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Orphans

By: Tarbut



My father was an active businessman when a road accident killed him. I knew that he and my mother had an active sexual life, but I did not know a small detail thereof -- or better, a couple of them which increased over the years.

Even though my father suffered of lactose intolerance, he loved sucking my mother's milk, and therefore my mother's breasts increased their size and sensitivity with time. Once my right elbow inadvertently rubbed her left nipple, as I was washing the dishes after dinner, and she shrieked of pleasure.

I was a good-mannered guy at the time, and did not do anything more to her; but our father was away, and I saw her blouse wet with a white stain. She unfastened it, so I could notice how big her breasts had become with time, she sprinkled it with water, doused some soap powder, and thoroughly rinsed it.

I could not help my leering at her cleavage; my mother noticed it and smiled, as if it was the compliment of a male who could never make her, and then hung the blouse up by the stove.

"Your bra needs washing too, mom," I blurted out; she looked at it, kept smiling, she put the tip of her forefinger on my nosetip, and went to her room to replace it.

Normal maternal behaviour with a grown-up male son, obviously. But after dishwashing, I went out with my fiancé of the time, and she got more pleasure than ever, as I was obsessed with my mother's breasts that evening, my penis was harder, and I craved for more orgasms than ever.

When I came home, my elder sister Rina was still awake, studying medicine in the dining room -- it had the only table in our home which could carry all the books she needed. She was wearing a dressing gown with a wide neckline, and I noticed that she was wearing the same bra my mother was wearing before.

Rina felt my stare and asked me: "Joe, what's the matter with my breasts?"

"Are you wearing one of mom's bras'?" I asked, and she answered:

"Yes. We have the same size, so we swap bras from time to time."

That night I could not sleep evenly -- I could not help thinking about my mother and my sister going to a lingerie shop, choosing each other's bras, and getting so excited by looking and touching each other, that at home they could not help kissing, fondling, lovemaking.

It was an one night's folly, and my life resumed as usual the following day, until my father died. He apparently was the victim of his fetish -- while driving he vomited the milk he had just drunk from mom, inadvertently passed a red light, and a truck smashed his car.

Mom was desperate, as she felt she had killed him. Even my sister felt guilty, and I soon found why.

While I was completely unaware of my parents' fetish, my sister Rina knew that as soon as she turned 21. The birthday pie was sweeter than expected, and Rina knew why: mom had forced dad to abstain for a whole month, and patiently expressed and collected the milk whose cream had to be used for the pie.

When I got 21 too, I got a similar, but bigger pie, and now I know what had happened: after tasting her sweet birthday's pie, Rina convinced my mother to help her induce lactation.

As her hands could not express much milk from Rina, she had to suckle her nipples to improve her lactation. Soon Rina began getting excited as soon as mom leered at her breasts at suckling time, and she reaped several orgasms every day as she was milked.

I was studying abroad, so I could be kept unaware of all this; but dad soon crept into the picture.

A routine had developed: mom and Rina secluded themselves into my sister's room, while my father was having a shower, and probably thinking about what his wife and daughter were doing together; as soon as mom was done with Rina, she went into dad's bed -- and as they were both really excited by their thoughts and actions, they immediately made love.

After lovemaking, mom went back into Rina's room to suckle her again before bidding her good night. Dad noticed that it was unpractical, and proposed mom to invite Rina to their room. Dad swore never to have sex with my sister, and mom assented.

It was a really practical arrangement: as dad was now authorized to look at mom's suckling Rina, he could now suckle mom's breasts even when Rina was looking at them. My parents' bed was replaced with a larger model, in order to allow mom to sleep between her husband and her daughter, and give each what they needed most, alternately.

Home's atmosphere must have been torrid at the time, but both mom and Rina swear that dad never committed anything improper. When my 21st birthday neared, it was Rina who told my parents that I could not be served less well than she, and therefore mom and sis arranged everything again.

It was not so bad an arrangement for dad: these women knew that they expressed more milk when having an orgasm, so mom asked dad to make love with her every three hours, while Rina at first masturbated while mom was being penetrated by dad, and then mom decided to get her a dildo.

The ritual was so perfected: after dinner each of them -- dad, mom, Rina -- had a shower separately, then went to the parents' room wearing a dressing gown. Once they were there, they undressed, and dad begun hugging and kissing mom, while Rina was plugging mom's nipples and her own to a pump.

As soon as the cups were on, mom laid down, dad begun licking her vulva and sucking her clitoris, while Rina turned the pump on, and begun masturbating.

When the tanks were half full, dad rose from mom's vulva, handed the dildo to Rina, and both vulvae were penetrated together -- orgasms filled the tanks until overflow.

The milk was brought to the fridge, the pump was washed and rinsed, and all three got a nap until mom and Rina's breasts wanted to be expressed again.

That's how I could get a bigger pie than my sister :-)

The milk yield of mom and sis increased noticeably, and even my father's craving for this milk. He once even dared ask some of my sister, but she reminded him of his oath, and expressed it into a glass instead.

After a while, mom agreed to let Rina pour some of her milk into dad's morning coffee in order to turn it into a cappuccino. We do not know which sip of milk killed dad -- the half galloon he had swallowed that night as he won an important order, and success made him frenetic, or the cappuccino his daughter lovely served him this morning, while mom was pressing his breasts into his back, and covering his fly with his hands -- more to touch his erect penis than to hide him from a daughter who never experienced it, but knew every notch and cranny of it.

After my father's death, both mom and Rina used the milk pump a lot: their milk supply was a precious treasure to them, and Rina even volunteered to suckle mom's breasts in lieu of dad, but after a few weeks, in which Rina sucked mom's breasts, and their shared dildo stimulated mom's genitals, she had to give up, as she was lactose intolerant like dad.

But I never had such a problem: I drank gallons of milk every day without apparent symptom, so both women decided to turn on to me -- or to turn me on - in order to fulfil (or to empty?) their needs.

It was not so difficult: once I saw my sister expressing her milk into the sink and weeping, and she told me all that I have just reported. I felt somewhat excited by that, but she was my sister, and I just hug her the way brothers hug sisters in order to comfort her, although I felt that I was not a brother for her anymore.

A few days later I really had to do what these lusty women wanted me to do: my sister was taking an exam, and mom's nipples became engorged. The pump had been given back (I was now 24, and lacked younger brothers), so I had to apply my mouth to my mother's nipples.

It was wonderful: her milk was tastier than anything I had ever drunk. I think that alcoholics could be weaned by offering them a breast to latch on!

While I was suckling my mother's right breast, I noticed that her bowels made some noise -- I knew that it was a sign of excitation, her right hand grabbed my hair, while her left one touched her left breast first, and then got down to her -- no, to my genitals, and fondled them!

I continued suckling, but as she had an orgasm, I lost my control. It was not just a medical treatment anymore -- I was making love with mom! While mom opened my fly and grabbed my penis, my hand climbed her thighs until it could stroke her vulva.

She was looking forward to that: she was not wearing panties! I gently pulled the labia apart, found the clitoris and began fondling around it, and, as it hardened, the clitoris itself.

Mom shrieked of pleasure and forced me to change nipple. Hearing her heartbeat while I was suckling her left nipple was my most pleasurable experience ever.

We were on a sofa, and mom was lying down, without panties, while my trousers were wide open, and ... I could not be a gentleman towards my mother the way dad was towards my sister.

But the conscience I was doing something wrong crept in ... as incredible as it may be, my penis was nearly desensitized, and I went on making love for nearly an afternoon -- and I had to resume suckling mom's breasts while my penis was still penetrating her.

Mom did not object -- she might have intended to, but her mouth was busy shrilling of pleasure and telling me: "Dad was not up to that ...", so she may be excused for that.

It was Rina who stopped us: she was curious, and while she usually spent a lot of time in the university's privy in order to express her milk, that morning she added masturbation to that, while thinking about the way I was serving mom and could be able to serve her later.

She bade to be questioned first, passed the exam with flying colours, and drove home with her dildo in place and turned on; had not she been stopped by a policewoman who had noticed her erratic driving, she would have arrived an hour earlier.

But the policewoman heard the dildo's noise, and told Rina: "Oh, it is my favourite make. But it is quite dangerous to use it while driving. Please, park there and do not set out again earlier than an hour".

Rina complied, and half an hour later she was joined by the policewoman: she had just ended her stint, was taken over by another colleague, and thought that Rina would not have objected her jacking off in her car.

Rina was somewhat disgusted by her proposal, but noticed that the policewoman was cute, and much better breasted than my then-fiancé, although not as well as she, so she thought that it could be a good date for me.

So she allowed her to do as she pleased, and then proposed her to meet again -- as friends, hoping she could introduce me to her at a later time.

The policewoman assented, and Rina, when she was home, and discovered what I was up to, she nearly reneged the proposal she had made. Mom was as happy as a queen, and both she and Rina noticed that, since I had not ejaculated, my penis was still erect.

I and mom undressed her; she sucked her left nipple, I sucked her right one -- we were so in a hurry that we forgot to remove the dildo from her vulva, but it was to her greater satisfaction.

When it was time to penetrate my sister, mom took her dildo and put it into herself, and while I was lying on my sister and making love with her, mom was lying on her right side, embracing both of us and pressing her breasts upon us.

At last, we embraced ourselves, kissed each other, and Rina told: "Mom, you will never be able to guess how did I meet a girl who may be a good match for Joe -- and perhaps for us too."

"So, please, do tell," mom replied while I was touching the vulvae of both.

