"I was about to get a blowjob, too, when they showed up in the yard. I didn't sleep a wink last night with all their baying at the moon. I think they killed my dog. I think they killed one of the neighbor's children. I don't know, maybe I should just move back to Fort Lee."
The casting director turned back to the window so sharply, he threw himself off balance and nearly pitched himself through the glass.
White people, Wolf Bob thought, don't know how to move right.
The casting director clutched the sill and steadied himself. He tried to spark another cig, but it fell to the floor along with the lit match. Smoke began curling from the carpet.
"Look, look, look," the man said, pointing down at Hollywood Boulevard, sweeping his hand to take in the whole expanse all the way back to La Brea. "They're really here. It's not a dream." He turned around and began shouting at Wolf Bob.
"You pretend and pretend nothing bad is going to happen and then something like this comes along and blows your whole life to shit!"
Wolf stood and peered through the grimy glass. "It's not a dream!," the casting director shouted.
The warbly mariachi music grew louder, while becoming tinnier. Wolf could see why: A parade was approaching their office building at the corner of Cahuenga -- if a loosely moving formation undulating down the street and playing music could be called a parade.
It was all skeletons. Smiling, skip-happy bundles of bones, bleached white hands raised in celebration, legs kicking and dancing, all moving down the road, happy, as if they'd won Oscars, or gotten laid.
Some of the skeletons were draped in serapes and covered by sombreros, others wore black-and-red skirts and roses in their skulls.
It was a fiesta.
Wolf Bob shook his head. Things were really getting out of hand. He was going to have to find Charlie.
"Jesus, not only are they demons, but they're all wetbacks. And why are they playing that fucking music!?" The casting director didn't notice the heavy smoke coming from the corner of his carpet, pooling over his wingtips. "It's revenge isn't it?"