Part IL: Yvette's Sensitivity

Harry Guakomoli and Yvette left the shit show the bungalow had become. Our hero had some questions, but he certainly wasn't going to press his companion for answers. At least not at the moment. Yvette stared out the window and resumed smoking her pot from the ceramic pipe.

"I feel I owe you an explanation," Yvette said as her gaze remained fixed on the scenery as The Guak started the trip back into The City.

"Only talk if you want to," responded The Guak. "You don't owe me an explanation or anything else."

"Like I said earlier, to keep the shop open, and us from getting evicted, I've had to do some things I'm not proud of. I borrowed money, a lot of fucking money, from some shady people. They sold my debt to someone else. Someone who's in the flesh trade. I told 'im I wasn't gonna be a whore, and he said that was okay, that I could just be a dancer."

"Sounds like he changed the arrangement without filling you in," answered our hero.

"Yeah," the lady said sadly.

"Your usual driver picked some night to not show up."

"That fact is not fucking lost on me," she said while she continued to stare out the window. "Fuck, I don't know what's gonna happen now. Do you think all those guys are dead?"

"Most of them," our hero replied. "Probably all of them."

"God, I hope so. I don't want a murder charge."

"I might be able to help if it comes to that," remarked The Guak, thinking of the obvious government connections Dinah's weird shadowy organization must have. "I know some people."

"Oh, really?" said Yvette. "You better. You're the one who turned that place into a crime scene. Well, more than it was already becoming. Fuck, Leisure is going to flip."

Leisure? Where did The Guak know that name?

Right! our hero recalled. That girl that pederast Travis was "sweet" on. Lori? Lola? No, it was Lily. She "works" for Leisure.

"That guy's a pimp," our hero commented.

"No fuckin' shit. I just said that. And that motherfucker tried to turn me into a call girl."

"I mean he's got teenage girls tricking for him," The Guak clarified. "He turns kids into hookers."

Yvette ended the conversation by not uttering another word.

"So...uh..." The Guak said. "Your voice inside my head..."

"I'm sensitive," the lady answered.

"Really? You strike me as thick-skinned."

"I mean I'm psychic, you ass," said Yvette. "I kinda am. I can read people's thoughts. The ones on the surface. I can go even deeper the more I come in contact with someone. I can talk to people's minds with mine too. That's how I haven't been outed as a fraud. I probe the bitch's brain for somethin' that she's dwellin' on and then blow some smoke up her ass. Unlike Momma. She's the real deal."

The Guak always thought ESP was a load of bull, but he has been around a lot of odd shit as of late, even by his standards. So reading minds was no longer completely outside the realm of possibility he decided. And he definitely heard her inside his head.

"So why didn't you know those afterbirths were going to pull that shit before they really did?"

"Because alcohol fucks with the connection," she replied. "The emotions intensify and rise to the top. It brings out the...um...what's it called? The id. Their thoughts become so primal. So raw."

"It doesn't get much more primal than rape," our hero theorized.

"True. But all I could tell was that they were horny. The guys at these things are always like that. I should have smoked more trees. It helps me channel."

"Dies ist verdammt verrückt," The Guak commented as he subconsciously shifted to German.

"Huh?"

"Nothing," he replied. "What am I thinking about now?"

"Pull over," Yvette answered.

Our hero did as he was told and pulled off to the side of the street. Yvette finally pulled her eyes away from the window and faced The Guak. She cupped his stubbled chin with her right hand and guided his face toward hers. The band of her silver skull ring was cold on his cheek.

"Now think of something, anything, that's completely random," she instructed. "And concentrate on it really hard."

She stared into his eyes and his into hers.

His mind wandered, blocking out the previous events of the night, the beautiful woman gazing into his eyes, the things he had seen during the drive. Just between you and me, dear reader, he began to think intensely about a playing card, specifically the ace of spades.

"Got it?"

"Got it."

"I read nothing," Yvette concluded. "Just like when I tried earlier tonight and the other day. That's not true; I did sense something. Like a faint buzz. Something that's running interference. You're a weird fuckin' dude, Guak."