Orphans of the Storm



ORPHANS OF THE STORM: A Last Supper in 'The Big Easy'

(NOTE: the following is explicit adult fantasy only! No resemblance, predictions/endorsements of, or other inferences to, persons, places, or acts, real or fictitious, is implied therein! )

I Red sky at morning/"Any ol' port ...":

So - it had finally happened; everyone's worst nightmare come true. New Orleans, Louisiana - the Crescent City, The Painted Lady of the Mississippi Delta, "The Big Easy", had suffered the ultimate, almost fitting, catastrophe imaginable.

Courtesy of the biggest, baddest motherhumper of a hurricane - called Katrina, of all the unlikely monikers for such a fierce, powerful act of nature - and her partners-in-devastation, the Gulf of Mexico and Lake Pontchartrain. They'd teamed up to reclaim the land that the original French settlers had neatly laid out in a bowl-shaped depression near to three centuries ago like a spurned, jealous lover out to even a score by deadly force, separating her from the surrounding land that loved her, and casting her many thousands of residents as exiles from all they took for granted. Like the right-of-way for travel, clean water, electricity, sanitation - and, a ready supply of food. Most all the niceties and necessities of everyday life. Except why did it have to happen now, and to them? Like Dr. John hisself might say: it was the right place, wrong daggone time.

Remy Lamar Julienne II, of the Juliennes on Desire Street, like everyone else who hadn't either the foresight or just plain luck to evacuate the city before the storm had struck and the levees broke, ran these grim thoughts through his mind whenever he grew tired of keeping his hopes up through a combination of daily survival chores and wishful thinking. Huh - wishful thinking, that's what she always accused him of, the tall, handsome, Cajun lad in his late twenties chuckled to himself as he turned his attention to his beloved Charmayne Bouviér Dupüis - she of the Metairie Dupüis - a stunning, slender, dark-eyed, raven-haired, café-au-laít-skinned Creole beauty. Only a few years his junior, her fiery temperament could match his usually confident, cock-sure demeanor. That, and their shared, keen appetites for music, food - and sex, though not necessarily in that order.

Her family were descendants of antebellum plantation owners, landed folk whose blood was mixed with that of their servants, by way of the legendary quadroon balls, though they cleaved to their high-born ancestry. He came from a mix of stevedores who worked the N'awlins docks, greasy-spoon short-order cooks, low-ranking beat cops, and an assortment of common grifters & hustlers. Friends who knew them had predicted they'd mix as well as oil & water, vinegar & honey, silk & sand - but it turned out to be more along the lines of nitro & glycerin. 

They'd first met when, fresh out of Tulane with a Bachelor's in Business Management, she had come to his Uncle Bernard's restaurant down on Beale Street looking for her first professional employment. Remy was working the kitchen as an assistant prep chef, but he couldn't help but notice the pretty young gal all done up in Park Lane finery with her condescending airs - "her nose up somewhere's north of her better judgement ", as his daddy liked to say. From the first moment he laid eyes on her, his mouth privately watered. 

So he secretly enjoyed her discomfort as his uncle put her to work as the evening shift manager, where he had plenty of occasion to rub up against her whenever she came into the crowded kitchen to snap out the dinner orders at the cook & wait-staffs, then rush back out to flatter the dinner guests. She also seemed to take an immediate dislike to the fresh, cocky Cajun ruffian she'd obviously been raised to consider her inferior, and gave him no reason to doubt this whenever possible.

But Remy had always been a handsome youth, even as a young boy, and constantly had the local jéune fillé buzzing around him like honeybees around clover; consequently he'd acquired a certain je né saís quois of the other sex at a precocious age. He knew whenever an uppity dame like her was simply masking her sexual tension with an affected unpleasantness. He simply stood his ground, smiling, whenever she'd attempt to break his balls over some minor, even imagined, imperfection in one of the dishes. He'd reply with a comeback overly polite and accommodating, till she'd roll her eyes & sneer in disgust, then leave once again. Then still grinning, he'd turn to his appreciative work-mates Paul and Aaron, and announce his standing declaration: "She wants me, and she got it coming!"

It eventually came to a head one particularly busy night when she burst through the doors in a snit over the créme bruleé; he'd merely suggested how & where she could apply the offending sauce to her person. Outraged, she made to slap him hard across his insolent face; he merely grabbed her slender arm to deflect the blow and pinned it against her back, and announced to her as well as the kitchen staff proper:

"Baby bird, you wound way too tight - you need to chill out! You're just like a dollar steak that requires tenderizin' - all you needs is a good poundin'!"

And without so much as a by-your-leave, with one quick motion he cleared off all the implements and food stuffs from the main prep table, clattering to the floor, then hauled her body up onto it, feisty as hell, while he proceeded to divest her of both her fancy cocktail dress and lacy undergarments, loosening his chef's tunic and belt to lower his pants in the process.

Now, rape is an ugly word, and Remy never had any part of that. Instead, his Cajun temper sorely tested and mixed with unrequited lust, it was more like a simple case of ravishment. He'd just never had anyone say "no" before this.

Not that she didn't put up a decent enough struggle, cursing him in language he'd never had guessed her capable of, scratching at him with finger-claws. But he could clearly see her fury and outrage quickly giving way to wanton desire, as her slick wetness was visible after he got her panties off. In a moment of pure inspiration, he quickly grabbed some nearby sesame oil, followed by containers of coriander, sage, and ground red pepper, and applied them in a mixture to her dripping puss, taut, lean belly, and pert-nippled tits, and pausing just enough to inhale the appetizing aroma, dove right in with greedy mouth and tongue to lick her naked body into a lather. Oblivious to the others, she soon began moaning & squealing with delight and pure animal pleasure, pulling off his jeans and boxers in order to grab at his own swollen man-meat. 

He thrust himself deep inside her, riding the girl like one of the champion bull-riders he'd seen at the rodeos in the Superdome. They moaned in time, as he came violently inside her, not noticing that the kitchen-staff had cleared out sometime after he began undressing her, and locked the doors behind them, declaring the kitchen "closed early for a private dinner". The dining room patrons must've enjoyed themselves vicariously through the sounds of passion emanating from within, as Remy quickly flipped his meat-girl over and took her from behind, Char bucking & shrieking like a bitch-cat in heat. And so it was, for their own meal that night, Remy enjoyed a sumptuous feast of steamed Clam Creole, while Charmayne gorged herself on some spicy Cajun blood sausage with cream sauce. 

XXXXXXXX

After a good talkin'-to by Uncle Bernard, they were both allowed to keep their jobs at his restaurant. As Char had learnt all too well that fateful night, Remy was both a natural-born chef, and connoisseur of the earthier pleasures of life. He hardly ever referred to a proper cook-book, relying instead on both his taste and scent-memory while preparing his dishes - "a pinch of this, a touch o' that" - the way it was handed down to him by his elders at home, in the time-honored Southern tradition. And, judging by the compliments and accolades from the patrons, it seemed as if his was not only the right way, but the best way as well. 

Thusly, their romance took root and grew faster n' hotter than a pepper sprout, as both Remy and Char grew comfortable with each other both in the kitchen as well as the bedroom. He was moved up to assistant head chef, and used his increase in salary to move out of his 'rents' place into his own flat near the Ninth Ward district of the city, his Creole lady with him. He managed to get her to loosen-up some, taking her out on the town to the best jazz joints & cabarets, even talking her into changing her clothing style from the conservative, tailored suits she first wore at work to satiny silk camisoles and dressy jeans. She let her hair down in the literal sense, from her formerly prim, upswept style, to better display her dark, wavy mane which was her crowning glory. 

He spent most of his free time over the next couple of years butterin' her up, as they continued with what they called their "cannibal sex orgies", only saving them till after the restaurant closed for the night late, after everyone else had gone home. Few wondered why they always volunteered to stay. Remy experimented with different sauces & seasonings for such mouth-watering delicacies as víchyssoise a lá pusseé, while Char obediently lay naked and motionless on the prep table, sometimes lightly restrained, as he took his time in preparing his feast.

Sometimes she would get so hot below after he caressed, poked & prodded her with blunted kitchen implements, testing the quality of her meat, that she couldn't contain herself any longer, and leapt up off the table onto him to tear his clothes off and begin devouring him. Once in a while, whenever they made the mutual acquaintance of some pretty young fillé that they could confide in, she would join them in their after-hours revelry, so that it became a sex banquet indeed. 

Oftentimes this would carry on over to their home, where their shared cries of passion and delight would keep their neighbors up all night, so that the officers from the local precinct would be called round to pound on their door, usually with a warning of, "Jesus Christ, Remy - whatty'a doin' in there? Sounds like you're eatin' that girl alive! Keep the ruckus down to a dull roar, will ya? They can hear you all the way out in Saint Tammany Parish!"

But, as it bein' "The Big Easy" n' all, this was generally tolerated in the breech, and everyone got along just fine. Yessir - life was all sunshine an' honey, back in the day, B.K..

Before Katrina, that is ... 

XXXXXXXX

Remy broke from his reverie of staring out at the dirty, swirling, debris-laden water just ten feet below his second story apartment window to glance over at Charmayne. She glanced up from watching the latest news developments on the tiny five-inch screen portable black & white TV that was a Christmas present from years gone by now, that he found in the basement storage, and gave him a wan smile. Besides the portable CD boombox, it was their only source of news and entertainment after the main electrical power went out all over the city.

At first none of them truly believed in the dire predictions of how bad this particular storm might be; the city'd rode out many other hurricanes over the years, going back over a century or more, with little other than some surface flooding of the waterfront streets, cleaned up in a few days. Very often some of the braver (some would claim foolhardy) souls would venture to the water's edge to watch the ocean's fury from a relatively safe distance. 

