percents

the fatman shambles into the living room and heads towards the computer. i, sitting in the chair he has rolled up to the computer's desk, swivel around to face him. I stare at him through my monocle.

me: are you worried about your percents?

fatman: are you wearing an armani suit with a hugo boss tie?

i jerk a thumb at the computer's monitor. all day i have been observing the NASDAQ.

fatman: why aren't you wearing any pants?

me: you sure be very worried about your percents. barrier boulevard is like a mighty rollamacoaster...very unpredictable.

fatman: barrier boulevard? do you mean wall street?

me: pay attention fatman! we are teetering on the verge of a repression! i have an idea on how to protect our percents...

fatman: oscar you do realize that the I.R.S will send you, because you are a former secret agent, to the supermax if you don't report your stock earnings.

i stroke my chin. i hop off the chair and pace and mutter under my breaf.

me: oh yeah, yeah...the ERS...

fatman: you know what happens to you in the supermax, don't you?

THEY RAPE ON FOLKS!

I gasp.

me: the ERS would send me to the supermax! that's where they keep the klaus kinski!

fatman: that's right, they have the unabomber imprisoned there. tell you what; you don't tell my wife about my stash of Cambodian ladyboy porn and i won't tell the I.R.S that you hide your percents.

he holds out his hand. i got no choice but to shake it.

me: deal.

O - out