Grudge Match: Fogg v Cawdor, sponsored by the firm of Fibner and Locust(the six figure b*tches).

The universe had a kind of dust-bowl twing-a-ling whisper-blight that gobsmacked against sensitive ears: how do you solve a problem like Hansel Fogg?

Fibner and Locust was on the line, first thing Monday morning, in the black socks and all, not even bothering to book a tea time or anything, ahead of it, on the line scouring for Memphis Cawdor, the one in the houndstooth plait, the stupid Mississippi Governor straw hat, with the 1971 chic floral print band around the thing.  He just generated unease, smelled of hair gel, and generate unease, practically exhaled a kind of something on the edge of nausea, something that sat at the chest and worked at it, something that, if we knew what it was, it might not be so insipid, so foreboding, but such as it was, there was a problem; he was a solver, as of the proverbial lock and key.

Fidgeting with the car, a grandma picking shells on the beach, maybe, and this hoo-hah working at the little hydraulic lines, where a little blanch of the stuff stopped-up the whole works, and they he did something dastardly to the microwave, hoping perhaps to melt Hansel Fogg, if not smack him into a light pole, cook his grits for him, his innards, the guttyworks, make him a proverbial baked potato, and not the Chinese finger trap that pissed-off all the tourists at the airport.

God forbid Cawdor smelled a feminine scent, then it was all on, his Kryptonite, a much broader more malevolent turn of thought than just cosmic dissipation, why a more prolonged sort of thing, just like when the NHRA cars make the big wheels smoke in the lanes, a kind of advanced strategem such that Cawdor's actions look like the elapsation of time itself, just as sure and incontrovertible, but with the kind of devil-lilt that a lot of people just don't pick up on.  How much of the world, anyway, was kaput just because Memphis scented a bit of floral eau de toilette?

The lawyers--the 6-figure retainers,those--wouldn't just call in an independent contractor, but in one little question, toss abruptly the entire backend of hell's half-acre onto a bonfire of dissipation.  It was perfectly natural, some say, a kind of--was it carbonizing or carbonating?--something perfectly like potatoes lighting light bulbs and all, kind of tricks of the cosmos, and shame on us, if we heard so much, and still wouldn't believe the devil was real, and Memphis Cawdor wasn't roundly on loan to the forces of injustice.