However - when the first reports of five-foot swells and whitecaps on Lake Ponch began to appear, and then the 29-foot-high storm surge began to raise its' fearsome head like some monstrous sea creature ready to take a huge bite out of the city itself, there was a mad dash back inland to higher ground and safety - or so they thought. Millions of gallons of green-black seawater cascaded down upon the lower dockside area up to the Ninth Ward itself, followed by a day & a half of continual torrential rains, until essentially the city itself had been drowned.

After the skies had finally cleared, it was plain obvious that the water had risen up to the second, even third-story levels of some of the older buildings, making it all but impossible for any other means of travel asides from small boats or anything else that safely floated. Remy & Char were lucky in that he had asked to borrow his Uncle Clyde's small skiff for fishing on the lake earlier in the summer, and had stored it down in the basement, from where it had floated outside on the rising flood and they kept it tethered to his window, using it to venture out occasionally for supplies. 

They had tried to make the best of it at first, even looking upon it as a sort of adventure. Char had remarked that New Orleans now more closely resembled Venice, Italy, so Remy took that as his cue to wear his old straw fishing hat, and along with a striped T-shirt and long pole, began to impersonate one of those Venetian gondoliers. He wasn't above playing the fool for her, even serenading her in mock-Italian, waving to the few passers-by while she lay back in the boat, laughed, and enjoyed the show. Anything to bring about her dazzling smile and musical laughter, like wind chimes in the summer evening breeze. 

It wasn't long, though, before the novelty wore thin, and desperation began to seep in. After the rains had subsided, they soon noticed what they first had thought were nothing more than random piles of soggy clothing floating about in the flooded streets, till upon closer inspection, they discovered they all belonged to dead bodies of folks who'd apparently drowned either during the storm or afterwards. This was quite a shock, as neither had seen actual dead people before this. The water itself had quickly become a toxic gumbo of sorts, containing a mixture of gasoline, oil, and other unclassified, muddy debris that had washed out of who knows where. 

There were rumors and reports of gators swimming the streets, looking for an opportune dinner, even a seven-foot shark was supposed to've been swept up the Industrial Canal from the Gulf into N'awlins. Random gas fires sent out flames right through the water's surface, resembling what Char had described as a place called "Dante's Inferno", which Remy didn't need translating as a vision of Hell itself.

And all about, constantly, were the occasional cries and pleas for help and rescue from the stranded citizenry - young & old alike. The air - the very air surrounding the city itself took on a new, strangely familiar odor. New Orleans had long been famous for its' sultry atmosphere, composed of equal parts summery high humidity and tropical decay, but this was different, in their young lives, at least. This time, there was the faint, yet unmistakable stench of organic rot - of death itself. 

They'd debated back & forth about whether they should've joined the thousands of others who'd taken up refuge in the city's huge Superdome sports arena upon the Mayor's urging to wait out the storm itself and eventually return home. But as the days wore on without sign of rescue, Char had stayed in touch with one of her old girlfriends from Tulane who'd gone there with her boyfriend; she described the scene around her as "something out of 'Lord of the Flies'", which she'd explained was a college-level literary work about savagery and the breakdown of civilization. 

Remy remembered the story his great-grandma had told, passed down through the family, about having seen the Angel of Death himself during the great flu epidemic of 1917-18, describing him as having a giant buzzard's body topped by a skull's-head, swooping down upon the stricken city to snatch dying souls away like so many helpless animals, though she had survived. "Death took 'em", she simply explained, as if He was a streetcar conductor, transporting the dead to the last stop on the line. His crazy Aunt Elyse on his mother's side of the family would've declared New Orleans' destruction as divine punishment for being such a wicked, wanton, and sinful city. But then, you had to know the old gal herself.

Rumored to be a beauty in her youth, it was said that because of a disastrous early marriage, her train permanently left its' track, and so she took up indefinite residence in the Hotel Dementia. Tall and dark, she made a local name for herself as a self-styled medium, preying on innocent people's trust, tellin' 'em what they wanted to hear, for profit & her own twisted amusement. Besides periodic busts by the bunco squad and nights in the drunk tank, in her spare time she engaged in debauchery with both the "sportin' ladies" and gents of the red-light district of Storyville. Hell, she even came on to her own nephew once! As she aged and her looks faded, though, she clung to religion like a life preserver, totin' & quotin' from a big ol' Bible, till she ended her days raving in a Shreveport bughouse, a lonely, bitter old shrew.

Still, they viewed their immediate predicament as a test of their resourcefulness. Remy had only a few days worth of food in their cupboards and fridge at any one time, as they both always took most of their meals at the restaurant. As both it and the fresh drinking water quickly grew low, he improvised by tapping into the toilet feed line and the hot water boiler in the building's basement, boiling it on the propane-fueled camping stove to be on the safe side for both drinking and bathing. He even made a couple trips by boat to St. Michael the Archangel church, and found the baptismal fount and holy water still high enough out of reach of the flood level to be useable, mindful that his late Granny Julienne would've declared this such a sacrilege that his immortal soul would surely burn in Hell as penance.

When the shelves of the nearest Winn-Dixie began to be looted clean of most foodstuffs, Remy used his fishing tackle to catch an occasional catfish swimming in the street to prepare a classic Cajun dish, blackened redfish. He even found some crawdaddies with which to prepare a crude shrimp jambalaya, careful to thoroughly clean & boil the critters first to remove as much of the water's toxins as possible.

In the evenings, they watched and listened to the latest news for signs of rescue by the state and federal governments. When this got too depressing, they lifted their spirits by visiting their neighbors' flats in their building - Papa Dee, the large, friendly black man who claimed to be a fourth-generation practicing voodoo high priest; the Súarez family, and Toní Tolouse, the drag queen who was a headliner at the Pink Flamingo down on Bourbon Street. Later, whenever the mood took them, they'd still play their favorite cannibal charades, finding new & unique uses for such things as plantains, carrots, and Hawaiian Gold pineapple rings, making a sexy meal out of each other. 

For variety's sake, they'd often dig out his daddy's collection of old vintage LP's of every regional artist that could lay claim to the Big Easy as their cultural home, from both Fats Waller and Domino, to Satchmo, Professor Longhair, Jerry Lee Lewis, Doctor John, Lynyrd Skynyrd, the Neville Brothers, Buckwheat Zydeco, even classic Elvis. He'd crank up the volume of the old battery-powered record player they'd found somewhere, and dance & sing the night away, until, exhausted, they fell into bed, to rest up for another day of the same old. 

So that - even after all available food sources had long since disappeared - they never lost hope of eventual rescue, 'afore it got too late. If only they'd gotten out before Rita struck in Katrina's wake ...

XXXXXXXX

II Rita, and other "fair weather friends":

Near as she could recall, it was mainly his fault they missed their ride to safety, as when word came down through the neighborhood grapevine one day that FEMA had sent rescuers in airboats straight from the surrounding bayous to round up stranded folk, everybody in the building was more than ready to jump out the windows into one to get the hell out of there. Everybody but Remy, that is. Seems he just had to go back to the restaurant to salvage his precious Calphalon cookware that he'd saved up for months to afford, as his most prized possessions to take with him.




Orphans of the Storm



See, he'd long had the dream of apprenticing himself to one of the great Cajun chefs of the day - say, Emeril, or even K-Paul himself, to perfect his culinary skills in advance of opening up his own place one day. Charmayne had tried to convince him to set his sights higher, like attending Le Córdon Bléu in gay Paree. Whatever the case, he'd need those pots & pans, and he begged the rest of their neighbors to hold the boat till they got back from their foray up the flooded streets. And as he recalled, she was also worried about her car, an expensive foreign job that was a birthday gift from her parents, last berthed in a Canal Street parking garage that surely was submerged under ten feet of filthy water, as he tried to make her see. 

So, by the time they gave up after seeing the watery ruin of Uncle Bernard's eatery, and she couldn't find her wheels, they high-tailed it back to their place only to find - there wasn't a solitary soul left in the building, besides themselves. Papa Dee, the Ramirez', and all the others had cleared out with whatever they could carry, leaving the rest behind. Even Toní had taken a powder with his best taffeta gowns and feather boas. Char, furious, immediately lit into Remy, blaming his selfishness for the loss of their rescue; he countered with the time wasted searching for her car was when they could've made it back. They near came to blows once or twice.

But, what was done, was done. They'd missed the boat, and their gooses were surely cooked. So now they were abandoned & alone, truly "orphans of the storm". They just couldn't believe that their friends couldn't have held the FEMA folks until they got back. The big old yellow brick building never seemed so empty and forlorn in the six years they'd lived there together.

With darkness coming on, and miserable as could be, they retired to their apartment, where each sulked for the rest of that day & evening in separate rooms, alone with their thoughts. Later, on his way to the bathroom, Remy heard Char calmly call out his name from the bedroom. When he looked in, he saw her laid out nude on the bed, smilin' and covered in Hershey's syrup, whipped cream, and cherries in pleasing places, as a kind of human ice cream sundae; a "peace offering" dessert if you will. He didn't need any more coaxing than that, as some of his old lustful spirit returned for awhile.

However, as soon as Katrina's evil twin sister, Rita, arrived, while not quite her sibling's match in the wrath of God department, fear and desperation renewed. Days of torrential rains, accompanied by fierce winds that seemed to threaten tearing down the apartment building, caused both of them to huddle together in the gloomy days and dark nights in their bed, afraid that the rising floodwaters would eventually reach the window level.

