Raising the bar, while lowering the lid.
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Peaches sidles in between Bouvard and Peckushay. He knew full well that I was in the stall behind him.
Peaches sprang from the urinol and turned on the water for the Boss, and even handed him a few paper towols. Peaches looked like an apple polishing jerk. Peckushay was laughin at all of this.
Peaches left the bathroom first, humbly supplicating that he woud run off to get the limousine, ASAP. As soon as Peaches left the Boss muttored to Peckushay, "He can be annoying, that one."
Once agian at the restuarant Mr. Bouvard was Holding Court. He was the only one talking. We had to wait in the bar first for a table. This was my chance to try to go to the toilet agian, but alas once agian I was fruitless.
Whatevor they served Mr. Bouvard at the bar (I didnt see) he must of realy liked because he not only broght his drink to the table, he ordered 3 more over the course of the meal. All as we ate he told us a whole lot of storeis from his days in the Army.
"Mmmph! So there we were, pinned down by the enemy. It was war, boys, WAR!! But we captured that mountain," he blustered, "That mountain was MINE!"
I'd heard this Army story a few times already. It wasnt from a war, but from a training exercise in North Carolina. Howevor everything the Boss said, Peaches had some brown nosing comment.
"Bring me another one of these!" Bouvard cried to the waiter as he raised his glass. Actualy, he ordered one for all of us.
"This sparkling beveridge," mused the Boss, is delicate yet fruity. Bold, yet provoccative. And with a delightfull citrusy bouquet."
Peaches simpered, "I coudnt agree more!" Bouvard narowwed his eyes and angrily shook his jowls. "On second thoght, it tastes like frog piss."
Peaches looked shocked. Truth be told I recongized the drink immediatly as Zima.
"Where's my Director of Marketing?" Bouvard said sudenly. Peaches quickley made up some story about how he sent Stu on asignment somewhere. Bouvard was slowly gettin sloshed and so didnt really pay attention.
"You didnt hear this from me, but: That young man looks a lot like Porky Pig. Harrumph!"
I did not know what to say. Peckushay was silent. Bouvard bobboled a chunk of merenge pie in his mouth, dribbling peices of it on his chin, paused, and then contineud his rambling boring Army story. Sudenly he stopped again, and this time adressed me directly: "You probably think I'm some clueless old fuddyduddy." My heart started beating a mile a minnute.
"Harrumph! I know who you are!," he gesticullated with his glass. Then he started talking about Peaches agian.
"The only reasen HE works here is because he married my wife's niece."
Bouvard supressed a belch and lightley tapped his fist on his chest.
"...And the only reason he married HER, is because no other man would have her. She's a frightening woman, my wife's neice. Personallity of a Nazi. Face like a catcher's mitt...Figure like...well, like Mayor McCheese."
Bouvard gestured, pushin his glass straight toword me like a knuckleball pitch sloshing Zima at me which splashed into my salad dish creating small clear pools in the pink rasberry vinnagrette.
"Dont think somthing like THAT can't happen to YOU, young man," he bellowed absentley.
Then we went outside to catch the limo, the three of us standin in the restuarant entrance. Bouvard, with a half dozon Zimas in him scooped up a handfull of mint candies from the cash registor area and stuffed them in his mouth.
"Where's the car!" Bouvard huffed. Peaches, who all this time was fumboling with paying the bill for lunch, now breathlessly sprinted out the door to get the limo from valet parking. Bouvard hollored at Peaches as he ran off, "Next time, get a black limo, not a white one! We are a B-to-B E-Comm dot com: NOT the Bee Gees!"
"Yes sir," I said.
"Once we're all in the limouisine, I want to have some fun. I want you to ask him: 'Say, I've heard you are Mr. Bouvard's son-in-law.' Can you do that?" he asked.