"I guess," our hero said with a shrug. "But you talk to me mentally?"

"Yeah," she answered. "I discovered that the moment you stepped into the shop, when I told you to shut the door. I don't know how this shit works."

"I'm...I'm sorry I let this happen tonight," our hero said changing the subject. "I fucked up, and you got hurt."

"Knock that shit off," said Yvette. "I didn't sense anything fucked up was going to go down, and I can read minds. I should have told you about the ESP thing, but I keep it under wraps. Like a trade secret. Bidness would go completely tits up if people figured out it was a sham without Momma. And you stopped it before I got really bad. I was scared more than anything. I've suffered worse than a fat lip and a few bumps."

The continued look of remorse on The Guak's face must have been obvious because Yvette cradled his face with both hands.

"I can't imagine what would have happened if I had gone alone. You might have went overboard, but you saved me. You. Saved. Me. You're a bad ass. Your apology is sweet, but it's unnecessary. So knock it off. But can you do me a favor? I mean another one?"

"Name it," said our hero.

"Can I stay at your place?" she asked. "I should lie low for a few days. Or forever."

"Sure," The Guak replied. "But it's a dump. And what about Yvonne?"

"She'll be fine. Momma's in her room in the back of the shop, but Leisure and his guys won't fuck with her. They're scared she'll hex them or something. And if they do show up my cousin Bomo is there with a shotgun."

"'Bomo'?" our hero asked. "What was that about white boys and their code names?"

"Shut your cracker mouth," responded Yvette with a chuckle.

The Guak shifted the Dodge back into drive and continued on his way, changing course to the Resplendent Auberge. Yvette smoked a bowl, called Bomo and told him to stay with Yvonne until she said so (it was quite a lively conversation with lots of colorful back-and-forth!), and then smoked another bowl.

Our hero parked the car across the flop house he called home. Dawn had arrived, starting the brief four-hour window in which none of the corner girls could be found. The pair exited the Aries.

"Later I'll go out and get you some clothes," said The Guak as he looked at the lady, her trench coat buttoned all the way to the very top.

"No need," Yvette replied as she grabbed the car keys from our hero. "I got my getaway bag."

"Getaway bag?" inquired The Guak.

Yvette sighed.

"Sometimes when I'm out driving," she began to answer. "I get an urge to disappear. To leave Momma behind and start over. So I packed a bag and decided if the calling got to be too strong I would take off and not look back. That was two months ago. I'm still here."

Our hero nodded and escorted the kinda psychic into the Resplendent Auberge.

Part XLVIII: Bungalow Beatdown!

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Part XLVII: Yvette's Other Job

Harry Guakomoli had opted to take a taxi instead of turning the streets surrounding the Resplendent Auburge into a crime scene. The driver, a pasty-faced older guy, kept staring at our protagonist through the rear view mirror. This nearly prompted The Guak to not-so-politely inquire as to what was the gentleman's issue. Luckily for the cabbie the taxi reached its destination just as our hero was close to reaching his breaking point.

Our hero stepped out of the cab while demonstrating his displeasure with a snarl and lack of a tip. He began to walk to Miss Yvonne's storefront door when Yvette emerged. Her long straightened black hair had a bit more bounce than when the two had met a few days prior, and she was wearing fake eyelashes and entirely too much makeup. A long black coat clung tightly to her body and provided a stark contrast to her white platform patent leather boots (complete with stiletto heels). Her right hand grasped the straps of a large black leather handbag. Her nails were painted a bright candy apple red. The same silver skull ring as before adorned her right forefinger.

"What's going on?" The Guak asked, finding the lady's ensemble curious. He was more curious about what was under the trench coat.

"Not here," Yvette answered. "In the car. You drive; I can't work the pedals in these heels."

She handed our hero a set of keys and pointed to a 1983 sky blue Dodge Aries parked in front of the shop. She lowered the security gate in front of the store, deterring any would-be burglars of Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings. With the gate completely locked into place Yvette approached the passenger side of the K-car.

