Lucky knew how to make a good first impression.  She ordered off the menu, commanding the water to bring an order of grilled-shredded chicken lightly salted.  Given where we were, I was not expecting her to get me a salad Niçoise.  So, the chickee din-din was a kind offer.  

After I finished, she grabbed me, went to her car, and told me she was in the mood for a ride.  She drove me about the area.  To my surprise, she took me out near Wolverine’s estate.  In an isolated area, she pulled over.  She strolled over to the fence, turning she issues a warning.  “Be careful around here, darling.  A wicked, wicked Wolverine lives here.  He is a scourge and commands a squad of killer bots that are quick to kill.  Never go over that fence unless I’m with you.”

I thought this was a bit thick.  Uncle Wolverine would never hurt me.  Well, maybe if I crossed him.  He has a temper.  I must say that Wolverine’s pad made me resentful of what mike and Roberta were providing me.  His estate was filled with marvels and luxury.  

Despite how nice Wolverine’s estate looked, Lucky started to snarl about scheming, murderous capitalists destroying a peaceful world. She also began a rave on how avaricious folks like Wolverine were.  It was a typical lefty riff.  Wolverine bathes in Krugerrands. He steals the bread of the poor.  He eats the poor. When he vacations, he spends gobs of money cavorting with whores and his decadent billionaire chums.  If Wolverine weren’t such a boy lover, he’d be indistinguishable from the odious perve Epstein and his cunning, depraved procuress Ghislaine.  You know, Lucky added, when I met Gee in Paris, I should have garrotted her then and there.  Instead, I let my love of kindness, beauty, and my natural leniency get the better of me. Ghislaine lived.  Also, she was serving plenty of fine wines and champagne.  It’s hard to savour a kill when you’re loaded. So why kill drunk?   Lucky’s speech was sprinkled with “darlings” and “sweeties.”  I had her smitten by me, or so I hoped.

The problem with a woman like Lucky is that, once she has had enough of you, she’ll rake you from her plate as fast as the busboy in a 3-star Michelin would rake off the leftovers of their Chef’s best dishes into the garbage.  Once I was talking to mike and he warned me about this type of person.  According to mike, the world has real bastards in it.  Mike told me a chap named Sartre knew the mark of a bastard.  According to Sartre, bastards distinguish a person like me from a table because I have a higher coefficient of difficulty.  As mike put it, tables don’t resist being pushed about, human beings (mike can be so narrow) resist.  You’d think he’d know from Bart and Fielding, or even Chicago or Quine, that a pissed-off cat has a very high coefficient of difficulty.  We’re easy when you’re spoiling us.  I suppose we’re rather like mistresses that way.

Still, I did know that I had better be careful around Lucky.

When we got to Lucky’s luxurious, dare I say estate, we sashayed in to discover Cornpone sitting on the couch in his underwear and a Polish t-shirt. To my disgust, he looked not under-groomed but never groomed.  You knew his brief was a haven for brown spots.  I stayed away.

He lit an Antonio Y Cleopatra cigar, poured himself more Early Times, ate a few Tums, then asked Lucky, whilst looking at me, “What is that?”  

If you ask me, this slob couldn’t be dead soon enough. Lucky took it in stride.  

“He’s my new friend, dearie.  I think he’ll stay awhile.”  Cornpone stretched out a fat, hideously hairy leg.  He was barefoot and had ugly toes.  I’ve always been a foot man, but this guy was beyond the pale. He lifted his T-shirt.  How could it be?  His belly was worse than his leg and feet.  His belly was bloated, about the size of an overinflated beach ball and had an angry bullet scar. 

Once I worked up the nerve, I later asked Lucky how she hopped into bed with this monster.  She smiled. “I turn out the lights, darling, I turn out the lights.  Everything looks the same when it’s pitch black.” I also noticed that when she got into bed with him, she wore black night blinds.  Like many psychopaths, she also could put up with just about anything if the incentive structure was right.

Anyway, Cornpone in all his creepiness came to grab me.  I fled!  Before even Lucky catch me, I was out a window and high tailing it for safety.  Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the fury in her face as she turned back toward Cornpone.

Next week I sneaked another ride from mike.  Back to Lucky’s estate I went.

I hopped through the window.  Lucky was in a black jumpsuit sitting on a chaise lounge.  When I looked at the couch, I saw Cornpone lying obtunded.  His entire body was a mass of bruises and abrasions.  His right armed was in a sling and his right hand showed several broken fingers. Even the bottoms of his feet had bruises.   A splintering bamboo cane lay on a coffee table in front of the divan.  In front of the cane was a half-empty 1.75-litre bottle of Early Times.  To the bottle’s right was a near-empty bottle of Tums. Next to the Tums, I spotted alcohol wipes, some salt vinegar, and what appeared to be tiny tub of battery acid.

Cornpone gave me a sorrowful look.  Being wise, I jumped into Lucky’s lap.  She cooed and cooed.   I got an earful of Motherese.  Then I saw her looking with utter detachment at Cornpone.  She then shifted her gaze back to me.  “I’m so sorry, darling.  He was beastly to you.  I don’t put up with that kind of naughtiness.  I beat and tortured him for you, sweetie.  The fucker now knows his place with you.”

Turning back to Cornpone, she fixed her cobra eyes on him whilst asking, “You will keep your fucking hands off him, won’t you, worm?”  Boy, was I glad I wasn’t Cornpone.

“Yes,” he moaned. Lucky got up from the chaise still holding me.  She walked to the coffee table. Grinning, she picked up the bamboo cane and then slashed Cornpone’s left foot with it.  She then put the cane on the table and walked back to the chaise.  Cornpone stayed on the divan blubbering out apologies.  She told him to shut up or she’d dress his wound with battery acid and chlorine wipes.

She carried me to the car.  I glanced back at the house.  “Oh,” she said, “relax.  He’ll be just fine when he rests and learns respect for my friends.  You’re a wonderful friend, darling.  It’s so nice to have somebody who understands me.”  I resisted the desire to say that I thought Cornpone understood her just now.

Gentle reader, know that Lucky had not made me feel safer.  I also had an indirect warning she was not to be trifled with.  And how!