And something like ten minutes later, I had a glass of somethin called sherry and I was leanin on the kitchen counter, laughin cause the Albion boy was drunk and high off his ass and Tartaro was messin with him.

Tartaro asked. “Your wife is a brunette, isn’t she?”

“Excuse me! Excuse me,” said Walter-Morgan. “How did you… no, no, nevermind. It’s that silly method of yours that you use and I’ll have to put up an intellectual argument about why my wife is not, in fact brunette, when in fact she is, and I’ve drunk too much for that. Come then gentlemen, let’s have a toast.”

“You told me she was brunette two minutes ago, Walter.” Tartaro blew a stream of smoke at Walter-Morgan. “What are you high or something?”

“That’s not my fault,” Walter-Morgan said. “Under legal ordinance 929 of the intersectoral law, I may not be held responsible or accountable if I become intoxicated by genetically altered bacteria through contagion… wait a moment, that won’t do. Tartaro, help me out, then.”

“Legal ordinance 929. A person may not be held criminally accountable if he/she became intoxicated unknowingly or unwillingly by the presence of a contagious person.” Tartaro ashed the green tip of his cigar. “An unwillingly intoxicated person and/or the contagion can be held responsible for any damages incurred while he/she is intoxicated.”

“I hate this sector and I hate you. Let’s drink another, then.” Walter-Morgan turned to me and said, “This despicable man had another one of you colorful gents buy me sherry. It’s quite delightful and we must drink it all tonight.”

He stood and crossed behind the counter to refill my cup. “Have you ever had sherry, Boa-bab. That is how you pronounce it, I trust? Boa-bab?”

The dirty-neck wasn’t sayin it wrong, so much as sayin it funny. I rarely heard someone spend so much force pronouncing the “B” as Walter-Morgan.

His hand swung a little as he filled my cup with the pink drink. “I want to be pronouncing it properly. We can have mispronunciation. I won’t abide such things.”

I laughed at him and Tartaro sat him back on the stool and said, “tell us about your wife, Morgan. Tell us about her.”

And something like ten minutes later, I realized sherry is a very alcoholic drink and Walter-Morgan was refillin my cup and I was giggling and he still had not told us about his wife. He was sayin, “No, no, no Boa-bab. To do a proper toast, you must hold out your glass, like this.”

And he thrust his cup out to arms length and I mimicked him. The cup seemed to shimmer in my fingers like a butterfly fluttering between Walter-Morgan’s naked skin and mine. I wondered why I was able to hold onto it, but I hated the idea of droppin it. “I thought you said to drink it all in one go?”

“After you hold it out and someone makes a dreadful and boring little speech or a witty one, which I shall now commence. Tartaro! Hold your glass up, man! I’m about to make a toast to my beloved wife.”

Tartaro without interest half-raised his glass to meet our very enthusiastically extended cups.

“Now, remember to clink the glass lightly when I’ve made the toast, alright? Alright, here’s to… oh bloody hell,” Walter-Morgan put the cup against his forehead and squinted his eyes shut. “What was I going to toast to, then?”

“To sequins and soft baggies!” I suggested and tinked my glass into Tartaro’s.

Tartaro took out his cigar long enough to say. “To your wife, Walter. You said: here’s to the health and long wife of my dear life, uh, the long life of your wife. Than something depressin about her livin longer than you.”

“Quite right,” Walter-Morgan said and then with something of a delayed reaction. “Ah ha so you are affected by the demon drug?”

“No, it’s the alcohol,” Tartaro said. “I got a drinkin problem. Much worsen bacteria.”

“Christ,” I said. “You wanna see an addiction take those cigars away. Man can’t go moren three hours.”

Tartaro defended himself. “Every night I do when I sleep.”

“You don’t sleep at night,” I said. He shrugged acceptin it. “Once, they had this, uh-”

“Embargo,” Tartaro said. “Had some kinda shortage in production and everyone in the sector had to cut back.”

I interrupted him, “so genius here, thinks he’s gonna give it up, right? Goes about a day and a half without em.”

“Huh,” Tartaro smirked. “Down at the Hall, they were beggin me to start smokin again. Had three people bring me their bacteria stash, cause they thought the embargo’s what got me.”

“Had a doctor tell him he would die if he didn’t keep smoking them,” I said.

Walter-Morgan’s face twisted with concern. “Good lord, that’s a horrible addiction.”

“Naw, Doctor meant I would kill someone and the enforcers would shoot me.”

I chuckled. “His heart would explode. From the stress. Well, that’s what they told me. Don’t know what they told you.”

“Anyways, alcohol’s the one that affects me.” Tartaro waved his hand. “This’ll be my last toast, gentlemen.”

He said it was a sarcastic little accent, impersonating Walter-Morgan. Walter-Morgan didn’t notice, smilin a little confused about everythin Tartar and I said. I helped him into somethin he understood. “To the health and long life of Walter-Morgan’s wife. May she outlive him many, many years.”

“Here, here,” Walter-Morgan said. “I shall drink to that. Excellently phrased, my good sir.”

