Around this table are the Kings, the newest elders, the heads of a revived operation: eighteen on one side, eighteen on the other’s how many total, each regal on whatever side makes for their more successful profile as surveyed from the head — the money wing and, also, the mind of the allpowerful, allseeing poultry: this quarter’s mascot, a muscled, possibly steroidal, bespectacled fowl, in honor of the president, newly installed, Plosher, formerly Perdue, the Poultry King, who sits squawkily at foot. Appropriate to the sham it must seem like to those who paid for the Studio Tour, this sitdown takes place on a set so stripped of glamour it just has to be real, which is merely the irredeemably fake truly felt: fans to stream screeching names of God down the Hills into Holywood proper, mobbing for a mere glimpse of the action on a lot on a soundstage once used for the production of oldie tworeelers and talkies, since disused, doneup in its storage capacity in an unintentional style called High Kitsch, it might be, fin de stickler for detail warehousing for shtetl scenery not presently in service — coops, two bits of fence, foam-rubber gravestones rubbing up against withered polyurethane trees that instead of backdropping coached guttural wails and travails must now provide the setting for this, an unprecedented (meaning they’d just never gotten around to it before, couldn’t make the time, schedule it in) meeting of the principal thirtysix, heads or designated representatives from entertainment, goods & services, industry light & heavy, all the big macher big money big idea movers & shakes (nu, hope they don’t move or shake too hard: among the thirtysix how there’re only half that many kidneys and, hymn, a quarter that number of lungs). Moguling takes it all out of you. Wheeze the bowel’s bottomline. Roll’s called, checking names off the blacklist, but that’s only its type: everyone who’s everyone, who’s anyone, too, your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail, don’t hold it against them, you don’t want to be schmeared, misdenounced — them throwing gavels, yelling, demanding to make their demands, as Plosher finishes taking names but where to: the Apple King, the Aspirin King, the Bathtub King, the Brassiere King, the Candle King, the Coop King who he’s in tight with Plosher, the Diamond King, the Ear King who for Nose & Throat refers to his uncle, the Envelope King, the Fish King, PopPop’s old Miami neighbor Freddie the Fur King still making a fortune since Feivel, no his name it was Faivish he died with the rest, the Glove King, the Hair Replacement Product King, the Iodine King, the Juice King and his seedmoneyed son-inlaw, Fruchtfleisch, the future Pulp King assisting (along with His brother, the Prince of String just here to learn ropes), the King of Kings at the head of the table (presiding in matters of judgment, which matters never arise and so no one knows what he does, if he does anything — not that they’d question), flanked by an Insky, an Outsky, and their muscle, a goy just in from the Pale, calls himself Caldo “Cold” Sorvino, backingup Shimi Bellarosa from Belorussia, the Kipper King the oathed enemy of the Fish King because who can swear anymore and on what flipflopping around get a grip…the Laundry Detergent King with Fabric Softener Included, the LaughTrack King who he’s always got the best lines, the Mattress King, the Microphone King whispering—
