shooting the breeeeeeeze

Lackadaisical wandering whereabouts, William Perry, ne'er do well extraordinaire is out and about, in a location near you. At the mall: Perusing shoes at the shoe store, “Why hello, miss. Did you know that the average shoe size for American women is 8? Wide, in fact. Only one hundred and fifty years ago, it was merely a size four!” So wizened by this trifle, the young miss moves on querifiably miffed and a tad bit creeped out. He bows,“Good afternoon, lovely shoe vixen,” and so our intrepid wanderer moves on, perhaps to a location nearer you.

He is on the avenue strolling with a purposeful stride, chin adjusted skyward for maximum smarmy effect. At the bus stop there is a believably smelly young man quaffing from a brown paper bag and a woman with a Goodwill shopping bag and a flimsy plastic grocery sack containing a loaf of day old french bread. William Perry produces from his overcoat a tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. “I know, really - but believe me Missy; it's the gol-darn truth!” He high fives the smelly young man, who doesn't appear to recognize the gesture, thus leaves him hanging, and zigs left, possibly to a location near you.

He enters a busy street, lined head to toe with shimmering black sedans, and penetrates the facade of a marbled office building. At the desk he produces his card for the information guru to ogle, knowingly. It reads as such: William Maniacal Perry, III, social outcast, rebel ax junkie for hire, and pie lover. Phone number? Don't call us, we're not home. In a whiny voice the info guy says “floor eleven,” and he munches something nondescript.

The elevator is awesome, for it goes up and down, and William Perry gets in line for the ride; he even has produced a dollar for the privilege and gives it to a fancy black woman who wears a tulip poplar on her lapel and a snow white dove tucked pleasantly into her coif. “Coo,” he says, and she in response, “oh, Daddy.” Then she tucks the buck into her brassiere and adjusts her meaty cleavage.

On the eleventh floor Perry squirms out from the elevator packed tight as a can of sardines patting his pockets and physical paraphernalia to be assured nothing has leapt off of his body or is springing loose only to find he has compromised the personal accounting offices of one Gordon Gahonas Gozongas! and Associates. There are secretaries spilling out into the hallway and men without coats but with natty suspenders and coffee cups leaning on desks and saying things like “send that out immediately” and “oops, I dropped all your pencils” or “hey, nice cubical – does it come in beige?”

William Perry sucker punches a mid-level clerical schmo and drags the carcass into a vacant cubicle, noting the general cleanliness of the paper trays and nicks a hole puncher. He disturbs the lackey's comb-over, drives a one and a half inch finishing nail into the center of the veneered desktop and blows an immense pink bubble which is surreptitiously surrendered onto the standard office issue keyboard. DNA tests will confirm that William Perry has indeed been on the premises.

Now he produces a Foldaway Barmah and dons it with a flourish escaping the corner unseen and meets Virginia at a water cooler. She is studying the bulletin board and has already read 'new insurance information: you are covered only in extreme cases of section 1.3 or alien seed pod invasion' and 'Marshall's retirement party is being moved to Ida Viscera's loft where she will be serving aperitifs and tiny leftover wieners from a jar'. Virginia reads aloud “Oh no, listen to this, 'effective immediately, all unicorn privileges are revoked!”

“Why, ma'am,” says William Perry, “Even I can see you haven't been a virgin for thirty years,” and he dances with her through the crowded hallway past a heavily guarded exhibit of Peruvian shrunken heads, then double dipping her tresses at the bubbler he flees unscathed into a stairwell, perhaps to visit a location near you...