The Bass Wore Scales
“She was a sitting duck or maybe a cooked goose, a dying quail, a squatting swan, or something equally as fowl. If The Minimalist got to Betsy before I did, he’d squeeze her like a custard frog on St. Beadle’s Day. I took the stairs two at a time, carefully wiping my mouth as I got to the bottom. Right then and there, I made a solemn vow. Fishy Jim had been a good bass, and his skeleton would get the burial it deserved.Marilyn was waiting for me with the car running.I hopped into the jump seat. ...“What are you doing here?” I asked, curious as an altar boy at a “True Love Waits” convention.“I thought you could use a little help. You wanna get some dinner?”“No thanks. I just ate.”“Okay. Where to?”“Let’s get over to Moby Mel’s. I need to find Betsy.”“Harumph. I don’t know what you see in her.”“Other than a drop-dead gorgeous face, a body that Aphrodite would envy, a personality that makes Katie Couric seem like Leona Helmsley, a double-doctorate in Anthropology and Medieval English, and seventeen million dollars?”“Yeah.MoreLess
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