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Page 74.
Chapter 15
 "Hey!” Feeling himself being shaken, Marc Fontbleu raised his head groggily and peered. His mangled bed sheets and striped mattress were wet with sweat and unpleasant dreams.
Jack Poncelet pounded on the door until Marc let him in.
Marc threw himself back on the bed. Jack sat beside him and gave him a shove. “Wake up, man. Get with it.”
Marc wiped sleep from his eyes. He sat up, suddenly refreshed and happy. “Hey. I’m glad you stopped by.”
Jack Poncelet, twenty-three like Marc, was a philosophy graduate and currently bartender by profession, and coincidentally a drily vulgar comedian. “Pute. Get out of that crappy bed, you loser. I thought it was going to be another hundred years before I ever heard from you again, you dipshit.”
Marc stood and stretched. It was evening. The clock read seven p.m. “I slept for a few hours. I got fired today. Had a rough day.”
Jack regarded him with quizzical blue eyes in a round face under reddish-blond hair. “What happened?”
Marc shrugged. “Just laid off, I guess.” Groggily he searched for towel and soap. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Got anything to read while I wait?”
Marc pointed to a stack of racy magazines.
“What are you giving me these for?”
“Your level of mentality.”
“Thanks. Now you see why men have two eyes and women have two tits.” He had a very dry, understated sense of humor, served on a heaping plate of common vulgarities and ironies. His degree was in philosophy; his practical application in life (thus far) at the fountain of spiritude (bartending).
“Evolution. So we can detect each other.”
“Yes. Survival. Women have two eyes and we have a cock. Makes absolutely no sense.”
“That’s called a triangle.”
“Very complex geometry.” Jack’s eyes gleamed with a mix of humor and concupiscence as he sifted through the magazines looking for a cover that interested him. “You know that I only read these for the articles.”
“I have never actually looked in one,” Marc lied, laughing, as he stepped into the bathroom and wrapped himself in the steam and hot water of a rehabilitative shower.
The door opened and shut as Jack came to sit atop the crapper cover with a magazine. “Do women like this really exist?”
Marc Fontbleu soaped himself. “Nah. Not in real life.”
I’ve just been in love and lust with one.
“Hey, are you screwing some married bitch?”
Marc sputtered through soap bubbles, “Where’ju hear that?”
O my god, what now. Who else knows? Mr. LeCinque? Some oily faculty LeFart driving a really preppy Renault 5 trying for a shot at Emma for himself, thinking she must be cheap?
“Simple deduction,” Jack said. “I didn’t hear from you for the longest time, ergo you were getting laid regularly. You weren’t bragging, ergo it’s illegal.”
Marc rinsed himself. “She’d take your breath away.”
“You were seen downtown,” Jack said.
“By who?”
“By whom?” Jack corrected. “My sister. She says she saw you pawing each other; some chick out of a fashion magazine.”
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