Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

Serge positioned the mesh, but Gustave fiercely resisted. “I said to crouch down. There’s not enough room with you standing up.”

Serge pressed hard on the mesh, and Gustave strained to stand as tall as possible.

Coleman tossed a roach over the side of the boat. “I don’t think he’s listening.”

“That’s what the rubber mallet is for. I call it The Cooperator.”

Wham, wham, wham, wham, wham . . .

“His head doesn’t like the mallet,” said Coleman. “He’s crouching.”

“And now I’ll use the mallet to give the mesh a snug fit . . .” Wham, wham, wham, wham. “. . . And next the lid.” Just before setting it in on top, Serge stuck his face over the barrels. “You’re about to become a science pioneer, and that’s something nobody can ever take away from you.” He gave Gustave a cheerful wave. “Well, toodles!” The lid went on.

Wham, wham, wham, wham . . .

Coleman reached into one of the liquor-store bags. “Is it time?”

“Right-o. Uncap that sucker.” Serge stuck his hand in another shopping bag.

The pair met at the side of the boat and began pouring the bottles of alcohol through the air holes. Then they tossed the empties in the bilge and reached into the bags again. More pouring. “Repeat as needed . . .” They made several more short trips until the bags were empty and the bilge was full of garbage.

“Coleman, get the anchor.” Serge flicked on the electric motor and silently backed away from the shoal. He reached a range of a hundred yards and dropped anchor again.

“Okay,” Serge told Coleman. “You’re on.”

“Huh? What do you mean I’m on?”

Serge aimed his thumb sideways. “Sasha. Check the expression on her face. I’m sure she’s dying to know.”

“You want me to explain the experiment?”

“It was your idea,” said Serge. He took a seat next to her. “Rock this joint.”

“Wow, you’ve always been the one to explain before.” Coleman stopped and placed his palms on the sides of his face. “Okay, this is my big break. I don’t want to mess it up. I’ll tell that part, and that part, and, no, that other part comes first . . .”

“Any day now,” said Serge.

“Okay.” Coleman cleared his throat. “I’m a little nervous, so I’m probably not going to get any laughs. Here goes: It all started when me and the Buzzard were getting royally baked. We had this giant glass bong shaped like a T. Rex, and I mean we were just totally splattered, so freakin’ high that we spent an hour hung up on heavy philosophical Seinfeld questions like, What on earth are they planting to grow seedless dope? And then you wake up the next morning and swear someone must have broken in while you were asleep because all the furniture is rearranged and your shoes are in the microwave. You know what I mean? Those really great nights? And then the next morning me and Buzzard. Hold on, it wasn’t Buzzard. It was Taco Tommy. Was Buzzard there? That’s right, they were both there because we had this windowpane acid that we broke into four doses and there was one left over, so that’s how I remember, and we all dropped LSD for breakfast. And you know at the veterinary office how they sometimes have to put those plastic cones around a dog’s head so it won’t bite stitches or whatever? About halfway through the trip, Buzzard and Taco made me put on a plastic cone ‘for my own good,’ and I spent the rest of the trip wandering around the house wearing this cone like I’m a lamp, and only being able to see the top halves of the rooms . . .”

“Ahem,” said Serge.

“What?”

Serge made a twirling motion with his left hand. “You can fast-forward.”

“It’s my story.”

“It’s offtrack.”

“You get offtrack with your history.”

“But history is a key element of the death monologue.”

“Partying is just as important to me.”

Serge turned and smiled at Sasha. “Will you excuse me a moment?”

She watched Serge walk over to Coleman, and the two began arguing in brusque whispers that she couldn’t make out. They both stopped and smiled back at her like everything was cool, then more harsh whispering.

They began wrestling, mildly at first, then rolling violently on the deck. Serge’s legs got Coleman’s head in a scissor lock.

“Serge, stop. I can smell your butt.”

“Stick to the story. We have a guest.”

“I’ll grab your nuts.”

“You better not . . . Ahhh, let go!”

“You let go!”

“Okay, at the same time . . . Ready? Let go . . .”

They did. The pair stood and smiled at Sasha again. Except she couldn’t see Coleman’s smile because his T-shirt was pulled up over his face. “Everything’s cool.”

“Yeah, we’re good.”