“I don’t know if this is foolish, or brilliant.” He said, brushing some of the sugar off his chest. All he managed to do was make the sugar mingle with sweat into a sticky, hairy mess.

“It doesn’t really matter, now does it? It’s mine, and that’s what counts. The wood is harvested from the Kuboro cherry tree, indigenous to the Peruvian rainforests. The plastic is impossible to recycle. The fixtures were made by Chinese five year olds in a San Francisco sweatshop so they ran pretty cheap. Each interior section is cooled by high powered air conditioning units. The rope is a nearly indestructible blend of synthetic fibers and sinew from an endangered species of alpaca. It’s… Perfect.”

“You are a terrible person.” Nick stated.

Jalie shot him a disparaging look. “You and I both know you’ll end up sleeping in this thing more than once. And we both know you’ll make full use of the waterslide. So why are you bitching?”

“Because I feel it’s my duty to be indignant while I take full advantage of the lovely products resulting from these hideous behaviors. Like wearing Nikes and eating at McDonalds. I am a god damned proud American. I’ll enjoy the benefits but you are sure as hell going to hear about what a terrible person you are for providing me with it.” With that, Nick stormed off into the house – probably to bitch at Seth about his native country’s seal clubbing practices. As far as Jalie was concerned, seals had as much right to rave as the next marine mammal.

“Move your asses, gringos! I wanna get wet!” Jalie shouted.

Several of the construction workers chuckled. Jalie shot them a glare and headed back into the house. Hobo Nick had made it into the kitchen and was putting together a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Seth was lying on the sofa in a groggy state that was a touch sleepy, half drunk, half stoned, and half mathematically impossible. So far he’d been preparing for his return to the ring by renewing his love for Canadian beer, hydroponic grass, and Nick at Nite. He’d started up the DVR and was watching old recorded episodes of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Carlton was on screen, dancing for some reason or another, and Seth was wagging his foot in time with the music. Jalie took off her hard hat and dropped it in the entryway along with the plethora of discarded shoes, empty bottles, and unopened mail. Several of the letters on the floor looked important and had government insignia stamped on them. Most of them were addressed to Hobo Nick, though a few bore Jalie’s name alone. She trampled across the papers and into the living room.

“By the way, Lielee, some FedEx nazi dropped off some certified mail for you today. I thought it looked interesting so I opened it.” Nick began.

“That’s a federal offense, you know.” Jalie cut in. Nick waved her off and continued.

“Whatever. Anyway I opened it and apparently you inherited some money.”

Now he had her attention. “Oh yeah? Who died?” Jalie asked casually. She opened the freezer and pulled out a bottle of Everclear. She unscrewed the cap and took a large swig, staring at the refrigerator door as it burned its way down.

“Your uncle. Some guy named Harpo. How the hell can you drink that shit? It’s like vodka had an illegitimate bastard child with paint thinner. And then dipped it in gasoline.”

“It doesn’t really taste like anything. There is no buzzed period. You drink this tasteless fire and thirty minutes later your car is parked inside a Dunkin’ Donuts and you can’t feel your feet. Who the fuck is Uncle Harpo?” Jalie asked.

“How the hell should I know?” Nick asked, shaking his head. “It says you have to be present at the reading of the will in order to actually claim your inheritance.”

“Inheritance. So it might not actually be money. It might be a stuffed elk that some hunting enthusiast considers a fucking family heirloom. Then again, it could be… a battery charger. Or even an iron maiden. God knows mine is crusted with dried blood.” Jalie trailed off.

“It could be a boat.” Seth called from the sofa.

“It could be a set of golf clubs.” Nick added.

“True, true. I suppose it might even actually be money, which would make going to the stupid thing worthwhile. Michael Pettis might have been a senile megalomaniac but he paid better than Walsh does.” Jalie stated.

“Paid you for what?” Nick asked slyly.

“Paid me to let them butt-fuck you in the broom closet when I drugged your donuts. Now shut the fuck up.”

“It could be a boat.” Seth called again.

“Yes, dear, it could be a boat.” Jalie agreed.

