Anaideia part 8

I descended into the valley of opulence and avarice where blissful ignorance is felt in these enclaves. Protected by the herringbone floors and Italian marble, these people are shielded from the heat raging from the plebeians at the gate. I was an unwelcomed intruder in these parts, for as a weightless gadfly I shattered their pristine slant. Now they walk with their self-assured innocence, but later they possess a fate worse than hell.

Such was the gated community of ‘Big Dick Cedars’. I waltzed up to the guard gate where a large burly man with a stretched out polo and a 9mm was fingering his nose. He gazed upon me through rounded glasses and droopy eyes. “Hello sir. Welcome to Big Dick Cedars. Are you visiting someone today?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m here to see Randall J Furie,” I say.

“Is he expecting you?”

“He better be.”

The guard radios to another. “I’ll have someone meet you at the gate,” he says to me.

I step a few feet away to the main entrance. While I waited, I expected to be greeted by another dopey looking guard. But when the gate swung open it was the same man. “Welcome to Big Dick Cedars,” he says to me again, “please take a seat in the golf cart and I’ll escort you to Mr. Furie’s.”

I sit in the dilapidated cart. The leather seats were torn and one could barely see through the plexiglass windshield. When the guard turned the key, the cart pushed forward at a snail’s pace. I could have got out and walked faster. There were also speed bumps every 15 feet and the guard made it a point to hit every one. “You can never be too safe,” he told me as the cart struggled to hurdle the meager obstacle. 45 minutes later, in a walk that I could have made in 10, we arrive at Randall J. Furie’s Greek revival mansion.

The guard steps out of the cart and pulls up his sagging khaki pants then escorts me past the fountains and Maseratis to the front door. He knocks loudly then belches. “So you know Randall well?” he asks me.

“You’re goddamn right I do. And his name is Randy.”

The guard nods and pounds on the door again. When someone bothered to answer it, it was a tall and proper looking butler wearing all the proper butler garb. He opens the door and looks me up and down. “So you hea ta see Mista Furie?” he asks in an unexpected Cajun accent.

“Yup. The son of a bitch owes me money.”

“Come on in suh. Kick off your shoes n stay awhile.”

I step inside to the marble floors and kick off my shoes. I follow the gangly butler through the foyer, past the kitchen, down some corridors, past another kitchen, a billiards room, a home theater, a Subway stand, another kitchen, two replicas of the USS Defiant bridge from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, a toilet complete with a bidet, the servant’s quarters, some starving Vietnamese children, a Pol Pot memorabilia room, and finally to the reception room to Randy’s office. The secretary was none too pleased to see me.

“Mr. Furie is a very busy man,” that bitch of a secretary said. “Why didn’t you set an appointment?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business lady?” I responded.

“It’s quite alright Blanch,” a cheerful voice was heard from the other room. Randy stepped out from behind the leather padded door. He was shoeless and donning his signature wayfarers. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said to me with all smiles, “I’ve been expecting you.”

TO BE CONTINUED…