Fuck me, I whispered to myself in the corner of the locker room, still in my navy blue Armani suit-reading the box score. Which displayed 19 points for Latrell and 19 points for Allan and a 12 point loss for our team. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Kurt appeared across the locker room as an apparition. Not as Kurt Thomas my teammate who was actually in the locker room. But as white Kurt Thomas, the alleged Caucasian interdimensional entity who had been communicating to me for the past two day about Paul’s post-Federal Reserve career.
I said, Coach? I’m just gonna step outside for a second. Outside the arena I hopped into the nearest payphone booth. (Kurt was now across the street staring at me.) I got on the line with the bookie. I said, Yeah, this is Steve Marinara. M-A-R-I-N-A-R-A. And I, uh, I had a bet on tonight’s Knicks game, yeah the NBA Finals, ummmm. I was just wondering-is it too late to cancel that bet? Shit. Ok. Yeah no worries. But ummmm. Ok. Well, never mind! Yes. God, Patrick. What? No. No, this is Steve. Yes, Steve Marinara. No, Sorry, I was talking to my cousin here. Pat Spaghetti. Yeah. No that has nothing to do with the bet. You are correct. Um. Ok. Ok. Yup. That’s great. Yes, I’ll pick up the winnings as soon as possible. Thank you!
Kurt said, What you don’t need to pay Dom back anymore? I said, Ah! He said, Believe me now? I said, Fuck! You scared me, you little cunt! Ugh. Yes? But either way I have to get back inside, like, right now. And why do you look like Black Kurt again? He said, I take many forms. I said, Fuck. Youuuuuu!! Then ran back in the Garden, hoping to Christ Ahmad Rashad didn’t catch a glimpse of me.
Babe? I said, as Paul prepared a three-egg omelet for me after the game. He said, What is it, honey? Eggs are almost done, ok? You want arugula in these? A little arugula in this omelet for Patty? Or just plain eggs? Are you my little Plain Jane? I said, Um. A little arugula wouldn’t hurt. Fiber. But . . . um, I just wanted to. Ask. You. Something? He said, Sure what is it? I said, Do you know a guy? By the name of? Kurt? Thomas? He said, Isn’t there a fella by that name that plays on your ballclub? Small forward or something or other? That Latrell Sprewell is something, huh?! Honestly, I just like saying the name. Latrell Sprewell! It almost rhymes! It has a great rhythm to it. I said, Yeah. There is. There’s a Kurt Thomas. Promising power forward actually. But I think this Kurt Thomas is actually. He’s perhaps a white fellow? Uh, ahem. A white-man? If that rings any bells? White Kurt?
Paul stopped flipping the eggs for just a moment. I said, So you do know him? He said, Kurt . . . Thomas? Very Biblical. Hmmm. I mean it doesn’t ring a bell? Per se. But it’s also a fairly common sounding name. And, you know, Patrick. I get introduced to quite a few people even on a monthly basis. I certainly could have met him. That’s entirely possible. Especially with a name like. What? Chris Tomlinson? What business is he in anyway? I said, That’s the thing. He seems to think he’s in business with you. Something about addressing the nature of. Something about perspective and observation or something? Retards? I don’t know. Haha. It was probably just some psychotic lunatic trying to play with my mind and make me go insane. Haha!
Paul paused. I took a deep whiff of my omelet burning just slightly. He said, But how . . . and I’m just thinking aloud here. But . . . how would he make the connection between the two of us? I said, I think the eggs might be done? He said, Because I thought we agreed, and I know you hate this, but I thought we agreed, for the sake of both of our careers, to keep our relationship under the radar for just a while longer? Isn’t that what we agreed on, babe? Patrick? I said, Oh, no. Totally! Totally, Paul. Yeah that’s like. One hundred percent the plan. Which is what. It’s what I’m trying to do. I’m dedicated to that. It’s actually why I’m bringing it up. Because I was like. Oh wow. Who’s this freakazoid with the name of my team’s starting Power Forward who’s telling me he knows Paul! Who he shouldn’t even, like, know that I know!
Paul dropped the omelet into my favorite orange bowl apathetically. He said, It’s curious. I’m just. Well. I hope you’re being completely transparent with me? I said, Are you being transparent with me? He said, Ok, Patrick. What do you mean? Am I being transparent with you? When have I ever not been transparent with you? What are you getting at here? Is it because I wouldn’t take you to the ADL meet-and-greet the other day? Are you coming around to Zionism finally? It’s not that I didn’t want to. I said, No it’s not that at all, Paul. Babe. Honestly, let’s just drop it. I didn’t want this to be a whole thing. I just wanted to run it by you. In case, this guy was some kind of psychotic lunatic or something. In case I was going, like, I don’t know. Totally insane or something. But it’s not like a big deal!
