Sifting for the last skillet at the end of the world

The end of the world don't mean the end of sausages.

Franklin Pierce said this. To me, and to Jazz and to Hardly Davidson and to everyone else too but we tipped our ears on the sweet juice of his words because we were the food crew. Franklin Pierce was not the kind of man to say things twice, once to everybody and then, again, to subjects of his address. I speak direct, he would preface every sentence. Franklin Pierce had once been a debate coach at an economically disadvantaged neighborhood.

Franklin Pierce, however, did not seem much bothered to do much more than the issuance of these directives, a distribution of power that I, myself, didn't seem too keen on, muchly. But this is America, sometimes you're ninety-nine and sometimes you're top percent. That ,there, are the facts, a statement that he liked to end speeches with, and are expected to hold even if Wall Street is little more than a finely coifed crater sliding slowly into the sea.

Hardly Davidson and Jazz, I had figured but never asked, were a couple which left me, as folks would call, a third wheel. At least before the automobile burnings of my early adolescence. That story, I knew correct from the deflated tire lips of Hardly Davidson himself. In a coughed up explanation of his own name, he told me he had been the world's foremost expert on that vehicle and all kinds of vehicular devices, having amassed a collection of such and all vehicles no smaller than three parking garages of space contained, at the time, somewhere inside the patchy atomic archipelago that was once a peninsula called Florida. Certain vehicles, he told me in confidence, whenever Jazz would be out peering inside a stanked-out refrigerator that we were way too chicken to go near, had been displayed in retrospectives on the art at place called the Guggenheim during the early Bush years. Course, that hardly matters now, does it? He would guffaw, whenever he told this story, like a dying duck.

Whenever he would cough or maybe sneeze or in some way adjust his body built like a tank at an abandoned Army Depot, he would scratch a carefully-trimmed bushel of hairs that he kept stashed on his chest. Now, you wouldn't think it, but Hardly Davidson was the most well-groomed man in all New Westchester. For that and many other equally thought out reasons, I thought of Hardly Davidson as a natural leader in my efforts to unseat Franklin Pierce. Myself, I saw as a kind of grand vizier figure, kinda like the tall hat in Aladdin, which is why I had no interests in messing up his thing with Jazz even though, if anyone asked with a bible in their hand and a command for me to swear it, I would tell the flat truth about her: she was one percent, that's right.

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