Remy tried his damnedest to comfort an increasingly distraught Char that they'd eventually be rescued after all, while not letting her see the worry & despair that was gaining a hold on him as well. After the rains subsided again, the air became even fouler than before, with an ever-present odor of something unnameable - evil, even - that they tried their best to hold at bay by burnin' scented candles most day and night, with little success.

And, of course, the ever-present physical hunger, that gnawed away at them both, night & day, so that their strength was slowly yet surely sapped, robbing them of sleep, and leaving them too tired for their usual passionate style of lovemaking. Hell - even plain ol' red beans & dirty rice would've seemed a beggarman's feast at that point! This seemed particularly cruel, even hellish: for a couple of vital, attractive young folk like them to slowly starve to death, deprived of satisfying their own unique appetites. So much so, that, inevitably ... they began contemplating the heretofore unthinkable. 

Not that this would've been without precedent. Many of Remy's own ancestors emigrated to the city right out of the back country bayous, where in the black water swamps still lived tales of the fearsome loúp-garou, a legendary man-beast who'd transform by the light of the full moon, and hunt ordinary men for to feast on their flesh. Then there was that one strange night when, as a boy, he crept downstairs in his parents' house to overhear them and some of his visiting kinfolk discussin' family history around the kitchen table in low, whispered tones, until his Granny Thibodaux suddenly let loose with a witchlike cackle. "Well, meat's meat, and Man's gotta eat!", she declared, like to make his hair stand on end. As he got old enough, they shared the story with him.

Seems there was a great-uncle on his daddy's side, one Jacques Julienne, otherwise known as "Black Jack", a 'gator poacher back in the deep bayou during the Great Depression of the last century. He was a truly ornery sum'bitch that lived entirely by his own code, and whom one learnt never to cross paths with. That was the unfortunate lesson one neighboring trapper earned from a long-running dispute over territorial claims. The man eventually disappeared, and his worried relatives sent for the Louisiana State Police to pay a call on old Uncle Black Jack. They came upon his camp, drawn by what they later described as "tantalizing cooking smells" to a large cauldron heating over a fire, with Jacques squatting beside, nonchalantly stirring the bubbling contents. 

Assuming it was nothing more than a crude pork stew, they casually inquired what he was cooking. Black Jack regarded them a moment, then announced with a grim smile: "Someone who didn't agree with me". With growing alarm, the one trooper held his gun on him, while the other one searched the surrounding clearing until he came upon the missing man's gutted remains hanging upside down from a cypress tree branch like a field-dressed deer, with a hungry gator feastin' on the rest. Horrified, they both stared at this, the first one taking his attention away from Uncle Jacques just long enough for him to get the drop on 'im with his shotgun, until his partner gunned him down in return. 

And, during their last desperate forays to find food, the eerie quiet of the deserted, flooded streets was broken more often now by scattered gunfire from various directions. Seems there was an ongoing modern-day battle for the city of New Orleans; only instead of a siege by either British or Yankee invaders, this one was being fought by its' own residents betweenst themselves and any that dared to venture in to help them. 

The worst was when they chanced unseen upon a group of men - if you could call them that - struggling with a young black girl of about eighteen or so, stripping her right out in broad daylight before hauling her, kicking & screaming for her life yet in vain, into an abandoned building, obviously aiming to rape her - and, perhaps an even darker fate. Unarmed & outnumbered, they could do little but watch in horror till they turned away towards home again, shaken to the core. Without a cop in sight, how they both longed for the days when the local gendarmes would come poundin' on their door ...

So, it really didn't come as much of a surprise when, during the following night, as Remy and Char lay in each others' arms in bed, listening to both the sounds outside as well as their own runaway thoughts, she suddenly spoke up:

"Baby, eat me ... please."

It wasn't so much a request or suggestion, as so many times before - but a plea.

XXXXXXXX

Of course, he tried his damnedest to talk her out of it - it was just plain crazy, an incredible idea - but, she could be just as stubborn and bull-headed as he. After what they'd just witnessed, and with a slow death by starvation all but certain, she'd made up her mind that she didn't want to leave this world by either means, Plus, it only seemed logical, went her argument, that he, Remy, should have the best chance of survival for eventual rescue, as he was the one of them with the true talent, his culinary skills, and he could always find another gal - as he always did before her - to be by his side, and in his bed, as he went on to fame & fortune. And of course - she was the tastier, more appetizing of the two of 'em. 

At first he didn't know whether to laugh at this, at her presumptiveness, or cry over her amazing sense of self-sacrifice. But, the truth was undeniable: meat's meat, and man's gotta eat. Eat ... or die.

It must've been a combination of things ... the fouled air outside, the growing menace from others, even the deteriorating condition of their physical bodies that affected both their minds ... but, he really, actually began to consider this, how to practically go about it. 

Remy remembered the stories that Papa Dee had told them on many a dark, stormy night, about his ancestry both by way of the ancient Caribe Indians, who were reputed to've practiced actual cannibalism as a mainstay of their diet, as well as immigrants from Haiti, where voodoo still held sway. He'd revealed to them the secret recipe, from ingredients surprisingly easy to come by, for what he'd called "zombie dust", a sort of conjurin' powder that was said to've put its' victims in a state of near-death, so that they'd be accidentally buried until the chosen time their masters would summon them to rise up out of their graves, and do their bidding. 

The plan was to mix up enough of the potion to put her deeply under, so that she would gradually just drift off into the Great Beyond, leaving all this pain & grief behind her. She'd actually suggested that he measure it so that she'd still be conscious as he did the deed, but he vehemently voted against it. He didn't want to be staring into her dark, beautiful eyes - the very same ones he used to watch the stars' reflections in - whilst he performed such a grisly task. That, was just asking too much of him.

Deprived of his beloved cookware, Remy felt compelled to raid the empty apartments in the building for the necessary implements for his chores, when he remembered old man Epstein's place. The building superintendent and a "ham" radio operator, he had an old battery-powered shortwave rig that they used to gather round during other storms to listen to the police & rescue reports. Cursing his stupidity, he frantically tried it over & again for almost two hours, sending out repeated distress calls to anybody who might be listening, without so much as a break in the static, till the batteries wore down. His heart sinking like a stone, in a fit of useless rage he smashed the set. Then, finally he gave in & sullenly made his way back to Char - and, the inevitable. 

Remy recalled later a distinct sense of unreality, unbelieving that their lives - his and Char's - had finally, unavoidably come down to this, even as he felt his animal survival instinct taking over. This just couldn't be happening - I mean, this was the good ol' U.S. of A., land of plenty, home of the free - not some dinky little Third World country where disaster, disease, and famine usually ruled. Just how could this catastrophe have happened here? And who the fuck was to blame, anyhow?

So, resigning himself to do what he felt he had to without another choice, he filled the bathtub with what was left of the potable water, undressed and carried her into the bathroom, gently & lovingly bathed her, then dried her off and with his remaining strength, brought her back to the bedroom, laying her on plastic tarp that he'd covered the bedsheets with. Waiting in the kitchen for their grim purpose were the purloined cooking utensils & knives, along with a kettle on the boil with the remaining propane. See, the plan was to mix the powder in with plenty of chamomile tea, the way his great-great-great Aunt Felicity had purportedly done with nightshade for a couple of rapacious Yankee carpetbaggers that'd paid her a visit in the days following the Civil War. All the better for it to go down nice an' easy.

Remy remembered how the sun had seemed to disappear entirely from the sky that September afternoon, and the shadows lengthened early. At the same time, he became aware of a ... presence, a sense of living evil that may have originated all the way from the remotest bayous, and might well have contributed to the general breakdown & order in the days following the floods, drifting in through the open windows. He heard - or, so he thought - unseen voices, whispers in the shadows, coaxing him ever onwards in his preparations for the unspeakable. He imagined blood-thirsty Uncle Jacques, even poor mad Aunt Elyse, urging him to commit to this course of action, an invitation to eternal damnation for his immortal soul. Even swore he caught sight of 'em, out of the corner of his eye. All this, while his fevered brain tried to focus on the more practical aspects.

Which part of her would he cook and eat first? He'd once read that the organ meats - the liver, kidneys, & such - were the most nutritious in any animal, even man himself. But it was the smooth curves, the youthful, taut leanness of her caramel-colored body - her limbs, her torso - that'd always fired both his lust and sensual appetites, as well as his creativity. Should he carve a steak, a cutlet out of her shapely thighs, her firm, rounded ass? Or, perhaps even a succulent fílet-de-fillé from that seat of her womanhood he loved the most? 

Premature grief as well as terror gripped his heart as he wondered: how would he explain to others - to any one, most of all her parents, who never cared much for him to begin with - why he'd done it, even if he managed to survive? He'd have to dispose of the remains well enough so that nobody ever could find out. But, then - how would her family be able to properly mourn her? How could she receive a fitting, traditional N'awlins jazz funeral? 

These wild thoughts were mixed with the hypnotic refrain of a pop song from his childhood that had ahold of his mind:

The devil inside, the Devil inside,

Every-single-one-of-us, the devil inside ...

He carefully, determinedly carried the saucer & cup with its' deadly potion into the bedroom where she lay, the lit candles in the gathering darkness casting frightful shadows on the walls, giving the over-all effect of a pagan human sacrifice. All the while, Charmayne Bouviér Dupüis lay there calm, motionless, hands folded across her belly, her eyes meeting his from across the room - unafraid. The very air in the room seemed to thicken, making it hard to breathe. Remy stooped down beside her, drawing her up so that she could take the drink.

