Gloria Darling isn’t a storyteller, and her luck isn’t down. She’s intrigued by disinterest and satisfied by a shallow sense of the arete; she’s gracefully subdued, and not without a touch of class; her forks are unaligned yet she never eats while speaking. She sways from a four-knot noose like a necktie after sex. Her darling, Desideratus, keeps himself in pace, cleverly kicking pennies face-up for her to find, donderly doting on her with worthwhile kisses and heartfelt goodbyes, wherefore then when he cries she pretends not to know why? He’s a pleasant gent and she’s a bitch legs-up in the back of his limousine. He’s never felt a tick like this, a gentle pitter-pat that throws him into an epileptic fit with every hiccup, and it’s driven him to the deadly sins; that is, those loathsome three, Machiavellianism, Narcissicism, and even, they might say, Psychopathy. He was born with the boys in his belly driving stakes of shame into his every move. He’s been at the game long enough and is tired of being victimized; he will buy himself a gun and set the bastards ablaze. In a world of flames, he’ll snuff them out with sand, as coarse and cruel though it may be, as suffocating and violent, it seems to be the only way out. South of the border, he’ll lay around with a tin of prime perique and count the mammoths in the fields. Gloria Dear will be mourning something stateside, up in the treetops, high above the crystal clear oblivion laid like porcelain below her, frenzied up to smash it, weighted by guilt enough to break it with her touch; Gloria will keep on dolling jim dandies and lapping up rainbow sprinkles while mother makes lollipops in her world. While Desideratus is busily not dancing, she is waving her hands in the air like a dumb broad and laughing as her feet move in a stocky platonic pattern. Props to the heroes and the upwardly mobile, their hair kept well priced, their crime kept white-collar. Gloria excuses herself from the room to glut herself on Viennese chocolate and ruby red fingernails deep within her scabbard. Cute, she thinks; cute. Desideratus has raised himself a hound to flush out wild game and at night they speak to each other in tongues to pass the time while they try to fall asleep. A great big grizzly bear may rear its brutish maw in anger but Desideratus would fell it with a three oh’eight and have his hound devour it. Or Desideratus would charm it into submission with a cigarette (filled with dope). He’s a characteristic ne’er-do-nothing, ain’t no good, swaggering like some kind of posey, and a soul won’t get you any where.