“Jenkins!”
“Sir?”
“Why are you laying down?”
“Recovering from the trepanation, sir.”
“Quarantine has done strange things to our relationship!”
“Yes, sir.”
“But doesn’t your brain feel better?”
“Too early to tell, sir.”
“My brain feels like an over-plumped hot dog. My juiciness is coming to a froth, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A froth!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hole in the head or not, I don’t know how comfortable I am with you laying down. I’m taking your posture as aggressive and insubordinate. Your sloth challenges me, boy.”
“You drilled a–”
“Sit up! Right now, up up up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can put your feet on the table.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Wait. Not in those shoes. Take your feet off the table.”
“Sir, did you have a business idea?”
“Business!”
“Yes, sir. You’re excellent at that.”
“Oh, yes. Ever since business school.”
“You got good grades?”
“I acquired the school and flipped it for a quick profit. I may have sold it to sex people. I was also voted ‘Most Likely to Sell the School to Sex People’ in the yearbook. College! Oh, to be young again.”
“Sir, what was your new business idea?”
“Not so much a new idea as a variation on an old one. On the original idea, as a matter of fact.”
“Do you want to slap a Stealie on some shit, sir?”
“So very much!”
“Why screw with success? What should we slap a Stealie on now, sir?”
“Umbrellas.”
“No one’s going outside right now, sir.”
“Confederate stock certificates.”
“With a Stealie?”
“We’ll call it art, man.”
“No one will buy that, sir.”
“What if the Deadhead gives us a hundred bucks, and we go to his house and punch him right in the center of his face? Then we toss a handkerchief at him and sneer, There’s your Stealie, y’greasy ape.”
“Why would anyone pay a hundred dollars for that?”
“It’s like Cameo!”
“It is not, sir.”
“I had another Cameo-related business idea.”
“We can’t sign up a Bobby impersonator.”
“That wasn’t my idea. But we should totally do that.”
“We can’t. What was your idea, sir?”
“A reverse-streaming service.”
“What’s that?”
“The Deadheads pay ten bucks a week to let the band have access to their webcams.”
“No one would sign up for that.”
“What if there were a premium level where Mickey would cheer you on as you masturbate?”
“Fewer people would sign up. Let’s stick to tangible products, sir. Historically, the Grateful Dead sells stuff. We should sell something that makes sense in these troubling times.”
“Nothing but trouble, these times!”
“Very troublesome, sir.”
“If these times were a stranger at a bar, you’d glass him right in the eye. On sight! No words exchanged! And the bartender would fete you for your heroics. You would be made king of that bar, Jenkins. From amongst the women, you would seize your reward. That’s how public drinking works.”
“Possibly, sir.”
“This year is ugly-mugging us, dammit. What if we burned the calendars?”
“Wouldn’t work.”
“Many people are saying that we can defeat 2020 by setting fire to all the calendars. Many people are saying this.”
“They shouldn’t be. And you shouldn’t–”
“I just tweeted it out!”
“–say it in public. Sir, think of the stockholders.”
“I was! I was gonna charge fifty bucks a calendar!”
“Even Deadheads won’t fall for that one, sir.”
“Lotta overlap between the Jam and Antivaxx scenes, Jenkins. Maybe not even overlap. More like ‘irreversible intermingling.’ Some thoughts are pernicious, Jenkins.”
“Yes, sir. I think we should ask ourselves what the fans want during quarantine.”
“I know what they want.”
“Sir?”
“Blood. We’re more primal than we appear. This sort of disruption calls for sacrifice. The gods have ben angered, Jenkins. Maybe someone took a shit on the Field of Ixtum.”
“Oh, I hope not.”
“Ixtum has absolutely no sense of humor. Whatever happened, the mystic modalities have been knocked askew. Vast reservoirs of magicks must be drawn upon to fix this, and that’s gonna require blood. Jenkins, do we have an emergency plan for the Reconciliation of Ahura Mazda?”
“Sir, I have asked you time and time again to stop watching those weird YouTube channels, or at least to stop believing them.”
“You cannot prove that 2020 is not the result of a swimming pool full of orgone going rotten.”
“No, but we can assume.”
“We’ll sell halberds.”
“The long spear?”
“Yes. Stealie on the handle. And we’ll engrave it. It’ll say Stick me in some asshole’s guts. Yay, the Grateful Dead. Doodley-doo, you’re a winner with a halberd. They’ll snap them up!”
“Deadheads will not buy a weapon that insults them. Besides, I don’t even know if you’re allowed to ship halberds.”
“We’ll just say they’re pikes. No problems.”
“Sir, it’s a non-starter.”
“Morning star.”
“Morning star?”
“The big spiky metal ball on a stick. Not a flail! Flail’s the one with the chain. Sure, you look bad-ass swinging the sucker around, but you dissipate all your power. For crowd control, you want a morning star.”
“Please let’s not sell any melee weapons, sir.”
“The populace is rambunctionizing, Jenkins! We need to anticipate the market. What if we sold neighbor-swords?”
“Which are?”
“Swords.”
…
“For your neighbor.”
“Sir, let’s not actively accelerate the Great Collapse.”
“Your eyes, Jenkins: Do you have them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get set.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Blast them!”
…
“Yes, sir. The Grateful Dead cannot sell swords.”
“Rambo knives?”
“No, sir.”
“Flying guillotines.”
“Absolutely not, sir. Imagine the chaos on the lot.”
“You call it chaos, I call it a hoot.”
“No flying guillotines, sir.”
“I WILL SLAP A STEALIE ON AN EDGED WEAPON IF IT KILLS YOU!”
“What about a hatchet, sir?”
“Hatchet! Yes, that’s a perfect idea Half our audience thinks they’re lumberjacks, and they other half live in Brooklyn. Both groups need axes!”
“What should we have engraved, sir?”
“Some hippie bullshit. Whatever.”
“On it, sir.”
…
“You’re still sitting down, Jenkins.”
“I’ve lost a lot of blood, sir.”
“You didn’t lose it. It’s right there soaked into the carpet.”
“Yes, sir.”
(Of course it’s real.)
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