"Here 'ya go, baby bird ... drink all of it ... and then, just close your eyes and rest. Soon the angels will be comin' for you ... "

He was damned sure when his turn came, it wouldn't be heavenly hosts, but their infernal counterparts that'd claim him. And then, the goddamnedest thing happened, just as her lips were about to touch the cup -

His left hand spilled it to the floor. Remy wondered a moment, idiotically, if his fingers had suddenly gone numb - until he remembered with a shock that he was right-handed. Then, like a volcano erupting, all the suppressed fear, grief, anger, frustration, and other emotions shot to the surface, and he broke down, sobbing like a motherless child, tearless from dehydration, arms crossed & head bowed, unable to face her.

"Oh, Baby, baby, baby ... I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, so sorry ... it's all my fault that this has happened, right from the start ... if it hadn't been for my pig-headedness ... my selfishness, my stupidity ... we wouldn't be in this awful situation. And now - I can't even follow through on this! I just can't do this, Baby - I love you too goddamned much! I've failed you, Babe ... failed you at every turn ... "

Alone in his abject misery, he didn't take notice at first; her gentle coughing and feeble attempts at speaking finally caught his attention. He paused to glance up at her, as she weakly laughed, and said, in a faint resemblance of her normal voice: 

" ... now you finally get humility! Just like you, to take credit for an act of God, you big Cajun oaf! You never get tired of wishful thinking, do you? I ... just want you to know, you couldn't be more wrong! You've never let me down once ... and, especially not now!"

He stared at her, dumbly, not comprehending ... then, the light of understanding hit him. He managed a ghost of his old familiar grin, but for only a moment, as exhaustion and resignation took their toll.

"Then ... this is it ... there's nothing left ... goodbye, baby bird ... "

Remy let his weary head sink onto her bare stomach, and closed his eyes for what he truly believed was the last time, feeling her fingers gently stroking his hair. Then, they gave themselves over to the darkness ... 

XXXXXXXX

They must've both blessedly passed out, for when Remy next woke, it was already after dark; the candles had burned themselves out. Still delirious, unaware of his surroundings at first, he thought he most surely had died when he heard a faint, yet familiar sound like that of huge wings beating against the close, humid air, coming rapidly nearer, and accompanied by a bright white light that shone through the bedside window. 

Was this, in fact, the Angel of Death at last, come to claim both Charmayne and him, and carry them on to the afterlife? His weakened heart fluttered in his chest as both the sound and beam of light seemed to settle finally on the rooftop, till he recognized the loud, booming, boisterous voice that called in from above.

"Hey, Remy - yo, my main man! Stop whatever you and Char are doin', and get yo' selves ready to leave, chop-chop! Last chopper out of Saigon time, bro'! And I'll even forget the twenty you still owe me from our last poker night, so - get yo' low-down Cajun ass movin'!"

It was his old boyhood buddy, Demetrius Henry - "Remy an' Demmy", their friends always referred to them, when they were running the back alleys together. A large, imposing, solidly-built black man who bore a strong resemblance to the actor Michael Clarke Duncan as he grew to adulthood, even down to his shaved-bald scalp, he could trace his ancestry back to 19th Century plantation slaves, though he always boasted that he was in fact a descendant of the mighty John Henry of American legend. 

He'd joined the state National Guard soon after school graduation, then the Army Reserves, just like his daddy before him. When he went over to Iraq, he and Remy had kept in touch by e-mail; last word he had from him was a day or so before the power went off from the storm. They must've brought some of the local boys back to help out with the relief and rescue teams.

Demmy himself appeared in uniform at the window, all 6'3", 220 lb. of him, M-16 at his side, a wide grin on his face, hanging onto an aerial ladder.

"We got your S.O.S. - drop your cock and grab your socks, boy - it's check-out time at the Good Times Motel! We're gonna ... "

His voice trailed off as he surveyed the room - the mess, Charmayne still nude and lying in bed above the covers, eyes closed and faint, shallow breathing. But it must've been the _expression he read on Remy's face - a combination of total surrender and fear mixed with immense relief - that'd caused his own mahogany mug to whiten considerably, tipping him off that something grave, even unthinkable was about to happen shortly before his airborne calvary had arrived to the rescue. 

"Lawd A-mighty ... what went on here?"

Remy could only manage a hoarse whisper, his words like dust in his mouth. "Demmy ... please, for the love of God ... help me save her!"

His friend glanced quickly at the two gaunt figures before him. "Hell, yeah! That's why we're here - to get you both!"

He went back to the window, barking out a command. "Mac - MacCready! Get down here, quick! Bring two of those shock blankets with you, and some epinephrine in a hypo! We're gonna need it, stat!"




Orphans of the Storm



The other soldier wasted no time in hurrying down the ladder with the supplies, and Demmy wrapped one blanket around Remy's slouched shoulders, gently leading his friend toward the other man.

"OK, Remy - go with him, he'll help you into the chopper, there's food & water in there. Don't you worry none, I'll see to Charmayne, we'll get you both to a hospital, they'll fix you up right quick! Easy, now - that first step's a bitch!"

Remy managed a brief, weak laugh as Mac got him onto the ladder and managed to haul him aboard. The huge black man took the hypo and - after feeling for a pulse - carefully administered some into Char's right arm. After a minute or so, she coughed into spasms until her dark eyes finally opened, their lustre dimmed somewhat.

"It's Demmy, Char - hush now, baby, don't try to talk! We're back from the war, and here to help rescue you & Remy, honeychile!"

He didn't waste any more time, just wrapped her up securely in the blanket, and then effortlessly picked her up & carried her, fighting back tears, as tenderly and lovingly as a proud mother her newborn child, towards the waiting helicopter. 

XXXXXXX

Up, up, and away ... into the sweltering night sky, starlit , yet bible-black. 

The roar of the rotor blades intensified, almost deafening, as they took off from the rooftop of the apartment; yet they provided a cooling breeze. Remy had never ridden in a 'copter before, and he was pretty damn certain that Char had never either. It was a pity that she was missing out on the novelty of it all, only half-conscious. Like being in the palm of a gentle giant as he lifted you upwards into the sky.

Over the din of the engine, he could hear the crackle of the radio static as the pilot called into home base.

"Angel One-niner to base, Angel Nineteen to base - do you copy, over? Just rounded up a couple more strays, put the E.R. at Charity on alert, they're in a bad way, we're gonna call it a night with this one, over!"

It was then that Remy finally thought to look out the main door window at the side of the craft, and what he saw ... made him let out with a low, dry chuckle at first, gradually building in volume until he started convulsing into a sick, helpless laughter, climaxing in tears finally running down his face. Demmy Henry only held onto his old friend, supporting him, whilst shaking his own head in pity. Poor Remy - he was headed for a total breakdown.

"It's okay, bro - it''ll be OK! Next year at Mardi Gras, for damn sure!"

For on the hull of the chopper, just behind the pilot's windshield, stenciled over the bright orange paint scheme of the aircraft, visible even in the inky night, was the following legend:

Angel Flight 19, Air Station New Orleans, C.G.A.S. - 

"We Go Where Others Fear To Tread"

XXXXXXXX

There was a saying in old New Orleans from those days: Life is for the living; save your tears - and your prayers - for the dead.

After the reclaiming and the counting of all the dead that Katrina and Rita had left in their wake, it was soon determined that there just wouldn't be - couldn't be - enough time, caskets, and mourners for all of them to be sent to their final reward in a proper funeral for each & every one.

And so it was, on the following Labor Day weekend, the first anniversary of the disaster, they held the biggest, longest, grandest, most elaborate Dixieland jazz funeral for all of the lost sons & daughters of the Big Easy. It stretched for ten city blocks of the French Quarter, easily matching any Mardi Gras celebration in recent memory. The many professional mourners and attendants marched in solemn procession behind a single horse-drawn casket, symbolizing the roughly 1,300 or so dear departed souls, as the funeral band, decked out in all their somber finery, played an appropriate dirge, while most all of Christendom watched on via live satellite feed. It was if the nation had paused in their annual summer's end holiday to remember those that were lost, one final time.

As on cue, when the caisson reached Bourbon Street, they stopped - paused for a moment - then, the band broke out one more time into "When the Saints Go Marchin' In", the assembled seemed to instantly throw off their collective shroud of mourning , and jubilation was the order of the day once again. The high-steppers and 'bumber-shoot twirlers carried on like never before, street dancing with each other and any of the thousands of onlookers who chose to join them, chasing away the Angel of Death and replacing him with the joy and the celebration of Life itself, ushering in a new era for the rebuilding of the Crescent City, better than before.

XXXXXXXX 

III "Too many cooks ... " / The future (and beyond) 

"Oh, man, Dad, you gotta be fucking kidding me - what a crock!"

Remy Lamar Julienne II had finished his story, but was taken aback by this outburst, and regarded both his son and grandchildren, the captive audience that'd been eagerly listening to his story up till now. It was currently the year 2027, on the eve of yet another Mardi Gras, and while the young 'uns had been following his recounting of the ordeal of the Great Storm of '05, they'd since turned their attention to the televised accounts of the annual parade of krewes through the French Quarter. This was made all the more irresistable by being shown on the new 3-D TV set that they'd just purchased to replace the now-obsolete plasma flat-panel unit, in the living room of their grandparents' comfortable suburban home.

It was his & Char's only male child, Lucas - a.k.a. "Lukey" - who's uttered this brash yet honest opinion of his old man's recounting of how both of his parents had met, courted, and survived the aftermath of the terrible Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, the namesakes of his two older sisters and mothers of the little tykes, leaving the two older males in the den. Luke, unmarried, and bearing a close resemblance to Remy, was an active young buck much like his father at his age, thus unaccustomed to both the joys & responsibilities of parenthood. He continued to stare at his father incredulously.