“Well, I have a good phraseology,” I said.

“To my wife. May she out live me many, many years.” Walter-Morgan repeated.

“No.” Tartaro put his hand over Walter-Morgan’s cup. “To the long and healthy life of Mrs. Walter-Morgan with her husband and their children.”

“I don’t have children,” Walter-Morgan said, snobbishly. “Haven’t even had a proper honeymoon. We were going to the Savanna Sector, you know. I don’t suppose, I shall get there now, though.”

“Sure you will,” said Tartaro. “You’ll have to beget some kids quick when you get back to Albion, so that this suicidal tendency of yours doesn’t too much get in the way.”

“I’ll drink to that!” I clinked the glasses again.

“I think you, sir, would drink to anything,” Walter-Morgan said, but then amicable as flowers, drank his sherry. He said, when he came up for air and began to pour another, “I do not envy my wife’s second husband. Can you imagine trying to argue with a woman with a burden like that? Oh, how could you say such a thing about my spending habits? My dear Walter, rest his soul, would never had said that; he had so much honor. You’re good for taking out the trash and drawing a fox, Charles, but nothing at all like my first husband.”

“Why would you draw a fox?” I asked.

“Quite right,” Walter-Morgan said. “You draw a cover for the fox.”

“Fox hunting, Boa-bab.” Tartaro said.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, that’s morbid, Walter-Morgan.

“Damned morbid,” Tartaro agreed pourin himself another drink and then stopping when he remembered he said he was done drinkin.

“Well,” Walter-Morgan sat back in his chair with a chuckle that made him sound like an old man. “There’s my legacy. Damned morbid slashed with a little honor.”

“Good on you,” Tartaro said. “I leave no legacy with the end of my world.”

“Except with your escaped relative,” Walter-Morgan said. “Very clever of you, by the way, saving them like that. Pity it didn’t all go according to your plan.”

“Shoulda told them to drug him,” Tartaro said and looked at me. “I’ll save the rest too. I’m confident about it. Just like to be cautious.”

“Course you will. Course you will,” Walter-Morgan said.

“What’s this about saving the rest?” I asked, confused and certain it was not an effect of alcohol or drugs.

“Boa-bab! Oh that’s right, your poor darling doesn’t know why we’re drinking,” Walter-Morgan touched my arm but he was speaking to Tartaro. “We are drinking because when a dog chases its tail it chews it off. Isn’t that delightful? Tartaro taught me that.”

Tartaro sipped his drink and said, “I think, my phrasin was that we were like dogs chasin our tails and that if we caught em we’d just end up chewin them off.”

“Quite right. Makes much more sense. God-damned clowns and your God-damned phraseology.” Walter-Morgan took another long gulp and then said, “Well, then, old man… what’s your legacy set to be.”

“Oh, his outta be about how he was a lion tamer that moved onto people, hey Tartaro?” I suggested it out of spite.

It didn’t miss its mark. “Shut up, Boa-bab.”

“You’re a lion tamer?” Walter-Morgan asked. “How incredible!”

“I was a lion trainer,” Tartaro said. “And it’s not very uncommon.”

“But he was a great lion tamer,” I said. “Lion’s all city-wide fought to be tamed by him. Would have been the greatest of the Pedagerouses. Pedageri? By the way you outta call your mother and sisters. You should see em Walter-Morgan. Big and beautiful women, his sisters are.”

“Boa-bab, shut up.”

“Whatever happened to him?” Walter-Morgan asked, leaning towards me. “That would bring him to be an enforcer instead?”

“I’m a runt,” Tartaro said.

Walter-Morgan stepped away from the counter, shakin and the looked at Tartaro, droppin his head and liftin it again to take in all of Tartaro’s stout muscular body. “You, sir? A runt?”

“You ever meet a Strongman?” Tartaro said and drank the rest of his sherry.

“No, but you are such a… I suppose not too terribly tall, but taller than me, certainly. And a powerfully build man. I mean sturdy and broad…”

“Hey, hey, you’re married with unborn children, remember,” I said. “You can’t have this one.”

“Quite right,” Walter-Morgan said. “I only meant to comment on the fact that this person here is indeed anything but runtish. Is that a word? Runtish?”

“I’m a much better enforcer,” Tartaro said and then he laughed. “You know what my legacy will be? I’m the White-Face who got saddled with Boa-bab, the king of the juggles, the jugglers of poles… Wait, what’s the damned title of yours?”

“Prince of the pole, lord of the jugglers, and archduke of everythin in between,” I said, souring already.

“Except the tightrope,” Tartaro said. I grit my teeth. “You hate the tightrope. You wanna know why he hates the tightrope, Walter?”

“I can’t imagine why I would, but I’m sure I’ll hear anyway,” said Walter-Morgan. “Seems like a lovely pastime. Tightropes, that is. Just lovely.”

Tartaro took his cigar from between his teeth and pointed it at me. “Do you know what you are seeing when you look at Boa-bab, Walter-Morgan?”

