"what kind of gin miss, and how big a bottle?" the clerk asked. he was kind of cute.

"oh, any kind, and a big bottle." i grinned.

"you're pretty wet ma'me."

"i know." i smiled.

he came back with my beer and two big bottles of gin. "this one's eighty proof and this one's free for that piece of red yarn you've got tied around your right toe."

"fair enough," i said, unsnapping the self made toe ring. my car almost died when my foot left the gas pedal. "damn!" i said, as i handed him the yarn.

"car trouble?"

"always," i answered.

"you should buy a lexus."

"right! how much do i owe you mister?"

"oh, maybe nothing." he said, hungrily, as he undressed me with his eyes.

"eddie!" a female voice hollered at him.

"twenty bucks," he said to me. he looked nervous, the toe ring was gone from his hands. i paid and scooted, bet that was his wife. louisville, hadn't changed a damn bit.

the rain was really coming down when i reached pork pie's safe house. plenty of parking this time. i had my sack of liquor in one hand and was in the trunk grabbing by bags with the other. heavy load, maybe i should whistle for simpson. naa, he was over a "hunnard," i imagine his moving and shaking days were over, well, maybe not his shaking days. the rain was dousing me, i had to get out of these clothes. struggling up the front steps, i staggered in the doorway, dropped my stuff on the butler's desk and looked around. no-one was around. hell, only pork pie and simpson lived here, pork in the loft and simpson in the catacombs. i opened a suitcase and removed a beach towel, started drying my hair. pork pie had once told me that he didn't own a hair drier "just stick my head in the fuckin' oven, just like my mama taught me", i would welcome an oven even. soaked! i dried myself off as best as was possible. i pulled out a pair of panties, yellow shorts and a light blue midriff friendly cotton top, with "i purr when i'm petted" written across it, and debated on whether or not to change on this floor. why not, pork pie had seen me naked, and simpson would have to get very close in order to see me. i slipped out of my clothes and stood there as naked as the day i was born. i slipped on a white gym bra that was about as revealing as a wet tee shirt, applied the rest of my wardrobe, including a red yarn toe ring, grabbed a beer, and padded to the back of the house.

the beer washed away a hundred and sixty miles of kentucky dust from my throat. other than my wet hair, i was feeling better. i had packed a week's worth of clothes, and the only shoes i brought were a pair of white - now rain soaked - sandals in the front seat. pretty smart, carlee. no, i brought my red leather moccasins, i wore them as house shoes. i went back to my bags, found them, opened another beer and sat down on a couch, relaxing as i drank.

willow banes must be crazy. putting a million dollar ad in the paper for pork ass's ass, hell, this wasn't new for the crazies in this burg. i needed to find a bathroom, beer runs straight through me, not to mention that my last pit stop was elizabethtown. nothing promising on this floor, gosh though, it looked like offices needed bathrooms. the rain was really coming down now, sounded like a tall cow pissing on a flat rock, made my search a little more desperate. the second floor was no better. i heard foot steps on the third. what about the basement? i though. the catacombs; the foot steps were too light for pork pie's, must be simpson.

i climbed down the stairs until i reached the door of the catacombs, i slowly opened it, as if i expected a herd of poltergeists to jump out at me. god, how creepy, the wooden stairs went down a mile, and there was a naked light bulb that lit the landing. the floor apeared to be dirt; how could simpson get up and down these, i didn't know if even i could make it down. did simpson tell me he lived down here? no, i don't think he did.

the descent took a full five minutes. the lightbulb hung there from an electrical cord that was attached to two or three beams that ran across the entrance to two doors. both doors looked quite thick, heavy, old. i put my ear to the first door, heard nothing. a whirling noise came from the second door. what could that be? sounded like something electrical, with a noise that waxed and waned, then just whirled. weird, that's what is was. i grabbed the handle to the door; it was hot to my touch, it wouldn't open. i was getting scared, this spooky old house, in the middle of a thunder storm, and me, all alone in this catacomb. shit! i heard a noise. then the other door creaked forward, toward me. my heart started beating a hundred miles an hour. what in the hell? i started to run up the stairs, then simpson appeared behind the door.

"you're not allowed here madam," he said.

"sorry simpson, i was looking for a bathroom."

simpson was still dressed in his butlers uniform, but looked even scarier on this landing. "there are two on the first level miss."

"i couldn't find them simpson," i stated. "and i have to pee really bad, really bad."