"You mean to sit there and tell me, that - you were actually so close to starvation that you were preparing to kill, cook, & eat Mom?! What'ya take me for, anyways? I never - "

He didn't get the rest of his sentence out, as - purely on instinct, both because of & in spite of his fatherly affection, Remy's left hand shot out again like so many years before, and backhanded Luke across his open mouth. The stinging impact got his son's immediate attention.

"Hey - what the fuck?! Why the hell'd you do that for - "

"Watch your tongue, bub! Your grandaddy wouldn't take that sort of sass from me, and neither will I, you! I'm trying to teach you something important here!"

"Yeah, but - what'd ya' expect? Tryin' to sell me a whopper like that!" 

Charmayne Bouviér Dupüis-Julienne, Lukey's mother and Remy's better half, stood in the hallway just out of sight of the two argumentive men. She had been listening in on the approximate second half of the tale, brushing a wisp of her still gloriously dark hair from her unwrinkled brow & wiping her hands on the apron she was wearing while whipping up a batch of her husband's special polk salad in the kitchen, when she'd decided to check on her two "boys". She'd alternately laughed quietly, sighed, and even a tear or two had threatened to fall as she re-lived those last fateful days of Old New Orleans through her love's storytelling gifts. But this latest development had caused her lovely, unlined face to flush with both embarrassment & alarm.

Ohhh, that man! He should've known better! I know he always means well, but the boy was still too young to understand. Will I never be able to live this down?

This seemed her cue to intercede; she entered the room smiling warmly. Best to nip this in the bud by offering her version of recent history.

"So - I go looking for my two favorite men, and I find your daddy, offering up one of his patented Cajun tall tales, huh, Luke?" 

Remy glanced at his wife inquisitively; she only gave him a sideways warning look that he'd come to know all too well by now. Their son turned to his mother the way countless children for eternity had, for verification of the incredible.

"Mom, you wouldn't believe the yarn Dad was spinning me - "

"Oh, yes I would!" she countered. "Don't forget, Son - I've known him a lot longer than you have! You should know by now not to take seriously everything your father tells you. Don't you realize when he's just been 'funnin' you? He just loves to exaggerate and expand on the known facts - it runs in his family, telling stories like that!"

She sat down on the arm of the easy chair Remy was occupying right across from their son, gently elbowing him in his arm, irregardless of whether Luke noticed, as she continued.

"Let's start over from the beginning, shall we? First of all, we weren't stranded in the old Ninth Ward near as long as your father let on. We were rescued by your Uncle Demmy shortly after the rains from Rita quit, so we were there - oh, if I recall correctly, just about two weeks, tops. Yes, we ran out of food long before that, and yes, we were powerfully hungry, but - starvation? Enough to consider actual cannibalism? Oh, Remy!" She glanced down at him reproachfully. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" He seemed, at least, to assume a sheepish _expression. She looked at her son expectantly. "OK - next?"

"Crazy Aunt Elyse - was she really all that bad?" 

She gave Remy a wry, somewhat contemptuous look. "Wasn't 'Eliza' her given name? And, didn't the city close down Storyville around 1914?" Again, she regarded Luke. "Your father had his own reasons for demonizing her that I never quite understood. Actually, we both went to visit her in the rest home in her last years; she seemed more like just a harmless old eccentric by then, poor dear - all 'bark', and no 'bite'. Personally, myself - I don't think she weathered menopause very well."

"Papa Dee, the Ramirez' - Toní Tolouse?"

They both looked at each other as a shared thought passed like a dark cloud, momentarily. Remy spoke. "Never saw 'em again - and, never cared to! Though, I did hear that Toní found his - er, her - way to Frisco, when they legalized gay marriages."

"And that girl ... the one you both saw?"

There was a short silence, till his mother said, gently: "I only wish we could say we didn't see that happen, dear."

"Uncle Black Jack?"

Again, they conferred with their eyes, till Char broke away with a slight shudder. "Let's not go there."

Luke seemed somewhat mollified, but persistent. "OK, then - what exactly was this whole yarn about? Just an exercise in storytelllin' for its' own sake - or, what?"

Remy and his pretty lady looked at each other a long moment, each daring the other to go first. He finally broke the silence. 

"Look, youngster - I'm sorry I hit you, it was just a reflex alone, alright? Do you remember when you were just a little sprout, we sent you to catechism class, and you came home one day in tears askin' about the sacrifice of Abraham? That old guy in the Bible who God asked to prove his love for him, by killing his oldest son? And we told you not to take it literal-like - that it was just a fable n' such?"

"Yeah ... " Luke chewed this over a bit, still not sure of its' intent. "I know that you always loved Mom, but, still - "

"You asked me a while ago to tell you about local history that we both lived through, about the past. Well, history, like life itself, Lukey, is nothing more than a mixture - a gumbo, if you will - of facts, the truth - well, truth's all in the viewpoint - and, a bit o' fiction as well, thrown in for seasonin'. Each person's past is a part of the larger truth, of history. Hell, I remember when folks used to rely on the Internet for truth, all in futility. And belief plays a large part in it as well." 

He paused long enough to lean over, and point at his son. "Maybe the only real truth is what you know and believe it to be, yourself, based on what's gone before - there, in your own heart, and head. Each person has to decide for themselves what is right, and true."

Luke still was mulling this over too long for his mother's ease. "Lukey, honey", she reached over to take his hand in hers, smiling tenderly while ruffling his thick hair, "do you know how a diamond is formed, from an ordinary lump of coal?" She showed him the twinkler of a wedding ring that Remy had placed on her slender finger some twenty-odd years ago. 

"Think of a whole pile of black coal, under intense pressure, continual, for an indefinite time. Some lumps will eventually crumble, some might give off a bit of temporary heat and light, till they too will break apart. But out of all those ugly, common black rocks - one piece will stand the tests of both time and pressure, till it eventually becomes a sparkling diamond, reflecting light in all directions, illuminating everything around it - and that one, son, is what you'd call, 'a keeper'!" She leaned back, draping her arm across her husband's shoulders with a triumphant smile. "That's how I discovered what your father was made of, when the odds were greatly against us even surviving that terrible episode in our young lives."

Remy was proud of how his better half had improved her own storytelling skills. "Yep, that's me - a true 'diamond in the rough'!" She elbowed him again, not as gently, groaning at his weak pun.

"Yeah, but - I mean - I guess I never realized what an - um - adventuresome sex life you two shared, all these years." The boy regarded them both a bit curiously.

"Oh-ho! Is that so?" His daddy relished the opportunity for this. "So, the pot calls the kettle black, eh, youngster? And, that wasn't you with a cat-ate-the-canary smile sneakin' your pretty lil' Jolene out the back door of the kitchen the other night, dressin' yourselves in an all-fired hurry, then?" He leaned back in his chair smugly, while Char hid her surprise.

Luke was in imminent danger of losing his composure yet again. "Um, don't know what you mean by that, Dad? Anyways ... " He hesitated a moment before continuing. "Uncle Demmy told me a somewhat different version couple of years ago, when we went fishing out on Lake Ponch."

Remy & Char's expressions turned serious just for a moment; he was first to take the bait. "Oh? And just what, exactly, did my good and trusted friend Demetrius Henry have to say?"

Lukey again waited a bit, collecting himself. "Well ... he said that he'd never forget that night when his air rescue crew paid you that visit. When he looked in on you - the both of you - and what he saw in your bedroom ... "

Both his parents waited with no small interest, his daddy the most. "Yeah?"

Their son decided to just blurt it out. "He had a grandma himself who practiced santorìo, and said that he knew a 'hoodoo room' when he saw one; figured you'd both gone loopy from thirst and drank some bad water. When they had you checked out at the hospital, you were both severely dehydrated and suffering from malnutrition."

The two adults sat back and breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, which Remy masked with his usual cocky, triumphant grin. "See? What'd I tell 'ya? Same difference, right?" 

Looking from one to the other & back again without a discernible clue as to what was true anymore, Lucas had apparently heard & seen enough. He folded up his holo-video camcorder, packed it away, and shook his head. "Why do I get the idea I'm the one been 'hoodooed' here? When Mr. Willoughby in Media Arts assigned us this living history project on our elders, I had no idea what a can of worms I was gonna' open up! This is going to take some editing to get this by 'em!"

His mother got up, smoothed out her apron & dress, and looked at them both a bit ruefully. "I could've told you, Luke - didn't I warn you ahead of time to take everything your Dad tells you about '05 with a grain of salt? And, perhaps just a pinch of cayenne as well!" She looked down at her hubby. "Zombie dust, the Angel of Death, Uncle Jacques the cannibal - really, Remy! This was a tale best saved for Halloween, don't you think?" She exited the room with a disparaging look. 

"I'm gonna go out and get some family footage of my nieces and nephews, Dad - see you at supper. And, uh - thanks for the story. It was, um, entertaining ... "

Remy only smiled, nonplussed. "Anytime, Lukey. Glad I could help!"

As his son & fruit of his loins left him alone in the family den, Remy had time to reflect on just how far they'd come - he & Char - since those fateful September days ...

XXXXXXXX

After they were both checked out at Charity Hospital's makeshift triage center, they were re-united first with her folk out in Metairie who'd managed to ride out the storms in relative safety, and were so glad to see their only daughter that they even came to forgive & accept Remy into the family. Upon getting back in touch with his own kin, the two relocated temporarily to one of the "trailer cities" that FEMA had planted all over the southeastern part of the state, till they could find & afford a proper place to call home again. Sadly, though, they learned that feisty Granny Julienne and Char's great-aunt Minnie Bouvier hadn't survived out in Jefferson Parish and Bayou Lafourche, respectively, each living alone and thus unable to get herself out of harm's way. 

