My scoop is a big dud, so I'm lookin' to procrastinate when Betty Cope shows up in a garter belt from Joel Rose's collection with that twinkle in her eye.
"New drink at Ghoulardi's RNC party tonite, Dottie! Special delivery!" I'm underhelmed. Entire Cleveland Media Afterlife been RNC'in' their immortal asses off for a week. Ol' Dot needs a nap.
"GIDDYUP GIRL!" Betty's insistent. Why me. We ride a mule over to Ghoulardi's naked, you know, tryin' to make a Lady Godvia entrance, and everybody's already drunk, swingin' from chandeliers and whatnot, but worse. Hallucinating. Like the Brown Acid. They're all on a bad trip. Bein' the Patron Saint of these parts, this will not do.
"HEY YA OLD BAG!" Bob Bennett sure knows how to woo a lady. From his yacht. "Hand crafted oak aged vintage 180 proof BET YA CAN'T HANDLE IT!"
I grab one of his red plastic cups, suck it all into my mouth and spit it right back in his face. "Get me an Old Fashioned," next thing I know Casey Coleman's got a finger where it don't belong, then it's on. Ghoulardi boots Bennett to the "Gimp" room where Bob Hughes is already passed out, four hours later me and Braizaitis are cuddling.
"Never touchin' that again," Brazaitis whimpers into my heaving bosom. I run my fingers through his copious bodily hair and comfort him. I finally get my nap.