And as if the man had never seen me before in his life, Walter-Morgan turned his naked face to study me. “I knew of him before I came, if that’s what you mean. The Crown Jewel is quite fond of Mr. Boa-bab actually. She was very upset when he declined to participate in her birthday celebrations.”

“I don’t do birthdays,” I said.

“He don’t leave the sector,” Tartaro corrected. “When you look at him, Mr. Morgan, you are lookin at the ultimate failure in a new and growin system. The product of a White-face motivated entirely by greed for power who manipulated her own damn child into becoming the perfect Auguste.”

“You’re a mean drunk,” I said to Tartaro.

“Fuck off, you started it,” Tartaro leaned on his arm and spoke as if I wasn’t there, starin at my feet dangling on my stool. “By the time, this fucker ‘s fifteen, he’s so worn out from trainin and practicin and performin, and trainin and performin and just the meaninglessness of his damned fifteen year-old existence, that he just drops off a tightrope in the Three Rings one day. Snatched right out of the jaws of death by his mother’s oldest Auguste, who ends up breakin his leg and gettin left at a holdin tank cause he’s useless now, hey. Isn’t that right, Boa-bab?”

I thought of Boehm’s arms tight around me and the crunch of his leg against the building and the cheer of the audience and how Gypsydonna played his leg off like an accident in an otherwise perfectly choreographed piece. I said, “You’re a damned mean drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m teachin you a lesson.”

“I get it. I won’t mention the lions again.”

“I coulda told him about Zippatelli. You want me to tell him about that instead?”

My head shot up and I looked at him, my stomach crawlin with such worms of fear that Tartaro flinched a little and said. “I’m not going to. But I coulda. Walter, tell us about that bitch of yours. Is she pretty?”

“Well, she wears lipstick so I imagine she’d be slightly less hideous than I am by your standards. I find her quite lovely to look at. We don’t argue as much as you and yours, but perhaps we’ve not been married long.”

“Is she one of those lovely plump Albion ladies with the big hats and breasts?” I asked. “With the, um… what’ve that ‘v’ word I like, Tartar?”

“Voluptuous?” Tartaro suggested. “Vascular? Vivisectionalist?”

“That’s the one,” I said. “Vivisectionalist. Is she a vivisectionalist, Walter-Morgan?”

Walter-Morgan looked confused and then shook his head and said, “I’ve drunk too much and it’s not befitting.”

“Meh, you’re gonna die,” Tartaro said. “Why waste time befitting anythin?”

“Again with this morbidity!” I said. “Why do we keep talkin about death and legacies and the end of the world?”

They were quiet a minute then Walter-Morgan took another drink and said, “Tartaro, I am not drunk enough to make the same mistake twice.”

“Let the massive panic be on my shoulders then,” Tartaro said, and rolled his shoulders like he was already tryin to shrug off the burden. “Not that a massive panic would be bad for your business. I mean, wiping out a whole sector, you don’t really take an inventory of the individual deaths, do you?”

“Wipin out a whole sector?” It took me a minute to wrap my cloudy head about that idea. “You mean the Cirque? The entire Cirque?

“Oh no not all, they mean to save the insects and stray cats. Everythin else though is fucked.” Tartaro said. I think he was being sarcastic.

Walter-Morgan chuckled somewhat amused by Tartaro’s sentiment and then he took a sip from his sherry. “It’s going to happen in three days. I’m not sure what they have planned. In lesser sectors, we’ve simply cut off the water supply and watched the Diaspora. Here though, we mean to set an example. I expect my death to be uniquely horrific since I have the pleasure of sharin it with you?”

“I’m gonna kill you first, Walter-Morgan,” Tartaro promised. “When I run out of options, you’re the first one I’m takin out. Your next, babe, since you came back.

“But the intersectoral council-” I floundered with my defense, with the concept in general.

“They don’t have the power to stop us,” Walter-Morgan said. “Most of their army is our men. Certainly all of their navy and a great portion of their volex fleet.”

“That’s the New Age,” Tartaro protested.

“Who cannot leave their sector without Albion’s permission,” Walter-Morgan said.

The dirty-neck was so calm about it. I could see why Tartaro was cynical. I wasn’t certain they weren’t just playin a nasty joke on me yet. “All this cause a missin kid?”

“A Crown Jewel,” Walter-Morgan slammed down his cup. “Can’t you see the importance of such a child? Don’t you understand the symbolism to the Albions? We would rather destroy her than to believe her to be corrupted in any way. It’s a matter of… honor.”

His frown creased his face with grief and anger and for a moment, he looked like a Tramp without the colors.

“Honor and morbidity,” Tartaro said and held up his empty glass as it to toast.

Walter-Morgan clinked his glad into it and said, “And to your legacy, Tartaro. The clown who tried to save the unsavable and failed miserably, due to personal character flaws.”

“Ugh,” I said and bowed my head to the counter. “He’s a mean drunk too.”

Tartaro chuckled and ventured a rhyme. “Just a mean bunch of mean drunks.”

“Veritas,” I said. “Very very, Veritas.”