Remy never made it to Paris and cooking school in the City of Lights or apprenticeship to Emeril or K-Paul. Instead, with a federal assistance grant, Char both helped him enroll, and tutored him at Louisiana State U., Baton Rouge, which had a decent enough culinary department specializing in local cuisine, helping him further refine his already considerable native talents. Graduating with a 2-year degree, he got an assistant head chef position at the newly renovated Bayona Restaurant in the French Quarter, where he continued to experiment with spices, condiments, and other ingredients - both before, and after hours, with his beautiful Creole lady by his side all the way. Soon he was promoted to chief head chef, which kept him busy inventing new and delightful daily menu specials, to unanimous praise from both the locals and tourists, while Char was made assistant maitre'd.

In the meanwhile, a storm of a different sort was brewing once again - this one of righteous fury among those most affected by both the hurricanes; the other "storm orphans". A former Ninth Ward New Orleans city councilman by the fated name of Lincoln Jefferson III, who could trace his lineage back to the third U.S. President by way of a certain comely female slave, found himself in the hurricane's eye, so to speak. He had lost both of his paternal grandparents in a tragic bus accident during the ill-managed exodus immediately following Katrina, and soon became a tireless victims' rights advocate and liaison between the state and federal governments. 

When the latter overruled the former with respect to the fate of the district, trying desperately to rebuild itself, and the bulldozers moved in to level it, a great hue & cry was raised among the poor & dispossessed. Councilman Jefferson quickly organized a group of devoted volunteers - Remy & Char among them - to circle the planned demolition zone, linked arm-in-arm-in-arm, blocking the path of the 'dozers. Singing & chanting every song & slogan from the past, from "Dixie", to "We Shall Overcome", a group of fifty ordinary, common folk successfully stared down the might of the U.S. government - and, the birth of a populist movement, the likes of which had not been seen since the heyday of Huey "Kingfish" Long, was born. 

The wealthy & powerful Delacroix family, Louisiana political king-makers, knew an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when they saw it. Tired of years of government whose operating style was "asleep at the wheel", they took L.J. under their wing, grooming him for first the state Senate, and then - a race for the next Presidential election as the first viable, believable third party candidate in many decades. Resurrecting the modified Federalist Party for the 21st Century, with a true "dark horse" if there ever was one, there were a few roadblocks along the way, including a failed asassination attempt by a wacko white supremicist whom many believed was a stooge of the powers-that-be.




Orphans of the Storm



But "Jeff" - as most of his friends & supporters simply knew him by - had a God-given talent for snatching triumph from the jaws of disaster. With the rallying cry, born out of the Katrina disaster, of "Enough Is Enough!", and running on a platform featuring "Our own folk first; the others, second" as primary plank, Lincoln Jefferson III was swept into the Oval Office in November of 2008 in a historic landslide victory powered mainly by the record turnout of many displaced and relocated former Deep Southerners to become the very first African-American President in this country's history. 

In the interim, Remy had finally decided to make an honest woman out of his Char, and presented her with that ring shortly after making head chef. Even proposed to her late one night in the kitchen at Bayona, after he had her naked & bound on the prep table, he slipped it onto her finger - not that she would refuse anyways. She did talk him out of having a J.P. conduct the ceremony in that fashion, however. 

They'd managed to save up enough by then for a proper church wedding, with all the trimmin's. Remy was superstitious enough to vote against having it in St. Michael's; he didn't want to tempt fate ever again. Instead, All Saints Church in the Garden District was the chosen venue, and a gala affair it was. All of the extended Julienne & Dupüis families were in attendance, and everyone declared they'd never seen a more attractive couple join in holy wedlock - Remy a handsome groom in his very first formal black tux, and Char a beautiful blushing bride, positively resplendent in her mother's antique ivory beaded wedding gown. Of course, Demmy was his friend's best man, and they catered the reception themselves. 

When the time arrived for their last dance before leaving on their honeymoon in Venice, Remy had long already chosen the song for the jazz band to play as he'd take Char for one final twirl on the dance floor in Preservation Hall. It was inspired by a deadly serious question that she'd asked him over & over during those dark September days: "How long do you think we have?" His answer eventually came by way of an old Satchmo' classic: "We Have All The Time In The World".

In the years to come, they had their daughters Katrina, first, then Rita two years later, followed in another two by Lukey. When the lease on another New Orleans landmark, the Bon Ton Cafe in the Central Business District, came up for renewal, Char urged Remy to "cärpe diêm", and so he did, applying for a bank loan to take over the joint. She originally wanted to rename it something traditionally fancy an' upscale like "Le Bellefontãine"; he soon reminded her, however, that this was, after all, near the French Quarter, where his kind of folk - the Mardi Gras crowds - came to relax & have a good time. So they compromised, and hung a shingle out in front that declared it simply as "Remy & Char's", as it remains to this day. Good thing she didn't insist on top billing!

The new President Jefferson quickly became one of the most popular occupants of the White House in many years. Inheriting some of his forebearer's talents, he was known both as a "man of the people" in the manner not seen since Andy Jackson, as well as a skilled and natural diplomat. The novelty and appeal of a black man as American president naturally won over many of the countries and heads of state that we'd been pissin' off for too many years during ruinous foreign wars and adventures spurred mainly by avarice and acquistion of the dwindling supplies of oil. He made occasional state visits to Europe, Russia, Asia, and even the Middle East, made all the easier by what became known as the "New World Accords". Kind of a reverse Monroe Doctrine, according to Char, it was signed in New York City on September 11, 2011, in the shadow of the former Ground Zero, ten years to the date of that dark day in infamy

. 

Most all the world's known leaders were in attendance, even the recently elected Presidents of Iraq, North Korea, and the new state of Palestine. Stripped of all the gingerbread, it said, essentially, that this country would no longer interfere in political, religious, economic, or other major affairs of the Eastern and Third Worlds, without their express consent - and even then, usually only in humanitarian emergencies. In addition, they pledged their mutual support and resources in combating the last remaining extremists and other international nutjobs once dignified by the term "terrorist". It was the most watched televised event in human history to date.

What made such unanimous cooperation possible was the discovery four years earlier of a renewable, plentiful, non-polluting, and nearly inexhaustible source of clean, cheap energy by a joint team of research scientists from Tulane, Auburn, and George Washington Carver universities in the form of a mixture of peanut, soybean, and cottonseed oils, blended with ethanol from corn. Ingredients from crops traditionally grown in the Deep South/Mississippi Delta regions. Dubbed "eco-fuel" by the media folk, you could run everything from ocean-going ships & big rig trucks to economy cars, oil burner furnaces and generators on the stuff, and there was soon a flurry of patents on the most economical production methods, enough to stir up a panic in the corridors of Big Oil so that they tried their damnedest to stall it coming to market by means of bogus lawsuits. 

But, President Jeff, surrounding himself with loyal advisors from his days back in the Ninth Ward, easily took the high road, and refused to be bought off by them, even threatening a boycott of all remaining petroleum fuels used by the military and state guards. Eyeball to eyeball, they eventually backed down and reached a compromise settlement, allowing for the new fuel to be brought to market. Just as soon as it did, it financed a golden era of massive rebuilding for the South not seen since the days of the original Reconstruction. 

The original inventors quickly became wealthier than King Midas, subcontracting the process to most all Western economies, eclipsing even Bill Gates, who eventually hopped on the bandwagon himself. The days of the global oil industry's stranglehold on the world's day-to-day affairs seemed to be in decline at least, if not entirely over. They could only hope that the gradual reduction in pollution output would eventually offset the ongoing global warming phenomenon. 

To hedge their bets, contingent upon restoring N'awlins to its' historic glory, the Army Corps of Engineers - upon Pres. Jefferson's direct orders - not only rebuilt the levee system to better than pre-Katrina standards. They also constructed a series of massive, overlapping floodgates between the port entrance and the Gulf, as well as Lake Ponchartrain, modeled after the ones they had over there in the Netherlands. Computer-controlled 24/7, and monitored by the N.O.A.A., with an easy manual over-ride, this multi-billion dollar project was specifically designed to withstand any storm surge up to a Category 5 hurricane, thus preventing another disaster like Katrina & its' aftermath from occurring ever again. Before they could be completed, however, Hurricanes Françoíse and Isabél, in '09 & '10 respectively, roared ashore in the Crescent City and surrounding regions, again causing flooding & property destruction with some few deaths, but fortunately not near the amount of the '05 storms. The great avian flu epidemic of the winter of '07 - '08 was another matter. 

"We shall overcome"; damn straight! Just goes to prove that if you wait long enough, most all things eventually do come to pass. The South did rise again after all; it only took almost 175 years to accomplish it. And the sacrifice of another Abraham - Lincoln - played, indirectly, no small part in it. That other Jefferson - Davis - would've either been proud, or doing pinwheels in his grave; no one could be certain.

As a natural result, Southern American culture & history was all the rage, not only in this country, but around the globe as well. Books, magazines, TV shows, movies and plays on every period from the post-colonial era to present-day Dixie were constantly being cranked out to meet the interest & demand of everybody from the Parisian boulevardier to the Russian farmer, even to the Bangkok tech worker. And, a resurgence in Southern cuisine - christened Nouvellé de Sûd - brought many a foreign tourist to Remy & Char's. There delighted diners could sample an ever-evolving menu based mainly on traditional Deep South classics like gumbo, jambalaya, and Key Lime pie, but lighter on the sauces, substituting healthier ingredients for a more modern life-style, yet still enough of the requisite pepper & other spices to tease and tempt the palate. 