"Let's go. That shirt looks good on you."

"Thanks," responded The Guak.

"And I'm glad you didn't shave. You look tough."

The pair entered the sedan. The Guak put the seat back to accommodate his longer legs.

"We're going to the Big Buddha Bungalows," Yvette informed The Guak. "Do you know where they are?"

"Yeah."

Our hero inserted the key into the ignition and started up the car. It roared to life, and the engine revved loudly.

"It idles high," remarked the honey. "It's a shit box."

Our hero shifted the shit box's automatic transmission into drive and began the journey to the foot hills outside of The City. It was then, nearly hidden underneath the odors of a cheap "new car scent" air freshener shaped like a leaf and stale marijuana, The Guak detected an interesting aroma of cherries and Coco Puffs emanating from his passenger. It was nearly intoxicating.

"Bidness has been shit ever since Momma started getting weird," Yvette began to say while looking straight ahead. "Well, weirder than usual. A weirdness I think you have something to do with."

She turned her neck to face The Guak. Her eyes narrowed. He merely shrugged.

"To keep us from getting evicted I sometimes have to do some things I'm not particularly proud of. But I don't have any conventionally marketable skills, so I have to make do with what I do have, and that means on occasion I resort to dancing at private parties."

"You mean you're an escort?" asked our hero.

"Oh, fuck no!" Yvette answered. "I'm not a call girl. I am not a whore. I give lap dances. I shake my ass and titties in their faces. If they look like big spenders or suckers I may let them touch me a little if I think it will get me a bigger tip. I do not fuck them. Shit, I'm not even fully nude. And if I even see a hint of willy coming out of pants I'm fucking out of there."

"I'm sorry," The Guak apologized. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions about what you do."

"No, it's okay. I'm a bit sensitive about it. This isn't something I want to do, but I got to play with the hand I'm dealt. I'm too stubborn to hold a normal job where I have to answer to someone."

"So I'm protection?"

"Basically, yeah. You go in first. See if anything looks...strange. If it don't they give you the money, and you return to the car. Then I go in and do my thing, and then you drive me home. You probably won't have to do anything physical. Knowing you're outside is usually enough for them to play by the rules. But if they don't you'll come running."

"How will I know you're in trouble?" The Guak asked.

"Oh, you'll know," answered Yvette cryptically. "I appreciate you doing this. I have another guy who acts as driver, but he never showed up.  The clients are annoyed I'm so late but fuck 'em. I'm not showing up alone."

Our hero drove through The City while breathing in Yvette's scent and trying not to steal glimpses of the beauty, but his ability to not sneak a peek was broken when he heard the flick of a lighter followed by the strong smell of pot. The Guak looked over at Yvette to see her pulling heavily off of a brightly colored ceramic pipe.

"Should you be doing that now?" our hero asked. "Wouldn't it be better to keep your wits about you?"

"Step off," Yvette shot back dismissively. "Smoke helps me focus and calms me down. I get nervous when I do these gigs."

The pair remained silent during the rest of the trip to the foothills. The Guak pulled into the entrance of Big Buddha Bungalows, the cabins of which were neither large in size nor quantity and had nothing to do with an Asian religious philosophy save for the large wooden statue of the Buddha in front of the office. The Aries creeped along the bumpy dirt road that snaked between the two dozen or so bungalows before stopping at a cabin marked "22." Our hero shifted the car into park.

"Okay,"said Yvette. "Go knock on the door. Be polite but a little intimidating. Step inside, but you don't have to check out every nook and cranny. If you get a weird vibe call it off, and we'll leave."

"Something tells me I'll feel uncomfortable no matter what I see...or what I don't."

Yvette sighed. 

"Yeah, I get it," she responded. "Horny pervert creepy is okay. Rape me, kill me, dump me in the river creepy is not. You feel me?"

"Consider yourself felt," our hero replied.

"If they check out then they need to pay you upfront. No fucking checks. Cash only. Four bills."

"Four hundred?" The Guak asked incredulously.

"I'm very good, and the crackers like a hot black girl to objectify."

