THE TOILET UPON WHICH Duke Nichego had been relaxing was fortunately manufactured by a worker in Freiburg who cared about his job that particular day, otherwise the Duke’s part in this tale would have ended prematurely. The individuals who had laid the concrete-block walls and constructed the rest of the small bathroom, however, did not care much for their profession––one aspired to be a paddle-boarding instructor and the other wrote paranormal teen romances––so the building collapsed.
Collapse it did and utterly, in a flaming cloud of blackened corn chips and fizzy drinks, but not before the force of the explosion propelled Duke Nichego up and away from the flames and smoke, gripping the sides of his sturdy German toilet in abject fear.
Images flashed through his mind: his first bank robbery, his mother kicking him out of the house at twelve because of his first bank robbery, and the first time he touched a SPANX knee-high trouser sock.
The Duke-plus-toilet arced through the air for a quarter mile and landed in a pile of discarded tumbleweeds. He rolled pants-less and underwear-less through the rough grit and weeds. Lightheaded and nauseous, like a child after his first shot of vodka, the Duke remained on his face in the dirt, swooning in and out of consciousness, surrounded by the rags of his clothing.
Sirens moaned in the distance, and footsteps approached with a slow and steady crunch. Perhaps it was a lone security official––easy enough to bribe, mused the Duke through a fog of pain.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and rolled Duke Nichego onto his back. Expecting an American grown fat on strawberry-flavored lard pastries, the Duke was shocked to see an elegant older woman. Tall, brunette, and gorgeous, she wore a white mini-trench coat over her short red dress and a white headscarf, like a seasoned Princess Grace in the Sahara. Duke Nichego estimated her age to be somewhere between forty and fifty. With understated makeup, carefully chosen gold earrings and necklace, and a European taste in clothing, the Duke also estimated her wealth to be somewhere between massive and extremely massive.
“Bozhe moi,” he whispered.
“Certainly,” said the lady, in an uncharacteristically deep timbre.
She grabbed what was left of Nichego’s collar and lifted him easily into the air.
Nichego attempted to remain pleasant in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that his toes dangled a foot from the ground.
“You’re very strong,” he said politely.
“Thank you, dear.”
Her strangely deep voice and personally-observed evidence of the woman’s powerful arms tickled a few brain cells inside Nichego’s rattled skull. Even so, in his weakened state he could not help the natural instinct of a man in close proximity to the cleavage of an attractive woman to glance down her top.
“How rude,” said the elegant stranger.
She rammed a manicured fist into Duke Nichego’s midsection and he flew six feet over the dirt and tumbleweeds of the abandoned lot. The lady walked up to his crumpled body and kicked the Duke across the jaw with a quite expensive and quite red three-inch pump.
“Want to try that again, you naked piece of filth?”
“Please ...”
The woman waved red-lacquered nails at the growing mushroom cloud of the former Chevron station.
“Beautiful sight, isn’t it, but not the same second time around. Gas station explosions, I mean. At least we know what that huge red button labeled ‘Do Not Touch’ was for, don’t we?”
A high-pitched giggle erupted from the strange woman. Nichego reached for his wallet––a silly gesture because his trousers and underwear were missing.
“I have money to pay you! It’s definitely somewhere around here. Wait! I can write a check!”
“Listen, Ivan or Vlad or whoever you are, cash is the last thing I want, and the next-to-last thing I want is to cash a check. All that waiting in line gives me the chills. Now, before I shave off your nipples, tell me what you did with Billie and Dean.”
“But who are you?”
The lady in white sighed. “Talk about stupid questions ... I’m Dean’s father.”