The restaurante's well-stocked wine cellar was Char's main culinary responsibility, as well as contributing some of her own family's traditional Creole dishes - crèpes, desserts, other sweet dishes (what he always liked to call her, herself) - as Remy had long wanted her creative input besides just her keen business sense integrated into what had become the family business. In short order the place became one of the hot spots in the city, receiving a five-star rating in the Michelìn & Virgin Atlantic travel guides. Remy was even offered the head White House chef job by President Jefferson, as well as the opportunity to franchise his establishment. But, that would've mean either being on the road, or moving the whole family away, from his beloved Big Easy, and though lucrative, he passed on these. 

Besides, his recently-introduced line of combination body sauces and sex lubes, marketed under the exclusive brand name of Dr. Buzzard's Original Southern Recipe Bawdy Likkers, were taking off like a house afire, sold only in the most upscale, discriminating adult novelty shoppes. It was during these boom times that they were able to afford the large, fancy house they currently lived in out in Chalmette, just an hour's drive from N'awlins and their business, with a magnificent view of the Gulf on one side, and the bayou on the other. Both the girls had moved in with their own families, but came to visit often with their younglings, while Luke was still at home with them. It was a far cry from the shotgun house on Desire Street where his folks raised him and five other siblings, he thought each day as he drove his eco-fueled Chevy Cajun pickup into the city past the renovated and re-named Gatordome, where each and every autumn, the Saints did indeed come marchin' in. 

Remy & Char kept a small townhouse on Magazine Street where they spent much of their workweek time, enjoyin' each other's company and throwin' the occasional, exclusive "dinner party" for special guests. When President Jeff left office finally in 2016, he permanently moved into an stately Reconstruction-era mansion on St. Charles Ave., just a hop n' a skip from them. He'd used it often instead of Camp David as a presidential retreat. and came to visit them often with his charming wife, the former First Lady. All in all, life couldn't have been sweeter in the living. 

My, my - how the time do fly ...

"Ahem!"

Remy glanced up at where his wife was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, and her too-familiar "explain yourself, boy" look on her pretty face.

"Woolgathering again, for another yarn? So, Scheherazàde - what were you hoping to accomplish back there, with Lukey?"

"Shere- who? Shucks, babe, after all these years, you should know by now I don't always get your references! Just figured he should know the type of folk he come from, and how we got here, once and for good!"

"Actually," she rejoined, "I meant - what were you getting at, in that remark about him and Jolene?"

With a sly grin, he recounted how, late one night while heading to the family kitchen for a quick snack, he stumbled unseen across both Luke and Jolene Harris, the cute as a button, curvaceous blue-eyed blonde who was in his class at school, going about the same thing. He had her naked & on top of the prep island counter near the Jennaire range, butterin' her up with vegetable oil and other spices, she squealin' with delight and passion while he proceeded to lower his jeans. Caught up between nostalgia and lust, he quickly excused himself to head back to their bedroom, and sate his appetite with Char. She listened with a mixture of motherly concern and feigned outrage.

"Oh, Heaven help us all! So that's why you woke me up from a sound sleep!" She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. "I was afraid of this eventually happening! Now I'm living under the same roof with not one, but two sex cannibals! It's all your doing, you know - you're a bad influence!" She mulled her next thought for a moment. "Maybe if we lock him in his room, until he's at least twenty-one ... "

He lived for moments like this. "HA! Now who's wishful thinkin'? Can he help it if he's a chip off the old block? For awhile there, I thought he took too much after you, with all your book learnin' and delicate sensibilities. Maybe it's high time we included him in the family business. Like my daddy always said: 'The apple never falls too far from the tree.'"

She smiled indulgently, amused despite herself. "Oh, Remy, honey - your daddy was always full of it!"

He got up, casually loped across the room, and took her in his arms. "Yeah, and I know just what you'd like to be full of, yourself!" He nuzzled her neck and nibbled at her delicate, shell-like ears as, despite herself, she giggled girlishly & blushed a darker hue. Cuddling a moment or two, enjoying his embrace, she slyly asked sotto voce: "Now ... aren't you glad you didn't eat me after all?"

Grinning wolfishly; "Yeah - so's I can keep on eatin' you till the cows come home!"

Down the hallway, from the living room, came the traditional melody of "Iko Iko"; the kiddos loved that tune, and must've sped up the volume on the TV. Holding her in front of him, they danced a little in place, gently humming & swaying back & forth. After a moment or two, a stray thought came back to Char by way of an unsolved mystery.

"Honey?"

"Hm ... yeah, babe?"

"Just how did you get the clean water from the basement boiler in our old place in the Ninth Ward, if the flood waters were up to the second-story windows? I never even saw you wet!" She paused long enough to look back at him quizzically. 

He only smiled and held onto her, coaxing her back into the song's jaunty rhythm. 

"Walked on the water, honeybabe - you know I'd do anything for you!"

Her heart warmed at this charming bit of flummery, even as her gaze leveled at him more skeptically. Put on the spot, he had to confess: "Oh, that's right - you never knew about those rooftop rainbarrels, did you, now? They were there for years. Hey, it was tough work runnin' up and down three flights o' stairs with full buckets couple times a day, you know!"

Mouth comically agape, his wife did a slow burn, till she drew her hand back to mock-slap him and he caught it effortlessly, as always. They both dissolved into merry laughter, then he held her tightly, tiltin' her lovely face with forefinger close to his still-handsome one. They were both hoverin' on either side of the half-century mark, but each held their own, respectively. Remy gazed down into the bright, dark eyes of the slender Creole lady who was both his greatest love, and all-time favorite dish. "I love you, Ladybird." And bent down to gently yet passionately kiss her for a bite on her full lower lip.

Charmayne looked up into the face of the man she'd entrusted her very life to, many years ago, and always would, ever again. She reached down with a free hand and gave his sausage a passionate squeeze, demonstrating her continued desire for him. "And I've gotten kinda' attached to you too, you Cajun roughneck!"

Still smiling, taking her by the hand, he led her out of the room. "Dinner's waitin', and so's Mardi Gras!"

They entered the living room, where the young pups were also at play, carrying on like a pack of red Injuns, while Luke was busy filming all the action. His mom clapped her hands for attention. "Okay, everyone - supper's ready! Let's sit down to eat, so's we can go down and see the festivities before it's all over."

The children yelled their approval at this plan, while their youthful grandad addressed them fondly. "OK-OK, kids! You heard Granny - race you all to the dinner table! Last one in winds up in Uncle Black Jack's gator stew!"

Char rolled her eyes in loving exasperation, as, grunting & aping everyone's favorite Cajun boogeyman, he chased them till they all took off, squealing in delighted horror toward the spacious dining room, where a feast lay waiting. And so, Remy and Charmayne strode off into the one place everyone, everywhere, secretly hopes for to spend the rest of their days.

In their own private happy ending, forged out of the furnace of the past, the anvil of the present, and viewed through the hope of the future ... 

(And, if Fat Tuesday hadn't already came and went by now, I'd also add: "Laissez le bon temps roulez!" )

XXXXXXXX

"The dead deserve our respect; 
the living deserve the truth."

(An inversion of the original by Voltaire)

********

"Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh ...
Jambalaya, a-crawfish pie, and-a fillet gumbo
'Cause tonight I'm gonna see my machez á mio,
Pick guitar, fill fruit-jar, and be (a) gay- oh, 
Son of a gon, we'll have big fun, on the bayou!"

Hank Williams, Jr.

XXXXXXXX

(The genesis for this story originally began in the immediate aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and was born out of both my fervent, sincere, life-long love of the Deep South/Mississippi Delta region of our country - its' rich, colorful history, vibrant culture, people, and cuisine - and my continued shock, outrage, and sorrow over the unprecedented human tragedy that unfolded in the wake of the storms. So this is dedicated to not only the true-life "orphans of the storm", and the heroic folk who not only rescued, but took many of them in and cared for them - God bless you, you're true Americans! But also, to the memory and unforgettable works of all the many, many writers, musicians, chefs, and other artistes who have ever called this storied area home. 

From Samuel Clemens neé Mark Twain, William Faulkner, Walker Percy, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tennessee Williams, Truman Capote, to Gore Vidal, Horton Foote, Anne Rice & John Grisham. From Jellyroll Morton & W.C. Handy, to the great Louis "Satchmo" Armstrong, Fats Domino, "The Killer" Jerry Lee Lewis, Doug Kershaw, Mac Rebennack a.k.a. "Dr. John the Night Tripper", Aaron Neville, Wynton Marsalis, the late Otis Redding, and Harry Connick Jr. And colorful Cajun chefs such as Justin Wilson and Paul Prudhomme. Thanks so much for the memories; they made both my youth & adulthood so much more enjoyable.

As for the good folk of Biloxi, Gulfport, Houston, and that uniquely American microcosm of U.S. cities, "N'awlins" - good night, and good luck/bon chance! May your hopes and dreams take root in the near future, and you receive all the help you need and deserve to rebuild shattered lives and homes, so that you may return soon to your beloved "Dixie". 

And, a special tribute to that grand practitioner of the art of mendacity: that sniveling, lily-livered, mealy-mouthed, morally contemptible peeshwank extraordinaire who successfully wormed his way into the White House, not just once - but twice! To borrow from that big-haired troubadour, Lyle Lovett: "That's right, my friend, YOU'RE NOT FROM TEXAS!!" )