"Is it worth it?" asked our hero.

"I dunno," she replied. "I try not to think about it. Right now I still have some self-respect. But enough talk: go get my money."

Our protagonist exited the K-car and made his way to the door of the bungalow and rapped loudly upon it thrice. A short time later the door was answered by a short pudgy man. He seemed to be in his early forties and obviously shaved his head to hide the fact he was prematurely balding. It wasn't working. He looked cheesy with his generic navy blue t-shirt tucked into his khakis. 

"She's really late, man" the guy said.

"She's here now," said The Guak coldly.

"I...I...I didn't mean..." the man said while backing off. "No worries, man. It gave me and my boys more time to get our drink on. You know what I mean, bro?"

The man raised his arm with his palm outstretched. Our hero did not grant his tacit request for a high five.

"May I come in?" asked The Guak. He stepped past the man before he had a chance to answer.

The bungalow, though small, was open, giving off the appearance that it was much larger. Three doors lined against one of the walls of the room. In one corner was a kitchenette with a small table and four wooden chairs. The counter was lined with empty beer bottles and cans. In the center of the room were two leather couches, seated in them were three men similar to the one who answered the door: approaching middle age, dumpy, and wearing loose clothing. Each of them gripped a full bottle.

"Um, we decided to free up some space to give Caramel room to...perform," said the group's spokesman as he gestured to the large coffee table on its side pushed against a wall.

"Very clever," responded our hero with nearly clenched teeth.

"Look," the man said as his voice lowered. "Are you sure she's okay with this?"

The Guak wanted to tell him no. That no self-respecting woman would. And then shove one of the bottles completely down his throat. But it wasn't his place. It was Yvette's choice, and as much as he hated it he knew she would hate him more. Maybe she'll find another revenue stream. Soon.

"Yeah, it's all good," our hero replied despite knowing there was nothing good about it.

"Awesome," the man said with a huge grin.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a white envelope before handing it to The Guak.

"We added some extra. We appreciate this."

Our hero peered inside the envelope and counted six crisp hundred dollar bills.

"I'll send her in," The Guak informed the man flatly.

Our hero left the bungalow and returned to the driver's seat. Yvette was taking another hit from the bowl.

"They seem harmless," The Guak told her. "They look like teachers or IT guys."

"Cool."

Yvette placed the pipe on the dashboard before turning to our hero.

"How do I look?" she asked.

"You're wearing too much makeup, but I guess that's the look you're going for. You look sexy, but how can I know for sure if I don't see what's under your coat?"

A sly grin grew upon The Guak's countenance. He did not like what Yvette was about to do, but he really did want to to view what was undoubtedly a copious amount of mocha-colored flesh.

"Maybe after," Yvette replied. "But bidness first."

The foxy lady planted a smooch on our hero's cheek.

"That's the kiss you asked for the other day. But don't jump to conclusions, white boy."

"I wouldn't fucking dream of it," The Guak responded.

Yvette stepped out of the shit box car and, with bag in tow, approached the bungalow.

Part XLVI: Neither Scab Nor Scar

Harry Guakomoli was yanked away from The Pink by his ringing phone. His ring tone, "Big Pimpin'" by Jay-Z, alerted our hero that Yvette was calling him.

"Fick mich, dies besser mir gut," The Guak cursed.

He fumbled in the dark looking for his phone.

"Was ist das?" our hero barked into the phone.

"What?" a woman asked in a tone as equally as harsh. "Put The Guak on, motherfucker."

"This is he," our hero replied, switching from his newly discovered knowledge of the German tongue to his native English.

"Are you busy?" Yvette asked. "Can you pick me up in an hour?"

"I don't have a car," responded The Guak.

"Ugh. What grown ass man don't own a car? You can drive mine. Meet me in front of the shop in an hour?"

The shop the mocha-toned beauty was referring to was Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings, an ESP parlor fallen on hard times since Yvette's mother, Miss Yvonne, began exhibiting bizarre behavior possibly related to The Guak or his family.

