Sounds of a court in progress.
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Vic peeked into the tent. He saw Hutch watching a video.
"Hey, whatchya're watchin'? Them stag movies?"
"That's left," Hutch said, smiling but not looking at him. "Contra hearings. Come in, sit right up. See his face?"
“See the face? I want you to remember his face. See him taking the oath?”
“His chin muscles.”
“His chin and the lower lip tighten. That’s right. I don’t like him much, don’t agree with him on some things, but he sure has his act together. He’s speaking the truth here. Watch and learn, grasshoppah.”
Resting on a high-tech survival blanket in his high-tech tent heated by free electricity, Hutch the Spartan, presiding in a lotus position, stared at the heavy stack of the Sunday paper. He called it Pounds of Bourgeois Viscose.
Vic drank coffee from a bottomless Euro-design coffee maker, expecting more bits of wisdom from Hutch.
“Something for Wishy and Washy to poop on,” Hutch said pointing to the viscose.
“Got yourself puppies?”
“Clever they are. Train them to zero in on the human scent, and you got yourself a squirmy bloodhound the size of a stretched kitten,” Hutch said. “Wishy and Washy must be lonely. It is the time to wrap up this Mongol wigwam. Good-bye to the treks over to the strip mall, to the endless supply of hot water from a shower at a nearby office.
“Back to the sybarbia.”
“Which is what?”
“Come on. It stands for sybaritic suburbia.”
“That one,” Vic nodded in recognition.
“That’s right. Gotto learn the double speak.”
“What do you call the New World Order?”
“No, Hobsbawn, as in Gramsci and neo-Gramsci.”
“Right. State equals class power.”
“And what business are you going into?”
“IM.” To which Vic looked with a Hutch look, the poker-face look of a cop waiting to hear a good excuse.