• in a single Windsor knot
• sneaking away from the party to suck face
• eating a bite of the brown-and-white lumpy food
• worry about clothing more than a thirteen-year-old girl
• unable even to remember the name

Tune in next time part 560    Click Here for Earlier Installments

The goose peered around at all the wedding guests, apparently unaware it was supposed to be our dessert. I considered it poor form for Jason to bring the animal in here alive, but I also thought a mouthful of feathers would be a vast improvement over that bite of cake.

The tartan frocks they wore were, in fact, a single tartan frock, which Jason had arranged to cover both himself and the bird on the platter. He’d used the garment’s belt to join them up in a single Windsor knot. He bowed deeply to deposit the platter on the floor, and the goose spread its wings. Jason kept his head bowed, so it appeared to be the goose who lisped, “Wouldn’t want anybody sneaking away from the party to suck face, not when dessert is almost here!” And with that, the goose shook off the frock and dashed out of the room. It waddled back a moment later, towing a trolley laden with desserts.

“Ohhh,” people around the room murmured, “dessert goose.” The trolley made the rounds, and soon we all had our treats. I didn’t know what mine was, and glanced around suspiciously before eating a bite of the brown-and-white lumpy food.

Jason flounced up to the high table, stroking the tartan fabric of his frock. The Tessabot said, “You worry about clothing more than a thirteen-year-old girl. Did you make that one yourself?”

He laughed. “No, it’s a very exclusive designer’s work. But, silly me, I’m unable even to remember the name.”

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• grey stucco urinal
• able to give him a bath
• before I put down this shot glass
• merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another
• a gathering you weren’t invited to in the first place

Tune in next time part 562    Click Here for Earlier Installments

Jason slunk away, winking heavily at me over his shoulder and pointing to the sign for the restrooms, then waving for me to follow. Nobody paid any attention to him. It was a stunning display of Contra-Buffoon, a tricky form of tradecraft where your actions are so clumsy that they come all the way around to be subtle again.

I excused myself, picking up my drink and heading for the gents so I could swap disguises with Jason. I found him using a grey stucco urinal. The nearby terracotta toilet was so large, I would have been able to give him a bath in it.

“Stop that,” I said. “And come take the wig before I put down this shot glass and then we’ll trade shoes.” Swapping our outfits would be merely the substitution of one piece of nonsense for another, and then another, and so on until all the articles had been transferred. A good disguise is essential to sneaking out of a gathering you weren’t invited to in the first place.

We had just completed the process when I heard the door open. We both froze.

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• “Yeah we could, I know we could.”
• with a butterfly garden
• of the more risque variety
• nothing wrong with eating cake barefoot
• unexpectedly racy

Tune in next time part 564    Click Here for Earlier Installments

Back in the banquet hall, I took my seat beside Tessa before I remembered that I was no longer wearing the Arlo disguise. All the noises in the room — the clinking of silverware on china, the murmur of conversation, the slurping of cheap champagne — died away.

“I’m about to do my set,” I told her, knowing everyone in the place could hear me. “You and your new hubby couldn’t take off on your honeymoon without letting me serenade you.”

She blinked robotically and said, “Yeah we could, I know we could.”

“Don’t be a party-pooper,” I lisped, reaching for her hands. “Come up on stage.”

She put up only token resistance as I drew her over to the raised performance area, which as per Svenborgian tradition was fitted with a rostral column and also with a butterfly garden of the more risque variety. The Tessabot had slipped out of her shoes, and she reached back for one last morsel of the awful cake. Normally I would say there’s nothing wrong with eating cake barefoot, but this stuff was a culinary crime.

We stood under the flower arch together, and butterflies alighted on our heads. I studied their wing patterns up close, and what I saw was unexpectedly racy.

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• made up his own version
• an alien noise emerging from my mouth
• “You wouldn’t forget him.”
• an absolutely filthy martini
• like a skintight diaper

Tune in next time part 566    Click Here for Earlier Installments

Did you ever have that dream where you’re the guy who impersonated his twin brother, the guy who forgot the words and just made up his own version of that twin’s trademark rap in front of a bunch of wedding guests who were mostly snotty, entitled royalty from the snottiest, most entitled country on the planet? I wished I was having it right then, instead of all that being what was really happening to me. I danced under the floral arch on the stage, an alien noise emerging from my mouth in hopes that the audience — who no doubt knew the lyrics — would subconsciously fill in the proper rhymes.

By the time I found a way to end the performance, I was drenched in sweat. I stumbled to the bar amid a hemi-demi-semi smattering of applause. I felt bad for what this was likely to do for Jason’s career.

I overheard one of the wedding guests asking another if she’d ever met Viscount Arlo. She said something noncommital, to which the first replied, “You wouldn’t forget him.”

The bartender told me that whatever I wanted would be on the house, as part of my rider. I smiled. “Make me an absolutely filthy martini. I want it to be like a skintight diaper of a beverage.”

While I awaited my drink, I watched the Tessabot twirling amid the Svenborgians, wondering how we were going to get out of here.

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