Kurt said, Why don’t you let me pick up the money for you? You know. Now that I think of it. It’s really the least I could do. I said, Oh, the least? Fuck man. Can you give me a few? I was about to jack off over here. I’m like twenty minutes into a pretty thorough edge session. Kurt said, I mean. Someone has to pick up the money. Otherwise, if it’s not picked up, a wager of that amount. It might draw attention. And if you pick it up. Well. And I mean this with all due respect. But you don’t exactly read as a Steve Marinara to the median New York City bookie. I said, Your racism is finally abutting sensible, Kurt. Congratulations. Are you gonna turn into a black guy again now? And of course. I’m sure you could make some form of legitimate ID appear right out of your asshole or something, right? Kurt said, In a manner of speaking that’s true. I said, Knock yourself out bro. I still don’t get it though. I don’t know what the fuck it is you’re up to. I know you want me to want to know what you’re up to. But you know what? I don’t think I even really give a fuck! Oh wow percentages! Blah blah dimensions and percentages! Just pick up my fuckin money and pay off the vig to that mooly Dom. Since you wanna help me so much! Yet even with that said. You know what? I’ve just about had it. Paul and I almost got in a huge fight last night. No. Actually. We did get in a huge fight. Because now I can’t trust him. Isn’t that sweet? How can I? I don’t even know who he fucking is anymore! He’s working with aliens. He’s banging his wife’s pussy? It’s too much! It’s grotesque!
Kurt said, Give me like . . . I don’t know. Until the end of The NBA Finals? And then I promise this will all be clear. Your life will make sense again. That I promise you, Patrick. But you know. You know . . . some people really, they actually enjoy being involved with my activities. They’re actually pumped when I come around. I’m honestly a little surprised you’re so bent out of shape because of all this. I mean, so what? Oh, Paul might still be banging his wife? You’re surprised? Are you edging your cock off into a puddle of tears because you think an uber powerful nominally heterosexual married man might be fucking his wife then homo-ing out with a man on the side. And playing both sides against each other?! A man tells you he’s leaving his wife but he’s still married. And you’re surprised to find out he’s still plowing her? How old are you? Twelve? Can you drink legally? Jesus Christ man. Give me a fucking break. I’m giving you a premium opportunity to be a part of something beyond intergalactic and you’re moping around. What are you gonna dunk basketballs until you’re Paul’s age? You’re fucking 37, Patrick. How many NBA centers play into their forties? You had a great run! You’ll be in the Hall of Fame and all that bullshit. You can make a fucking speech about how great you are on ESPN2. But you need a new lease on life. What? Is Paul it? Hahaha! What? Because he’s a 6’ 7” white guy with bonafides you think he’s some new bridge, some kind of divine new direction for you. He’s 72 fucking years old man! He could be six feet deep by the time you celebrate 40. Plus. Hold on. I’m not even at the best part yet. You think you can trust a central banker? Oh, you thought hedge fund managers were bad? You had a reservation about a stock broker? Let me tell you something. No, just hold on a second. Let me finish. Because I’ve been holding back. Oh you have no idea how I’ve been holding back! Let me tell you something, Patrick. Let me let you in on a little known secret. You can’t trust a central banker! A central banker?! Are you fucking kidding me? These guys are the biggest snake oil salesmen on your goddamned planet. And it’s not even close! They legitimately think they’re fucking God bro. They literally think they can play God and that they should be commended for it. With a straight face these people believe that some fucking pie chart is going to tell them tweaking a knob in the high yield debt market will save the world. But religion is superstition? Two Indian guys on a temporary visa put together a robust excel spreadsheet and people like Paul Volcker think they’ve become supernatural beings. They’re literal gassed-up morons. I can tell you this: No one in my dimension respects them. Oh sure they’re invited to fancy ADL conferences here. Sure. Secure financing for Israel! Claw back a couple million from Himmler’s grandson! Take out a low interest loan to bomb the Balkans! Why not? But no. They’re rightfully acknowledged as the sad, sad little men that they are where I come from. I’m actually not here to involve Paul in anything. I’m only here to wipe his ass! Just like I wiped yours! Clean the shit from his metaphorical balloon knot! These total-fucking-morons man. God, they’re tiring! Oh, I didn’t meet Jesus, so there’s no God! Oh, I can figure out the entire universe with a notepad and a few syllogisms! God. Give me a fucking break mannn! You’re better than this Pat. There are literal adolescents in this dimension. No, there are full-blown retards who have more general sense than your central bankers do. Yet they’re considered titans of industry here. This dimension is a joke dude. Get a grip bro. You think Paul fucking Volcker is your savior? Do yourself a favor. Find fucking Jesus man. Become born-again or some shit. Christ man. Go preach to some morbidly obese rural Anglo-Saxon women about the true nature of the Trinity or something. It’s just sickening. I’ll give you a couple days, ok? Let you finish beating your meat over here. I’ll toss the five hundred in your savings. It won’t be easily traced. A couple more bets and Quiet Dom might actually get off your case pal. Oh. And one more thing: 80-67, 81-89, 96-89, 78-77. Do with that as you wish. Goodbye!
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