Party in the Hills

First thing I want to make clear is, where I come from, we don’t eat snails. I believe we would rather die of starvation. Hell, frog’s legs? If I were hungry enough I would eat the whole dang frog, but I draw a line. My people draw a line.

Maybe you’re not going to like this, but I found out there’s those that do eat snails.

I found this out at a cocktail party at The Reginald Smyths in Beverly Hills. The Reginald Smyths are an old married couple, not a hotel—and they had invited fifty or sixty of their friends to make my acquaintance on account of the fact I was a genuine war veteran and had no legs and somehow got rodeo-ed into it all.

It was a good cause, hell, nothing wrong with raising money to help shot to shit and blown to pieces Defenders of Democracy, of which I was one, no legs and all.

I actually do have a pair of legs. They’re made out of titanium or some such, but it was suggested by The Reginald Smyths that I leave them at home, which is in Wichita, case you was wondering. I look a mite more sad without my legs I suppose, so I just rolled around the party in my wheelchair with my hair all combed and my two little stubs sticking out. I was being introduced as “Staff Sergeant Beau Huntley”. The Reginald Smyths took turns introducing me. One wore a dress and the other had on a suit and a bow-tie, but they're pretty much were the same person. Everybody I was introduced to thanked me for my service. "Thank you for your service," were the exact words they used. After awhile I didn’t want to be thanked any more, but what can you do? It was a party.

It was a hell of a party. A little string quartet played string quartet music just loud enough you could hear it if you really wanted to.

The French Ambassador was there. I don’t want to spoil the end to this story, but that’s a little clue you might make note of… I’m just trying to give you the lay of the land here.

Lots of rich people at this party. And servants too, lots and lots of them. They were mostly Mexicans and they were all dressed in black and white. This one girl who looked particularly fine dressed in back and white offered me one a them little cucumber sandwiches, you know, white bread with mayo, all the crust cut off? I took five or six of them bad-boys and said, “Thank you for your service.” She hurried off and never stopped smiling at me the whole rest of the evening.

There was this one guy, he wasn’t the French Ambassador but he must have been his assistant or some such--he was a Frenchman for damn sure. Skinny little guy dressed in a tight black suit with a skinny black tie. His name was Le Mond. Michelle Le Mond. He would come up to little groups of people and stand there waiting to be looked at. If they didn’t turn around right away he would clear his throat until they did turn around. Then he’d say, “How do you do? My name is MeeShell Le Moandah,” and stare at them like he was expecting the poor bastards to fall over backwards.

All I can say is, the man was getting on my nerves, and I wasn’t even aware of the freak-show that was yet to come.

I decided to go find that little filly in the maid’s outfit I mentioned before.

They had a kitchen at The Reginald Smyths like a restaurant’s kitchen with the swinging doors and the little windows? I was about to back myself inside when one of the doors opened and out came a man I hadn’t seen before. He was dressed different from the rest of the staff. He carried a tray of hor d'oeuvres and I don’t think he even saw me as he went past. I caught of glimpse of what he had on the tray. The door swung back and forth and I grabbed it. What the hell did I just see? Something about the hor d'oeuvres looked suspicious!

Now, I had been trained by the very best of the best to know that if something don’t look right, something probably ain’t. And a bunch a slimy snails on a tray just don’t look right! How often do you see snails on a waiter's tray. It hit me. They were going to poison the French Ambassador! The people in the kitchen spotted me then and looked at me with horror. They was caught in the act and they knew it.

“You people!” I said and backed my chair out of there. I made a mad dash back to the party room. The string quartet was playing the French National Anthem or some such and the waiter with the slicked back hair was presenting the snail tray to none other than the French Ambassador himself. I pushed that wheel chair like I had never pushed it before and knocked that slimy slick-haired waiter bastard off his feet before the Ambassador had a chance to reach for one a them snails.

Well, we could end this story right here; it would be fine with me. It was a cluster-fuck, I will admit. Lots of people got snail-mush on them and the Marine Corps wasn’t too pleased, and there were plenty of reports saying I was drunk, but I did end up in the kitchen that night where I was kind of getting cleaned up, drinking coffee, all the while being eye-balled by that Le Mond character, but it all worked out. I got to know that pretty girl I made smile.

Her name’s Conchita.

I told her I was going to take her out dancing. She thought I was kidding, but she hadn’t seen me with my legs on yet.

--1000 Words--