of great joy.

As the island faded into the distance, from high up on the hill Basie sees the Scott shaking his massive fist. "No more gigs here for you, jig. Your jig is up."

"Boo to you."

"Boo to you, too, you frigging jig-a-boo. Now I've never know."

He cradles his massive hands to his face and mourns. "You'll never know just how much I love you. You'll never know how much I care."

- - - - - - - - -

And so it went. Day by day Danos obtains satisfaction as he personally tares the hides off of teary DeVille, Danglier and Chene, all to the beat of the meat set by the friar's drumming which, at twilight, I mean climax times, would accelerando.

But it seemed that he was always flubbing up the service with those three. Why are you beating my feet? But monsieur, wasn't that what you requested. Why are you caning me? This isn't English Night. Oh; sorry. I'll start over.

It was a seemingly never ending chat for chit. Those three could never count on the Count to get it right. So when he would suggest a tip, instead he'd get fucka-you. You'd never report it to the IRS anyway.

But atlas; all good things must of course eventually come to an end.

Danos was running out of hints as to his identity to throw at DeVille as he would taunt him face to face behind his mask. His bank account was overflowing. Checks were now being returned marked excessive funds. It was time to move on for the party was over.

DeVille, Danglier and Chene were all in attendance for his farewell flagation party. It was a grand affair. Flag picked out a sure-fire winner for the bistro: A French evening with five courses.

Snails with a glass of Alfred Gratien Paradis Brut NV champagne. A soup alleged to contain drools of Julia Childs that she had conjured up when called upon to judge. Choice of filet minion or filet gross. Lobster or Dover Sole.

I won't even attempt to name the wines. Besides, anyone caught reading or writing this tale would never have heard of them anyway.

For dessert the black Turks came prancing in carrying cherries jubilee with sparklers a sparkling. They broke into song.

"For he's a jolly good flagon; for he's a jolly good flagon; for he's a jolly good flagon that nobody can deny."

DeVille, Danglier and Chene could neither admit nor deny that because Flag had always referred their floggings to the Count. The question was however raised as to just why it was that Captain Villeneuve's charter boat always featured Alabama rather than cherries jubilee.

Unfortunately few paid for the after dinner coffees and liquors. The bill was simply too much: well over 35 chits. Even the one-chit after dinner mints to shit-chat over went begging.

Deville went all out. Though he had been singled out for a special parting gift to be served up by the departing Count, by damn if he wasn't going to be intimidated by that masked rascal who seemed to know his life's story. He was going to blow a full 40 chits on the event. You only go around once, you know. Moreover he planned to respond to each lash with a hit the road (lash) Jack (lash) and don't you (lash) come back (lash) no mo (lash) no mo (lash) no mo (lash) no mo. What a diabolical scheme. Deville, the would-be party pooper.

Chen tries to sign off with a Simple Simon Says Sayonara. Deville's retort is "For that screw up of oriental languages, tonight you'll be chowing down on chow main. And you can skip that skipping in with your tutu when you come for your tofu, too. For you, the party is over, my friend. It's toot, toot, tootsie, goodbye. So toot a Lou, Tootsie."

"Well-a fucka you too, Count Of My Royal Ass."

Deville's fare-thee-well was less abbreviated.

"Ah, DeVille; a good afternoon to you, sir. I trust you reviewed the menu in the wailing, I mean waiting room."

"Good afternoon to you too, Count. I can always count on receiving your personal, perfectly atrocious, ungodly service. How unkind and unthoughtful you have been in giving me your undivided attention."

"That's a lot of un-s but I'm afraid you have that wrong, DeVillage. Just speak to Danglier and Chene."

"So you've have heard that I shall be departing this tropical paradise on the morning tide."

"But I've come to count on you and your personal service, even though you do have the habit of screwing up my purchase orders. Better the unknown than the known, I suppose. There aren't many here who aren't impressed when I tell them that the very Count of Monte Bistro himself processes my purchasing orders. Yet I remain sure that we had met before my arrival here. I'm just positive."

"You are so kind. It's good to know that you have truly appreciated my services. Tell you what, DeVillage. Since this is my farewell party I'll reveal my identity."

"TA-TAAAAAAA"

"YOU; why it's YOU!"

"TA-TAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

"Can I change my order?"

"Sorry; no substitutes. Forty, was it?"