Even though he definitely might not be looking his very best these storm-weary days—oh boy, oh jeez, this December sure has done quite the number on him—and even though his scruffy muzzle is most definitely looking black and blue—looking almost, I would definitely say, like a deli-style slice of urban roadkill—Giacomo’s walnut nose broken and bandaged with two or three teeny-weeny strips of electrical tape, angry purple sickles curling up underneath his grizzly eyes, coffee-drizzled lumps of bloody snot knitting his weeklong beard into a fuzzy quilt of cruddy crud. Oh yes, even though you would probably definitely maybe say he looks like shit, like droopy dog shit, our favorite superhero doesn’t give one flying fuck.
Doesn’t give one flying fuck about the strands of orange goo sticking to his shaggy hair, to his army-green sweater. Doesn’t give one flying fuck about the pus-rimmed volcano erupting every two or three minutes all over his bulging bronze forehead. Doesn’t even give one flying fuck about not remembering where in the fuck he left his neon-pink messenger bag. And why-oh-why doesn’t he give one flying fuck? Well, that’s obvious. That’s like totally obvious! He doesn’t give one flying fuck because he’s like never ever felt so fucking good in all of his fucking life! That’s why. He doesn’t give one flying fuck because he’s done it. Like actually done it! He’s finished that ridiculously complicated algorithm! He’s outlasted that truelove migraine! And wait, hold on, Giacomo Jones has a girlfriend too? A California girlfriend? Oh boy, oh jeez, someone please poke-a-poke our favorite superhero . . .
Grinning to himself because it doesn’t get any fucking better than this—not in this life, not on this planet—Giacomo Jones claps his superhairy paws, claps twice and adds the final coat of semicorporate sugar to his PowerPoint trophy. Times New Roman font, crossfade transitions, triumphant soundtrack. His life-or-death monologue memorized Giacomo clicks print, clicks twice then heaves himself out of the four flashing screens and rips off his fighter pilot headset (strictly 80’s and 90’s hip hop). Bouncing off his baby blue exercise ball with a roaring fist pump Giacomo charges down the aisle but sure as fuck doesn’t stop at the water cooler or at the flatscreen TV. Nope, not this time. This time he doesn’t give one flying fuck about the strength of the prosecution’s case in the Central Park murder trial. Doesn’t even give one flying fuck if the streaming subtitles match Big Brother’s lemon lips or not. This time Giacomo Jones charges straight past the miniature Christmas tree, straight past the bathroom, straight past the tanning salon and straight into the all-purpose game room, where he straightaway yanks open the refrigerator, grabs a bottle of Moet & Chandon Champagne, grabs a butcher knife, and just like he used to do as a very intimidating waiter at a West Loop steakhouse, slices the bottle’s neck straight off . . . Deliciously drenched in golden effervescence, Giacomo Jones then picks up a mason jar of skin-softening bath salts, takes an extra-large gulp from the neckless bottle, charges to the back of the game room, charges up a wooden deck—and bellyflops into the Jacuzzi. Because he’s in the fucking mood for a bubbly massage . . .
Feeling like a twentysomething Scarface, looking like a twentysomething Scarface, Giacomo Jones leans back against the soothing jets, his lower back like way more than grateful for the special attention after all those weeks, those months, those totally cramped years—at a South Side school, at college, at Google. Wishing he had a Cuban cigar or a hookah or something our favorite superhero closes his hippopotamus eyes and sinks down deep into the swirling foam, groaning with delight as the therapeutic bath salts gently unclog his swollen pores. As they temporarily ease the tension out of his bloated soul . . .
A few exfoliating minutes later, in his trademark silver sweatpants, in his silver hoodie, pouty-lipped Peter Winnerbilt flaunts his way into the game room with an autographed basketball spinning on his fingertip (Boston Celtics, 1985-86). A blasé smirk on his all-American face Peter palms the basketball and hooks a shot behind his back without even looking or stopping or nothing—the ball swooshing through the net over the door as Peter flaunts his way over to the Jacuzzi, each step of his really relaxed, really melancholic stride like totally revealing the jaded aristocratic Peter obviously is and will always be . . .
Taking a courtside seat on the wooden deck, Peter rolls his sweatpants up past his New England shins, casually lowers his five-hundred-dollar flip-flops into the multiplying bubbles.
“Don’t leave your boy hanging. Is it done or what?” Peter smirking and reparting his shiny silver hair.
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