"can you make it back to the first level?" he asked.

"no simpson, i just might have to pee right here, on the floor." he just looked at me, his eyes dropping down to my shorts. i unbuttoned them and pulled the zipper down.

"that won't be necessary miss, use mine," he said, in a very deep voice. "the facility is first on the right, and please don't come down here again." fuck it, the power of christ compels me. i thought. his room was unbelievable, his bathroom was pure heaven though. the damn commode seat felt as if it hadn't been down in months, it creaked loudly as i got tough with it.

"sakajawea!" i shouted (one of pork pie's favorite oaths--other than god damn) as four pints of fluid left me.

"are you all right ma'me?" simpson called.

"i'm great, simpson, never felt better." no toilet paper on the roll. "simpson, where's your t.p?"

"i'll have to fetch it, miss." the bathroom door opened, and simpson walked in. "pardon me, madam," he said graciously, as he walked toward a cabinet. he extracted a roll, opened it up, tore the end and bent over me to put it on the roller. "pardon me again, madam," he said. i wondered if he was going to wipe me next. simpson's room was scandahoovian (as mr. leisure would say) - very simple, very clean. pictures of his family around, ancient snaps, brown with age. a bottle of wine and a glass sat upon his nightstand, i wondered if the old buzzard had been nipping. i wouldn't mind having a butler, but simpson would get on my last nerve.

"simpson!" a voice snapped. pork pie, i thought. simpson rushed in and pushed a button on the p.a.

"yes sir?"

"you got carlee down there?"

"she is here sir, using my facility."

"your what?"

"my rest room, sir."

"is she done?"

"yes, i believe she is, sir."

"well, tell her to wiggle her sweet ass up to the first floor, we need to talk."

"over and out," i hollered back.

"that's my girl."

pork pie was dressed totally in black: he had a black navy turtle neck wool sweater under his black suit, and even had a black stetson hat on his head. i barely recognized him. "hey, love your outfit, you been entertaining simpson? what are you dressed for?" i asked.

"a steak at harriet's and a covert trip to saltpeter cave. we've got to git this shit straightened out baby."

"i don't understand pork" i said.

"go with me honey, and you will."

"i gotta change clothes, pork."

"where you at?"

"right over there, living out of my suitcases."

"put on some tough jeans and a long sleeved shirt carlee, the movin' ain't easy where we're going."

"pork pie, i didn't bring my winter stuff, i'm only planning to stay a week."

"shit, i'll buy you sumpin', don't worry. here, put these on." he handed me a pair of jeans from my bag. i stepped out of my shorts and put them on. "saltpeter cave ain't friendly to midriff friendly tops, girl."

"shit, pork, i just grabbed some stuff, i wasn't intending on going spelunking."

"baby, now that i have you here, we might go further that that, terry might still be alive." this made me ponder, pork obviously knew more than i thought he did. we went outside, pork had grabbed a beer or two or three before we left. he popped the tops of two and handed me one. "drink up, and be somebody," he said. he bypassed the pig mobile, and opened the door of a huge lincoln for me.

"what happened to your old one?" i asked.

"got dirty, besides, i like this one better."

"this looks like a limo pork, we should have had simpson drive."

pork pie chuckled. "hell, he ain't got no license."

"my gosh, do they pull your license when you pass a hundred?"

"no, but they do after you get three dui's in six months." so, simpson was a nipper. "hell, i thought they should have given him a medal, most people that old drink thru a feeding tube."

"he's interesting pork, what's that machinery in the room next to his?"

"his laboratory, so he says, i ain't been down there for fifteen years, couldn't climb back up the damn stairs."

"and he can?"

"he manages, darlin', hell don't ask me hard questions."

"what's simpson's first name?"

"bart." he smiled.

pork pie was having problems parallel parking his lincoln in front of style's sporting goods store. "goddamnit, what in the fuckin' hell happened to pull in parking?" he was making his eleventh pass. "son-of-a-bitch!!"

"you should have bought a toyota, pork."

"fuck!" he killed the engine. "this here's good enough." he was on the bumper of the car behind him, and the front of the lincoln was out in the street. he walked around and opened the door for me. "come on baby, we need to get you something black. we headed for the clothing department. unisex, i suppose the size was the only indicators for females. pork pie picked out a black flannel shirt for me, held it up to my chest.

"may i help you?" a clerk asked.