Our hero was groggy and incredibly sleepy, but getting in Yvette's good graces could convince her to help him get answers from Yvonne. Plus The Guak always had difficulty saying "no" to a foxy lady.

"Are you still there?" questioned Yvette. "Can you meet me?"

"Yeah," responded The Guak in the affirmative. "What's this about?"

"I'll explain when you get here. And don't dress like a complete slob."

The chocolate-colored honey ended the call abruptly, leaving our hero laying in the silence and complete darkness of his room. He turned on the lamp on the night stand. The Guak squinted until his eyes adjusted to the light. He stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. He gazed into the mirror, staring at the man staring back at him. The Guak was specifically looking over the bandages that dotted his face and neck. Bandages that covered the wounds he had sustained a few days prior during his tussle with the bald acolytes of "The Death Matriarch" (whoever the fuck that was!). He couldn't show up with his face looking like that. Our hero wished the wounds under the bandages weren't open and oozing. He peeled the large bandage affixed to his neck and hoped the bite he received didn't cause it to fester. Much to his surprise, not only was his neck wound not seeping blood and pus, but it was no longer there! There was even nary a scar to be found!

"That's...fucked up," our hero muttered.

It was fucked up. For as long as The Guak could remember he recovered from injuries much faster than the average man. Quicker than any man really. But this...this was something else. That there was no reminder, be it scar or scab, of mixing it up with that bald chick. It was incredibly weird.

"Wow. That's fucking cool."

This story's protagonist was right once more. The entire situation was fucked up but in the coolest way possible. He removed the rest of the bandages to discover the results were the same. It was as if his fight with those bald bastards never happened.

The Guak spent so much time with the bandages he only enough time to shave or shower but not both. He was smelling a bit ripe so the four days' worth of stubble he had acquired would have to stay put. Our hero washed himself quickly and changed into jeans he bought at the second hand store as well as a gray t-shirt with a frog and, in the green letters, the phrase "I'm so happy I could just shit." He covered up the tee with a dark brown button-up shirt (made of both cotton and polyester for those of you who care for such things). He left it untucked and the top two buttons undone, as well as the shirt cuffs, as was his style. And of course the ensemble was completed with a pair of shit kickers.

With about fifteen minutes to spare our hero left the Resplendent Auberge. Since arriving at the glorified flophouse he had fallen asleep by eleven o'clock at night, so he had not seen the surroundings of the transient hotel/hot spot of money-for-sex get togethers at two in the morning. Whereas there were only a handful of prostitutes offering their flesh in exchange for cash (how many hookers can one have in one's hand? this narrator wonders), now there were dozens. The ladies of the night were everywhere, as were peddlers of illegal substances. And none of these entrepreneurs of sin and vice made attempts at hiding their wares and services.The blood of our hero began to boil. He was making an effort to ignore his past endeavors as a vigilante crime fighter/ass kicker, but these blatant displays were hard to overlook.

Fearing the walk to Miss Yvonne's Psychic Readings would be interrupted by some impromptu cracking of skulls, The Guak opted to hail a cab.

Part XLV: The Boardwalk Blonde

(New to the story? Start here!)

Harry Guakomoli had spent the last few days holed up in his room at The Resplendent Auberge. He rather enjoyed drinking all day and sleeping all night. Going to bed before four in the morning was a weird feeling, but it was a good weird. He only left his room to obtain the essentials: food, liquor, and toiletries. He made no attempt to trade pleasantries or make friends with the other residents of the flophouse, except for the time his next door neighbor, a transsexual prostitute named Roxy, introduced herself. She seemed nice enough, though sometimes the noises and words exchanged he overheard from her room were downright terrifying.

On the fourth day of staying at the hotel our hero finally decided to venture into the outside world. It was a beautiful day. The sky was a vibrant blue. The sun shone brightly. The clouds, what few there were, hovered in the azure firmament like little puffy balls of cotton.

The Guak wandered for hours without a care in the world. He didn't want to think about his parents or his rebirth or The Death Matriarch or Oslo or Miss Yvonne. He didn't even think about Dinah, which was strange because he had been thinking of her a great deal while in the room eating take-out, mostly Chinese, drinking St. Ides, and watching syndicated television.

