peg22 | Summer Crack: Impending Doom

Okay, so the news of RSL aka Wilson's impending marriage, coupled of course with news of DS as reality show star, has surely thrown a wrench in all the summer plans. This story may take a while to unravel - but rest assured it WILL unravel . . .

It's PMG/DS and HL/RSL and a little Stephen Fry and Uma Thurman and a cast of hundreds by the time it's done.

It's like at the swimming pool, when you're all wet standing at the concession stand and you buy a jumbo ChicOStick and the sugary goodness sticks to your chlorine wet hands and you shiver in your towel and you're the most happy you've ever been in your entire life. That's what summer crack does to you . . .

This is all written for LS, cracken soup for the Lyrical Soul . . . and because that's how we roll.

I. It Begins With Stephen

Hello?

Are you sober?

Fuck off.

Yes, yes, we’ll get to that. First things first – are you sober?

Are you an asshole?

You sound sober.

You sound like an asshole.

Yes, well, usually your appalling manner is somewhat of a turn on, but we’ve got business to take care of.

Our business is finished, Stephen.

O, contraire my studly lion, we now have new business.

What?

Have you read the London Times this morning?

I’m not up yet.

David, please concentrate. I’m loathe to mention this . . .

Then don’t. I’m hanging up.

The child is engaged.

What child?

Our child.

We don’t have a child.

And the world is a poorer place for it – not ours as in yours and mine. Ours as in the collective ours.

I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Robert Sean Penn Leslie Ann Warren Leonard Goldberg.

The kid? You’re talking about the kid?

Yes, the suspiciously betrothed one is ending his betrothal.

And you called me for what? To celebrate?

Hardly. Sit up.

What?

Sit up – your reclined position is apparently blocking the blood flow to your brain.

Stephen, cut the crap. Why in the hell are you calling me at . . . ten in the fucking morning?

Let me put it this way, my dear befuddled Hutchy. The kid, as you call him, has announced to the world that he is finally marrying that alleged woman in August. My dearest Junket is presently in New York, collecting an obscene amount of money filming some Japanese watch commercial. Your own luscious piece of television history is also in New York, doing whatever he does.

He’s directing Law and Order.

Yes, well, so when my dearest sets out to find a moor to walk, just whose company will he most likely decide to seek out? And whose company will he be wallowing in when he is most vulnerable, and whose company has been proven to erase every bit of propriety and common sense in my dearest?

What the hell are you . . .

Hugh is going to drown his sorrows over the loss of his Wilson with a big tall glass of your own Paulie Michael Angelo Glaser. That’s what the hell I am. . .

Bullshit.

Eloquent, but less than helpful. I suggest you and I meet mid flight on the 8:15 British Airways into JFK.

You want me to fly to New York with you? For what?

To stop the madness. To separate the boys. To talk some sense into the child. To have a threesome at the Plaza. You pick.

Wait, so you’re telling me that the kid finally going legit is going to send Hugh over the edge? So? Go get him. None of my business.

Your business begins when you get a call from Paul, knee deep in guilt over having sucked all of my Hugh’s sadness out through his veritable python of a . . . python.

That’s over. Paulie promised.

Yes, well. Let’s just head over and make sure everyone keeps their promises. Suspect as they might be. Are you sure the man said, “I promise not to shag Hugh, even when he asks in the most romantic, devastated way, with eyes that would melt the Artic." Huh? Did he say that?

(silence)

David?

Mr. Solberg?

Yeah, I’m here. Pick me up at six. And you’re paying. For everything.

Good. And if we don’t arrive in time, I believe we’ll all end up paying.

tbc . . . Summer Crack: II - It Continues with Uma