"yeah, how in the hell do you know the girl stuff from the fuckin' boy stuff here?" pork pie asked, his cigar dangling from his mouth.

the clerk, a rather insignificant man with a prominent adam's apple, gently plucked pork pie's cigar from his mouth, and placed it in his own suit coat pocket. "this shirt, i think, will fit the young lady nicely," he said.

"alright, and we need a sweater, 'bout like mine, and a watch cap, and a pair of hiking boots. oh yeah, and a pair of gloves."

"black also sir?" he asked.

"yeah!" pork pie growled.

the clerk picked out everything but the boots. then he led us further back in the store. "will a six do miss?"

"yes, a six is perfect," i said. he brought out a pair of redwings, size six, and opened the box.

"yellow, shit man, she ain't lil' abner, get some fuckin' black boots."

i pointed to the clerk's pocket and whispered in pork pie's ear. "he's smoking pork."

"fucker's on fire, ain't he?" he smiled.

"aren't you going to tell him?"

"he should figure it out pretty soon, carlee, if he don't, then the motherfucker can burn." the clerk returned with a pair of black boots, preceding a smoky trail.

"sir," i said. "i believe your coat,s is on fire."

"oh my," he said, as he removed it, beating it with his hand. "you didn't tell me that your cigar was lit sir."

"you didn't fuckin' ask, look, we'll be checking out now."

"but she hasn't tried the boots on."

"s'alright, they'll do, how much?" pork said.

"i'll check you out, sir," said a handsome woman with a graying bun in her hair. why's mr. malik beating up his coat?" she asked.

pork smiled. "a long story, sumpin' to do with this god awful discriminatory no smokin' shit. hey, 'member the old groucho marx show, a lady with a dozen kids was a contestant, and groucho asked her why she had so many fuckin' kids, she told him because her old man just loved little kids, and groucho answered: 'i love my cigar too, but i take it out every now and then.'" pork pie laughed and laughed. the lady with the gray bun and i just looked at each other. "damn near got the son-of-a-bitch kicked off of television!"

"anyone driving a 2002 lincoln in here?" a voice cried.

"yeah son, that'd be us."

"you're illegally parked sir."

pork pie tossed him his keys. "if you can do any better, then have at it. you 'member that show miss?" he said to the lady.

"i'm afraid not sir, your purchase comes to $483.76."

"sakajawea! i bet groucho didn't make that much a week," he said. "oh, fuck, just go back there and get a size eight pair of black leather britches for her. i'll take you for a ride on my harley, carlee."

"you're quite a poet, pork," i replied. "tell her to get me some socks too, these boots will destroy my ankles."

"yes, socks too!" pork pie shouted. god, what an embarrassment to go anywhere with pork pie. 'bart' simpson. that made me smile.

"dress up honey," he said, as we got into the lincoln, perfectly parked. "sommama-bitch, that ole boy did pretty good.

"you want me to dress at harriet's?"

"shit no, dress in the car, hell the windows are as black as the ace of spades. pork poped the top on our last can of beer. before long i was undressed to my gym bra and panties. "here, have a slurp." he practically stuck the beer can in my mouth. "goddamnit, i just love to see you naked."

"i'm not naked, pork pie."

"purt near," he replied.

"just watch the road, pork," i advised. i was dressed by the time we reached harriet's. the restaurant was crowded, hardly any parking places, i hoped pork didn't park illegally. i was blacker than the lincoln's windows, the boots felt surprisingly good over my fuzzy black socks. pork pie stuck the watch cap on my head. not to be under dressed.

"let's go, i got some damn important stuff to show you, carlee."

"aye aye, sir," i responded.

"you do kind of look like a navy seal, hell, come on, i want to show you off."

"do you have a reservation, sir?" the receptionist asked. oh shit. i thought. what a way to start out.

"i have a permanent reservation! i'm laverne 'pork pie' anderson, and i've been comin' to this fuckin' place since harriet invented it," he growled. the lady led us to a booth in the rear. "bring us a beer!" pork demanded.

"american or import?" she asked.

"some of that scandahoovian shit, dark and strong! and a goddamned menu."

"pork, behave yourself," i said.

"you look breathtaking, carlee!"

"and you're not going to last the evening if you don't slow down, pork."

he smiled. "let's order."

"wait until she brings the menu, pork pie." the man who was our waiter hoved into view, god, i knew him, i'd seen him before. shit.