He found his way to the boardwalk, the two mile-long walkway that stretched along the beach. The Guak noticed that even the sand looked better today. It was more pure, almost white, and there was not a trace of garbage to be found anywhere. And it was deserted. He found that odd Our hero continued along the boardwalk until he finally came across someone. A woman, and he was drawn to her.

The woman leaned against a metal rail and stared off into the ocean. She seemed of average height, and her long wavy platinum hair cascaded down nearly to the small of her back. A form-fitting dark red dress, its white polka dots providing a stark contrast, had a hem that ended just above the knees and seemed to barely contain her plump buttocks. The woman's white pumps seemed out of place at the beach.

"Sie sind endlich da, meine Liebe," she said with her back still facing him.

"Huh?" The Guak replied.

"Sie befinden sich hier," she said once more in the foreign tongue. "Können wir endlich eins sein."

"What is that, German? I don't speak German, honey."

"Yes, you do," the blonde contended.

"No, I don't," our hero asserted.

Well, to him it sounded like "no, I don't," but really it was the words "nein, ich glaube nicht" that emanated from his mouth.

"You're speaking German right now, Daddy," she said as she giggled. "And now finally Daddy and Ingrid can be as one and make cyborg babies for eternity."

"Wait, what?!" The Guak replied once he realized who this woman was.

"The Amazon?! You seem shorter and," his eyes wandered and fixated on her large posterior. "...Curvier."

"And not to mention that I...um...er...killed you. Rather gruesomely I might add."

"No, you didn't, Daddy," said The Amazon. "I was able to crawl to Doktor Maschinemensch's workshop and repair myself. I'm all better now, Daddy."

"Please don't call me 'Daddy.' It's creepy and makes me feel creepy."

"But is it creepy that I still want to be with you, my beloved? That I want the Tijuana knife fight? For you to pump me all the time, and for me to pump out Guak Juniors and Guakettes? That I want to be your happy horny housewife? That's why I'm wearing this dress and these heels. Do you like them?"

Yes it is, The Guak thought to himself. This is all really fucking creepy. A woman I killed is back from the dead and wants to be the mother of my children. Sure, I also had recently risen from the dead, but I, if Dinah and that dick bag Triangle are to be believed, am special. And a conversation in German? I don't know any German. I'm confused. Really confused.

"Please talk to me, Dad - Guak, darling. Now I'm afraid I have displeased you."

It is then the The Guak realized that her voice didn't sound right. It was canned and artificial. Automated like the voice on a GPS.

"What's wrong with your voice?"

Finally The Amazon turned around to face him. The Guak was immediately drawn to her plunging neckline which stopped just short of her navel. But as he looked up he noticed the buxom bombshell's face was not as he had remembered it. Now it was just smooth dark metal. No eyes. No nose. No mouth. No chin. The only break in the surface was a small speaker located toward the bottom. Memories of the night of their first encounter flooded our hero's head. Thoughts of him bludgeoning her face with his fists; slitting her throat with a piece of glass; ripping out the cybernetic implants that had replaced her eyes; and tearing off her lower jaw and most of the front part of the neck. The Guak felt cold and nauseated by his past actions.

"I..." he said softly. "I'm sorry what I did to you."

"Damn, baby," another woman's voice, albeit a natural-sounding one, came from behind our hero. "I am constantly blown away by how fucked up your sex dreams are."

The Guak spun around to face the owner of the voice. Standing before him was Fantasia, a comely and buxom woman of mixed African and East Asian descent. She was dressed in the tiniest of pink bikinis. And roller skates. Her hair, which changed color and length nearly every time he saw her, was blood red, straight, and in two braids. A large pair of headphones was wrapped around her neck and connected to a vintage Walkman that was clipped to her bikini bottom. Her right hand clenched a wet red lollipop.

