I should explain the delay, but it defies a tidy explanation. Like the ballpark lease mess, the delay arises from a stultifying mixture of a dash of indecision, a dearth of creativity, and a general lack of initiative. As such, I regret to inform you that I have apparently breached the Banal Submission Agreement (BSA), which provided that I would wrap up this lame two-parter on Christmas Day.
Perhaps I should post the rest now, but some antagonistic folks are threatening arbitration. Maybe that will happen, and maybe it won't. However, until I see a resolution in sight---nuh-uh. Remember: indecision, (anti-)creativity, (un-)initiative.
Tell you what I'll do, though: I'll reveal the broad strokes of what I planned---an outline, if you will.
If you'll remember, Bud had just walked off with little Natty's money---a full man's worth of currency, so to speak. Bud became apoplectic when Natty did not demonstrate proper appreciation for Bud's gift in return: a nickel. He accused Natty of demanding concessions, and stormed off.
Thereafter, Bud enjoyed a fine supper and spent the rest of the evening cursing the deplorable swine who trodded far below his Manhattan repository. And then, off to bed.
Bud's sleep was interrupted by a progression of three ghosts (all of whom, strangely, are still among the living):
- The lovable Hondo, representing the past, whom Bud defenestrated as suddenly and unexpectedly as Longshanks performed the manuever on Phillip, the Prince's, eh, military advisor.
- The indefatiguably felonious Marion Barry, representing the present, who attempted to convince Bud that he was a national disgrace---but instead was shamed by the lesson that those who are without sin should cast the first rock, er, stone.
- And the comcastic Mark Hamill, representing the future,* who finally humbled Bud by portraying the state in which the latter's avarice will eventually render mankind, including human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria, and . . . a flying monkey gouging the eyes out of Bud's confidant/advisor/bad cop/used car patron, Bob Dupuy.
The story has promise, I suppose, but I'm sure St. Barry could conjure something better.
* "There's the future, and then there's THE FUTURE." If watching Nats games on Comcast is in either of those futures, I'll be content.