“LIKE I WAS TELLING KEN RUBAY,” says Tartan, now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, tossing back another dry gram of psilocybin mushrooms with 28 grams of Lagavulin single-malt scotch stirred into 8 ounces of tepid espresso, “the Good Book says that the president can spy on whomever he wants. He’s the Messiah, moron.”
“Who’s Ken Rubay?” says Schechner, who’s doing some kind of mime routine at the window. “My grandfather?”
“No,” says Tartan. “The guy who runs the cigar shop.”
“Which cigar shop?” Schechner hurls an ashtray, which lands harmlessly in Tartan’s enormous gut. They laugh until Schechner passes out on the floor. Tartan rises and, with much ceremony, extracts a battery-powered, rotary nose-hair trimmer from his carry-on and heads for the bathroom. “I take drugs,” he shouts over the grinding whir, “because the Messiah has an IQ of 50.”
I figure I should probably get back to my room. “I should get back to my room.” So I can write this down. “I should probably go write this down.”
Tartan waves me off.
Schechner lifts his head. “My grandfather still beats us telekinetically,” he says, “from the grave.” And he passes out again.
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