I began to stammor. Before I coud answor, Bouvard interupted me, "I dont want you to say, 'Oh, i've heard you married the Boss's wife's niece', that is too obvious. I want you to ask if he is my son inlaw, or better, my son. I will tell you exactly when to ask. Can you do it?"
I was horrofied. I do not likejokes and pranks. Or especialy making jokes at annother persons expense--even somone who is mean to me like Peaches. I realy did NOT want to do it. But even still, I said, "Yes sir, Boss."
The limo came, and we all clammored in. Bouvard gave me a malicious wink and nodded.
Bouvard propped himself in the center rear bench seat facing us with a huge frown like a giant angrey terra cotta Aztec figurine planter. He looked like Brando in Apocolypse Now just sittin there like a big pasty white god. Sitting opposite on the facing seat were me, Peaches and Mr. Peckushay, crowded on the same size seat bench that Bouvard had for himself.
We rode a few minnutes back to the hotel in silence. Bouvard grunted, intentionally clearing his throaght. Looking me in the eye, he pointed at me, egging me on, wordlessly gesturring as if to say, "Do it NOW you dumbass." Peaches was looking away in the other direction, and poked a stylus at his Palm Pilot, still tryin to figure out if he hadnt tipped the lunch waiter too much.
Just as I openned my mouth to ask the rude question, Bouvard raised his palms; he silentley mouthed to me, "No! Not yet!"
All of a sudden, Bouvard pitched to one side. He bit his lip, winced a bit and to my shock and horror forced out a giant gassy fart. On the Granfather Scale of Intestinol Pyrotechnics it rated about a two-point-five, but even still I was suprised, (and, in a slightley peverse sort of way), a little bit impressed.
Nobody changed their expresion. After five or ten seconds, Bouvard looked up inocently and asked, "Was that you, Pecky?" Before Mr. Peckushay coud answor, Peaches cut in and blurted, "It was ME, Boss. I'm terribly, teribbly sorry."
Mr. Bouvard nodded majestically as if to absolve poor Peaches of his transgression. Almost imediatly Bouvard let anothor one rip. This one was a shade less loud, but it smelled, and what it lacked in decibells, it made up by employing a rathor intriguing old Ford Model A auttomobile horn "aaaaaah-OOOOH-Gaaah! sound.
By the time Peaches snapped his head forword to face Bouvard, Bouvard was already staring at him.
"That was ME once more. Forgive me, gentlemen. Sorry again," Peaches said weakly.
"Harrumph!" Bouvard growled. Once Peaches looked away agian, the Boss smiled broadly.
The car was stuck in trafic. Finaly the limo driver was able to weave past a construction area and the three of us crammed on the rearfacing seat who faced the boss jossoled back and forth. Bouvard, his red wet eyes half shut, swayed buoyantly as the car wove, as his big vacant head bobbed and careened like an inflatable child's punching clown with clods of sand sown into its vinyl bottom. Sixty silent seconds had gone by from the last "Harrumph!" as sudenly Bouvard began to make a series of low, soft grunts from his throaght.
He kept it up as he tried to catch Peaches' attention. When that didnt work, Bouvard leaned foward and tapped Peaches on the knee. Peaches faced him fearfully. Then, while looking directley into Peaches eyes, Bouvard sat up so their two noses allmost touched. The Boss's watery eyes bulged and his whole gellatinous body quaked as his face darkened to a deep red as while deliberately scowling right into Peaches' eyes Bouvard forcibly and intentionally pushed out the most ghastley loudest ear splitting non-Granfather fart I have ever heard in my life.
"Oh, my! It...It was ME AGAIN," Peaches fretted.
"Open the window!" Bouvard roared. Peaches' fingornails scrambled furiousley at the console. But the window woud not open. Bouvard was holding the override switch down with his elbow.
"It...It must of been the seafood," mumbled Peaches.
"We ALL had the seafood!" Bouvard thundered. Peaches hung his head in shame.
"Do it again and you'll WALK back to the hotel," the Boss gruffed.