Fantasia was also our hero's guide and lover when he was in The Pink, the domain and playground of Filthy O'Possum, the patron saint of dirty dreams and The Guak's (alleged) ancestor. This was proof that our hero was asleep, and that none of this was real.

"Why?" The Guak asked, annoyed and a bit disgusted. "Why are you here?"

"Because I missed you, baby," the "Blasian" purred.

"What? It's been five days."

"I know," she replied. "But after seeing you all day every day for months those few days felt like an eternity. Let's have some fun."

"No. I'm done with that."

"Party pooper," Fantasia said with a pout. "C'mon, you can yell nasty things to me in German."

"Ich kann nicht sprechen Deutsch!" our hero snapped.

"Come again?" she said as she smirked. "Can you say that in English? I'm afraid I don't speak German."

"Fuck you."

"Yes, please."

The scenery around The Guak and Fantasia began to warp and shift and everything began to fade. For a few seconds all The Guak could see was an aura of bright pink before his surroundings became in focus once more. He was no longer at the beach, but in the mossy fuchsia-colored cavern that served as the throne room of Filthy O'Possum. The lord of the manor, dressed in silk green boxers and an open gold smoking jacket (also of silk), was seated upon his throne fashioned in the image of human sex organs. One of his handmaidens, a red-headed beauty with alabaster skin, was giving her sister servant girl, as sexy as her counterpart but of dark complexion, a sensual massage.

"Fuck," said The Guak as he looked over to the man claiming to be his ancestor. "Can't you all leave me alone?"

"Don't be like that, Harry," answered Filthy. "Nothing's more important than family."

Our hero sighed.

"But I do get a little suspicious," he continued. "When the last of my line and my right hand girl get together without my knowledge. No one keeps a secret from me in The Pink."

"I did not mean to keep anything from you, sir," answered Fantasia. "I just missed your descendant. And it turns out he knows German. All of a sudden."

"Is that so?" O'Possum asked with one eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, I guess," stated our hero with little assurance. "I think I was understanding it and speaking it."

"Well, that's fucking weird," responded The Guak's (alleged) ancestor. "I hope you don't turn out like your uncle, Gus."

"What? I have an Uncle Gus?"

"Not anymore," Filthy answered before starting to tell a tale. "Details are fuzzy since my knowledge is limited to what transpires here in The Pink, and Gus was not particularly chatty when he was here. I do know he was your father's older brother and studied in Berlin. He was still in Berlin when Hitler came to power. There was something about that little Austrian with the stupid mustache that appealed to Gus. So much that he changed his name from 'Gus McGillicuddy' to 'Gustaf Irischsohn.' He was an officer, but how powerful he was in the ranks I have no idea."

"His dreams were interesting too," Fantasia interjected. "His fantasy partners were women of color, Jewesses, gypsies. Homosexuals. He liked to be tied up and whipped. I can't remember how many times he dreamt of cleaning my heeled jackboots with his tongue."

"Did he die in the war?" The Guak asked, finding himself wanting more and more answers. "Or captured?"

"Neither," responded the patron saint of sexy fantasies. "I am not sure when he died, time is hard to gauge here, or how, but I suspect he may have fled to South America. His dreams suddenly were filled with Latin men and women. And then his dreams stopped."

"Wow," said The Guak. "Can you piece together anything about my dad or mom? And if you speak ill of her I swear I will --"

"We doin,' big pimpin,' we spendin' G's," Jay-Z began to rap over some phat beats. "Check 'em out now, big pimpin,' on B-L-A-D's/ We doin' big pimpin' up in N-Y-C/ It's just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N-B."

Over and over the refrain from the man born Shawn Carter blasted throughout The Pink. And then The Guak found himself back in his bed at The Resplendent Auberge. He was groggy and confused.

"Big pimpin, spending G's."

Our hero looked over at the nightstand. His phone's display screen was glowing. Had he been more with it he would have realized that his new phone's ringtone was the same as his old burner's. That someone had programmed Jay-Z's "Big Pimpin'" into his mobile device. That person was Dinah.

The Guak picked up the phone and looked to identify the caller. The caller was Yvette.