XXII. Dave and Amy's Second 'Date'
Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, came to Budapest to make his fortune and spread the gospel of greed. Unfortunately, he has run into a few problems, which have left hi bank account and his list of converts to capitalism dissapointingly small. What follows is Episode XXII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I can’t believe my luck — literally. It would seem I’m very fortunate to have this beautiful woman coming to my rescue, but I have serious doubts about whether everything is as wonderful as it appears. I absent‑mindedly listen to her soothing, professional voice telling me how she’s going to help as I stare at her fantastic chest. There’s nothing like being locked up with a bunch of smelly criminals, who haven’t slept well and don’t care how they look, to make you really appreciate a woman. And damn if there isn’t a lot to appreciate about this woman. I’m just not sure I can believe her.
A few weeks ago, when I first meet Amy the gorgeous lawyer, I become convinced that she works for the smugglers who dumped a cache of weapons in my kitchen. Then I get arrested because my goofy roommate’s friend tried to kill a big‑shot politician. For some reason, Amy shows up to bail me out. She acts all innocent, but I’m not fooled. Dave “the Dude” Devoran knows an evil post‑communist conspiracy when he sees one.
Sure, she was hired by my biological mother, whom I’ve just met for the first time. But I can’t figure why, out of all the lawyers in Budapest, Amy is the one who offers her services.
We’re sitting in a quiet room at the police station. For some reason, my mother has gone off to talk with the inspector, so it’s just me and Amy. I swallow hard (yuck! phlegm!), strain to squeeze my pores shut so the sweat will stop flowing and summon all my strength. I know I must be about as attractive as a smelly, sleepless criminal, and it embarrasses me. In my weary, weakened state, I feel the urge to drop to the floor, grab her by the ankles and beg her to take me home and bathe me. I have to keep reminding myself that it was the devil who gave her this body. It takes all of my composure, but I know I have to play it cool.
“Get away from me you crazy bitch from hell!” I scream. “You’re in with the gun runners! I don’t need your help!”
Dead silence. I wipe the spit off my chin. Her mouth is a small straight slash across her face. Then she sighs through her nose, softens the look in her eyes and forces the corners of her lips up.
“Um, David, I think you should know that you’re in serious trouble. ... I also think that a defense based on psychological problems might be an option. ...” she says in a near‑whisper. Her mouth flattens again, her eyes narrow and she breaths in hard. “But if I hear any more of this asinine crap about me being a gun runner I’m going rip off your genitals and force feed them to you.”
I contemplate the mental image of her threat for a second, then fire back: “You want to play tough —” my voice cracks and I swallow (yuck!). “Maybe you can explain why I have a kitchen full of rifles and hand grenades.”
Dead silence. She looks about ready to drool on her chin. Her mouth is a round hole in the middle of her face. Then she gets back to her professional voice: “As your lawyer, I would advise you to tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”
I look down at the floor, then back up at her chest. As I begin to explain my situation my glance wanders over toward her bicep. I wonder if she really is strong enough to do that force‑feeding thing.