Free Biceps Of Death by David Stukas

think it’s real?”
    “Without a doubt. Rich people don’t have posters and framed copies from the Metropolitan Museum gift shop on their occasional tables. No wonder someone’s going to such extremes to get that CD. There are reputations at stake. Some of these guys could be the CEOs of companies that manufacture household cleaners that Methodists in Kansas use to clean their toilets. Knowing that the CEO likes paying a personal trainer to stick fruit and vegetables up his bum isn’t going to fly very well with its customers, whose brains have been disintegrated by these very cleaning products. No, these people will be out for blood. The guys on this disk are probably shittin’ on their priceless Persian rugs right now.”
    “Did you notice the Picasso etching on the table in that one guy’s apartment ... the one wearing the riding outfit in the last folder?”
    “Chet Ponyweather’s? Yes, I did notice it. I also noticed that Frank Addams has several Julian Schnabels in his apartment.”
    “Hmm, there’s a lot to be explored here,” Monette remarked, closing folders and putting her computer to sleep. “Well, I think that’s enough for tonight. How about bad movie night?”
    “ The Testicles from Planet Eros ?” I asked.
    “Robert, forget about exposing yourself for the cameras. By tomorrow, everyone will have forgotten about it. How about The Beast with a Million Eyes ? And I could make my famous nosebleed nachos ...” Monette suggested like a sadistic Julia Child.
    “How about a pizza?” I countered.
    “Robert, you always love my five-alarm nachos.”
    “Of course I do, but not tonight. My stomach’s upset about this mess I’m in.”
    Grabbing my chin, Monette looked straight into my eyes, and perhaps into my heart. “Remember, you’re not in this thing alone. I’m always here.”
    “Thanks, Monette. You’re the kind of friend I need right now.” I was silent for a moment, then changed the subject. “Besides, I need a pizza because I’m not getting any younger, Monette. The last batch of your nachos taught me the meaning of the word flaming asshole .”
    Monette gave a loud laugh that stopped short of cracking plaster. “Okay, I’ll call in the pizza. But at least let me have some jalapeños on it.”
    “On half ... I want mushrooms on my side.”
    Monette opened a bottle of red wine, popped the tape into the VCR, and we waited for the pizza to arrive. Monette didn’t start the movie just yet—that would be blasphemy to watch a bad movie without a slice of cheese pie in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. So we talked about nothing important for some time until the door intercom blared in Monette’s hallway.
    “Yes?”
    “Pizza delivery,” the voice yelled.
    (Why, I wondered, do people always feel they have to yell into the intercom? If you would just talk in a calm rational voice, you’d be heard loud and clear. But no, everyone has to talk so loudly, they make the entire point of the intercom unnecessary or cause so much distortion that you can’t hear the person on the other end.)
    A minute later, there was a knock on the door. Monette opened it.
    “Mmmm, smells wonderful!” she said. “So where’s Gino?” Monette asked.
    “Gino?” the deliveryman asked.
    “Gino, the usual delivery man.”
    “Oh, he sick,” pizza man replied.
    “Well, tell him I hope he feels better.”
    “Okay, I’ll tell him,” the man said, smiled, then closed the door gently behind him.
    “Movie time,” Monette announced, carrying the pizza box into the living area, where we sat on the sofa she once rescued from a dumpster and watched the movie to its pathetic conclusion. True to my fear, my nose started bleeding after eating one too many jalapeños.
    When we had finished the movie and cleaned up, Monette helped me prepare the sofa in the living room for my slumber. As I climbed into bed, I asked the question that had been on both of our minds since before I