“Only problem is, this Harpo guy didn’t live in the states. Or Mexico.” Nick told her.

“Then where the hell was he from? All my family is either in California, Mexico, or that bizarre offshoot that moved to Japan back in the seventies.”

Nick grinned widely. “Oh, hell. You’re telling me I have to drag my ass to Tokyo just to claim something that I may or may not consider valuable?” Jalie asked. Nick continued grinning.

“Shit. But I just got my jungle gym…” She trailed off, looking forlorn.

“I’ll come with you!” Nick proclaimed, as though that would cheer her up.

“Babe!” Seth shouted. Jalie turned to look at him. He was sitting up now, finally giving the situation his full attention. “You have to go. We’ll all go. I’ll even learn some words in Japanese. But we HAVE to go!” Seth pleaded. Jalie stared at him.

“Why are you so eager about this? You got nervous the one time we drove through Chinatown.”

“They are tiny, hateful people who have a taste for blood. Nobody likes rice that much. Nobody. Besides, we’ve got to at least give it a shot. You never know. It could be-”

“-a boat.” Jalie and Nick finished for him.

The scene opened to the glittering lights of Tokyo, Japan. Seth was sitting in the front seat of their taxi, flipping through a Japanese phrase-book. Jalie, Hobo Nick, and Jay Dumas were squeezed in the backseat. Jalie was looking like she already seriously regretted the decision to fly overseas.

“Izuko za benjo?” Seth asked the cab driver.

The driver stared at him before suddenly shouting “NO SHIT IN CAR, AMERICAN BEEFHEAD!”

Seth sat in stunned silence. He folded the book away and set it in his lap. Nick giggled in the backseat. After a short ride in an uncomfortable silence, the cab pulled up beside their hotel, which was a large neon monstrosity decorated with advertisements for anything and everything. Jalie, Nick, and Jay climbed out of the backseat and began unloading their luggage from the trunk. Seth got out and walked around to the drivers side door. He pulled a wad of money from his front pocket and tossed it in the drivers’ face.

“Domo arigato! …Dick.”

Before he could step back fully, the driver peeled away from the curb, running over Seth’s foot in the process. Nick was sticking halfway out of the trunk, still clutching his overnight bag. The cab rounded a corner at high speed and Nick flew out onto the road, his trenchcoat billowing around him and revealing his underwear. He trudged back to their group with his bag and then shoved past them to make his way into the hotel.

The interior lobby was decorated in a somber theme of black and white. There were very few frills or decorations. Tiny Japanese businessmen in pressed suits bustled back and forth, coming and going, too concerned with their own patterns to take much notice of the odd collection of foreigners. They made their way to the check-in desk where Seth whipped out his Japanese phrase book once more.

“Uhh… Yutori. Yutori. Tameni nemuri. YUTORI!” He shouted.

“Checking in, sir?” Asked the receptionist in perfect English.

Seth blinked. “Yes, thank you. Name of Thomas.”

The receptionist nodded and took Seth’s offered credit card. A moment later she handed him two room keys. The four of them gathered their things and made their way to the elevators.

“Do I really have to share a room with Nick?” Jay asked.

“Yes. Just sleep on your back and don’t leave your drinks unattended. You’ll be fine.” Jalie assured him as the elevator reached their floor.

“Everybody drop off your crap. We’ve got a boat to collect.” said Seth.

The scene opened once more to a small, dimly lit room full of people dressed conservatively. Well, mostly. Hobo Nick would simply not be persuaded to wear pants. Jay was wearing a screaming orange t-shirt with yellow track pants and reeboks. Seth was dressed normally in a white beater and jeans, but his hair was mussed from a confrontation with the hotels housekeeper. She had an affinity for American men. When Seth told her he was Canadian, she hadn’t taken it well. The marks of Seth’s encounter were various scratch marks and an earring missing in his right ear. The three of them were standing in a rear corner of the room, separate from the bereaved and the legal officiators. Jalie was sitting in a chair near the back of the room looking very out of place. Each other person in the room was Japanese and seemed to know Harpo very well. A large portrait of him was erected at the front for all to see. Harpo had been a large Mexican man with very little neck and far too much of everything else. In the portrait he was clutching two small fluffy dogs of the variety that look like they’ve run face first into a wall.

