How Do ya Like Me Now, Down Here on the Ground

Street Sense Staff

Marsh’s florid face exploded in sweat. He didn’t very well take to the hard, un-padded prison bench in the holding area under the DC Central Court House, south of Judiciary Square. Billy and Skipper eyed the disgraced senator through a double thick security peephole in the massive basement entry hatch.

From their point of view the befuddled big shot looked puny indeed– absolutely ant-like!

He got up and began pacing aimlessly, back and forth, back and forth. He was muttering, rather– Blubbering– quite unintelligibly. “Doesn’t look good, Billy, you know?”, whispered Skipper Marsh, almost exuding a whiff of concern, in view of the husky legislator’s looming predicament.

“Not good at all..,” Billy concurred, then added, “I’m no legal ‘iggle,’ but I get

a s-t-r-a-a-nge feeling that some heav-vy indictments may be going down.”

“Well, they can save a ream of paper off your– Apache, don’t you think–?”

“FERRET, you’re thinking. He was known as the Ferret. But yeah, no paper on

him, happy to say…and I’m saying, let’s go easy on that pore flunkey, what’s his name–?–”

Skipper barely recalled, “B-Ben!! Yes, go easy on poor Ben..”

The newly recharged pair of lovebirds sauntered out into the blazing midday,

and eventually found Skipper’s rather dusty Buick Electra convertible, stashed in a service bay of “DAVE’S SANDWICH SHOP and CAR REPAIR,” beneath the serpentine orange colored Old Atlas Hotel at Sixth and D Streets. Skipper cackled with delight. “Nothing like your own curbside, hustler valet parkers!!”

Skipper revved the engine, depressed the parking brake as Billy slid in beside her,

and swung the car leftward onto Pennsylvania Avenue, with the Capitol Dome looming dead ahead of them.

“Geez, the carnival wheel is still,” she observed, a bit spooked.

“Yep,” Billy offered. In all he excitement, it looks to be Box ‘s southward creep outta town.”

“Too bad,” offered Skipper, drily. “So- is it on to the Hill,” she wondered.

“Naw, Skipper,” retorted Billy,adjusting his stove-in sombrero. “We got much

more pressin’ business back at the Mission.” He adjusted himself a bit in the seat, groped for the seat belt, then abandoned his brief search. “Think I need t’make sure someone will remain in charge, that is– Someone who gives A HOT DAMN—”

Skipper leaned in with a stage smile, as they turned north on Fourth Street, in the direction of the shabby little Mission of Last Resort (aka ‘Macedonia Green’s Paradise’). “Not the worse for wear, are ya  Billy?”

(To Be Continued)

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