Chemicals of one sort or another were important weapons in the arsenal of Makepeace Morris. Important instruments in convincing reluctant occupants of a property that it would make their life a lot easier if they vacated rather than stuck around. At various times he had used paints, glues, or mixtures that gave off foul odors to achieve this end. For his latest gambit against the intransigent Bernie Kahn he was employing a somewhat more sophisticated chemical compound.
What this one did, when mixed with water, was produce near instant corrosion of certain fabrics such as canvas. Like the canvas that was currently covering a very large hole in front of Bernie’s house. A hole Makepeace had caused to be dug, caused to be kept open, and caused to be covered with the kind of material that he knew was susceptible to the corrosive properties of this very chemical.
Had anyone seen a person fiddling with the canvas that was covering this hole it might have aroused suspicion. That, however, was not how the very ordinary looking and thus nearly invisible Makepeace Morris operated. What he did in this instance was simply to stroll again down Irving Street holding what appeared to be an open bag of potato chips. As he passed the canvas covering the hole he looked down into the bag as if searching for some remaining chips, and not finding any, dumped the powdery contents of the bag onto the canvas.
In the unlikely event anyone had witnessed this scene, it would have seemed that a snack muncher who didn’t believe in saving his waste for the next litter basket had dumped some potato chip crumbs onto the street. Or in this case, dumped them onto the canvas that was temporarily replacing a blacktop section of the street.
Tonight’s weather forecast called for another heavy rain. Even harder than the previous night’s downpour. The rain would hit the chemical on the canvas. The canvas would rot away almost instantly. Water would pour into the hole and from there into Bernie Kahn’s basement. On top of last night’s inundation, it would make his continued domicile on Irving Street seem far less appealing.
Don’t fight me, Bernie, Morris thought as he turned the corner. Don’t fight me. It’s not a fight you’re ever going to win.
The meeting with MarySue Lamont’s new prospect had gone better than expected. The email picture he sent made him look seasoned and suave, and amazingly, given the frequency of deceit practiced by people who send photos via the Internet, he actually came across in person as both. He was a bit old for her personal dating tastes, but she wasn’t running a dating service. She needed a candidate who could be presented to the human resources department at a major healthcare company that was quietly trolling for a public spokesman. This guy just might fit.
The get-acquainted meeting behind her, MarySue changed out of her business clothes and into more comfortable house wear, poured herself a cup of herb tea, settled comfortably into an easy chair to listen, once again, to the CD she thought might help get Bernie Kahn out of her life. She couldn’t help laughing at the thought that a nasty practical joke could end up not only achieving this eminently worthwhile end but also make her a small fortune.
As the orgasmic sounds peaked on the CD, the sounds of her reaching yet another apparent sexual climax of extraordinary dimensions, she tried to remember if she was really into it when the recording was made or just giving the jerk with the hidden recorder a charge with some high decibel faking. For a few seconds the old anger came rushing back, the desire to get even with the person who had secretly archived their love-making over a two-week period, then edited and mixed the sounds into this CD. She still had the note he’d sent her with this recording. It read: “I’m thinking of selling this commercially and calling it ‘Cum Cries Of The North American Female.’ It could make you the audio equivalent of Deep Throat. Lucky you.” The note was signed “Your dear friend (and grateful ex-lover), Marvin.”
How she despised that man! Hated the smooth way he toyed with her at his place for those few times they shared a bed. The way he got her high and feeling well-disposed to his kinky sex games. The revenge he took, this CD, when she told him the fun and games were over. The way he turned their intimacy into a dirty little joke he could use to entertain his friends, her friends, too, probably, and who knows, actually convert into a commercial product.
It took her only a minute after playing the CD that first time to get on the phone to her lawyer, Pam Rogowsky, a lady that MarySue knew from past experience had very effective ways to put pissants in their place. Pam heard her story, didn’t seem all that surprised at the atrocious behavior involved (“This is a new millennium, honey, the scumballs have new millennium toys to play with.”), and said right off that this wasn’t something that should ever generate a lawsuit, which was MarySue’s initial inclination. In court, Pam explained, MarySue’s old playmate would do everything possible to make her very personal and very embarrassing behavior very public, which would ruin her business. Besides, there were much simpler ways to settle this matter very quickly.
Immediately after conversing with her client Pam was on the phone with the
offending pissant and explaining in her inimitable, down-to-earth manner what would happen if anyone else, ever, heard this CD. The personal economic consequences for him, and after the court injunction she would cause to be issued before day’s end, the possible jail time that would ensue.
Very shortly thereafter MarySue got a tearful written apology from her would-be abuser. It took the form of a notarized letter assuring her that that he had destroyed all copies of the offending CD except the one in her possession.
Pam Rogowsky had come through again. MarySue had never actually met the attorney, having first contacted Pam by phone on the recommendation of an associate about a purely business matter. Subsequent legal problems like the CD incident were also dealt with over the phone and Internet. Whatever Pam was like in person, MarySue knew that she delivered. Her billing rates were reasonable to boot.
Now an awful practical joke was about to be converted into a cash cow. MarySue’s plan was simple. Her trinity was attached to Bernie Kahn’s. The two units shared a common wall. Long exposure to Bernie’s record collection (he still played records, with scratches no less.) let her know that sounds from her own place that were loud enough would carry in the other direction.
So for the next few days or weeks, however long it took, she was going to regale Mr. Kahn with a love feast for a few hours every night. The sounds of her female passion. He would doubtless find this funny at first. Then he would become irritated and embarrassed. He would come by a few times to complain and be told that her private life was none of his business. It wouldn’t be long before he started considering another living arrangement in a quieter section of town. One better suited to his economic and social status.
Tonight, she thought, would be a good time to kick off her little show. After dinner. About 7:30 or 8 o’clock.