“Not to sound inconsiderate but could we hurry this the fuck up?” Jalie hollered.

The comment got her some cold looks, but the executor did finally open his notes and clear his throat.

“We are here for the reading of the will of one Harponito Guzman Madagascar Dumas. Please refrain from comment until the entire contents have been disclosed. ‘I, Harpo Dumas, hereby bequeath my last remaining assets as follows. To my wife Esperanza I leave my 1967 Dodge Charger, as well as my collection of Simpsons memorabilia and the good china. To my son Julio, I leave a sum of fifty thousand dollars, to be distributed upon his enrollment into college at or before the age of twenty one.”

From the back of the room Seth could be heard muttering, “Come on, boat… Come on…”

“To my beloved little Lielee, Jalie Dumas, I leave my most precious-”

“BOAT!” Seth shouted. Each person seated turned to collectively ‘shh’ him.

“Ahem. ‘I leave my most precious antique. This teapot.” The executor lifted a white teapot and placed it on the desk. Seth shrieked “NO!”, Jalie exclaimed “You’re kidding me!” and Hobo Nick farted.

Furious, Seth stomped up the aisle of chairs and grabbed the teapot. Jalie stood and followed him as he stormed out the doors.

Be still, my heart. Miranda speaks. Anyone that suggests burning something down and assaulting cops as an idea for a good time is worth approval in my book. Granted, I don’t think Miranda is the sort of person to give a flying fuck about anyone’s approval, but she still has it. Her brief encounter with Walsh was almost worth being televised just for the sake of her being involved. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t particularly have anything against Shawn, but I’ve seen the show. Hell, for a time Shawn and I were the show. Any animosity I held toward him faded away a long time ago. My mind is better occupied with keeping my ass on the right side of prison bars and far away from the state of Wyoming. Fuck Wyoming. But I digress.

I like you, Miranda. And that’s not scotch talking. It’s not even whiskey or tequila talking. It might have something to do with this seafood I ate in Tokyo. The point is, I think the prospect of wasting a night testing out homemade explosives together sounds like the makings of a damn good time. You’re a little unbalanced, but I like that in a person. You’re also most likely spot on when it comes to the topic of my past activities. I haven’t changed that much from my teenage years. My reaction time has slowed slightly with the discovery of new intoxicants and hallucinogens, but the basic principles remain the same. I’d actually like to see you wear the Universal championship. I think it would make things interesting. I also think it would be interesting to see you not wearing the Universal championship. Or anything else. Again, I digress.

As for you, Mister Barnes, well… WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? Everything is wrong with you. But it makes you right. Does that make sense? I’m sure it does to you. It makes sense to me. And the logic follows because whether you’d like to admit it or not, we are alike. In fact, we’re so alike that it’s almost disturbing. Although I can’t say that I’ve ever fucked my sister. Yeah buddy, you went there.

So while you’re standing outside various houses, half-ass searching for my living space, has it ever occurred to you that the raping idea may fail even if you do somehow locate me? You and I went toe to toe in our match last week on Shockwave. What if you black out first? Take heart in the fact that I won’t violate your being while you’re unconscious. I have more dignity than that. Barely. But I can assure you that you will wake up in a cold, dark place, bound and gagged. And then, my friend, your torment begins. Maybe in the form of a Tijuana birthday. Maybe I’ll just force you to watch The View until your eyes and ears bleed. I’ll bet you didn’t think I’d go that far.

You and I probably did know each other in a past life. That doesn’t mean we’re meant to be a couple in this one. You’ve got some pretty sick ideas when it comes to sex. I mean, really. A little bit of cutting? That’s just… Well, kinda hot. But I don’t think you have the balls. I think if the hot wax was flowing and fists were flying, you may just turn into the little engine that couldn’t. So give it up. Or keep pushing it, and find out just how god damned weird Barbara Walter’s speech impediment is.