"Let's," he said, "eat."

So the Stanisnotion's tucked in. Young Horationess grabbed up a fried chicken leg, made it got into his mouth, grimaced, and brought forth the leg, clean of meat: a polished bone.

Q. Mary, the daughter of the family, gobbled up peas like they were sweets. She had what is known in modern parlance as a "green tooth."

Missus Stanisnotion, who, by some bizarre mixture of fate, stupidity, and the usage of sobriquets, didn't even know her own name (when the marriage licenses were being written up she had been in a valium-induced coma— take one look at the leisure suit in which F. Larry had gotten married and deduce the rest. But she loved her husband. And F. Larry loved her, and always had, since the day he met her when F. Larry's brother had brought her home on a date, since the day F. Larry had deflated his brother's tires so he couldn't pick her up for their second date, since the day F. Larry started dating her himself when she dumped his brother for standing her up, since the day F. Larry's brother had tried to shoot him in the eye with a BB rifle over the whole thing, since the day they'd gotten married, since the day F. Larry's brother had wrecked his car into F. Larry's over the whole thing, even since the day F. Larry's brother threatened to kill F. Larry just for the principle of the thing, even though by that time Missus Stanisnotion had grown to a size for luggage testing) she declined the heaping bowl of mashed taters, running with butter, and nibbled daintily on a celery stick. Daintily. She was about as dainty as a tug-boat.

F. Larry, for his part, put both his kids to shame, chewing chicken with such vigor as to shake their mobile home right down to its Jake's Hardware Cement foundation (in which there was a stress fracture, like the one a college student who always carries his backpack on one shoulder might get in that same clavicle, the which fracture will allow their mobile home to be lifted up and tossed willy-nilly through the nearby brush during a violent windstorm in the forthcoming 1992, though no one would get hurt, thank the ever-lovin' Lord). F. Larry loved chicken almost as much as he loved his gargantuan wife, almost as much as he loved his stupid little kids.

When he was four, F. Larry had had another, similar idea, but when he proffered it at the dinner table before his old man got the chance to himself, he was cuffed. A week before this time in F. Larry's present, young Horationess had seemed eager and ready to commit the same faux-pas before his own old man. But where as old-man Stanisnotion had been an act-now think-later kind of codger, F. Larry was of brighter stuff, and he prevented his son's mistake by throwing him through a window.

Horationess had found the whole thing gigglesome.

The family ate, sans conversation, for theirs was a mode of acute politeness. Never talking with their mouths full pretty much meant the Stanisnotions never talked. Q. Mary, for her part, was rounding the corner on them peas and eyeballed the tub o' tatoes with a gleam that would've put the fear of God into a frat boy.

Suddenly, There was a knock on the door. Young Horationess ignored it with the same sort of enthusiasm as could be found in any fast-food drive-up window during an afternoon hunger attack. Q. Mary was partly deaf from having had pneumonia after spending a day naked in the back seat of Jimmy Loretta's junked Datsun, so she heard nothing. Missus Stanisnotion pretended it wasn't nothing but the wind.

But ever the protector of his fine domicile, F. Larry stood up, wiping his mouth on a saved McDonald's napkin. "What in the name of Sassafras?" he heard himself mutter. He gave his children a stern look, as if to say, "Y'all better not be up to no foolishness while I'm gone, and by the by, if'n y'all ever go over t' somebody's house during suppertime, I'll tan ya like a silk t-shirt, see if I ain't truthin' ya!" Quite an expressive look, really, though to be sure, F. Larry didn't actually talk like that at all. His was an accomplished diction, as he had spent time in college as a radio D.J.

F. Larry went to the door, and opened it. Jackals might be outside, waiting to tear him limb from limb. Or gangsters, who would pillage his body and rob his family. Or salesmen. But the only thing F. Larry actually feared was Missus Stanisnotion herself when she got it into her head to eat less, for the effort usually led to an amorousness on her part that would scare the bejeesus out of a bull-moose. Thank God, Missus Stanisnotion usually rewarded herself for an actualized goal of the amorous sort by digging into four pounds of Haagen Daas.

Standing on the porch in the fading trailer-park twilight was a man of indeterminate size, as he was backlit by the requisite trailer-park 5000 watt halogen crime stopper, which served to show the thieves which cars had the fewest scratches. The man stood as if he were smiling, but F. Larry couldn't tell so he flipped on his porch light, which began to attract moths and skeeters. The man was, in fact, smiling, after all, and the tie on his chest said, "Lawyer-man."

"Yup?" F. Larry said, trying his damnedest to sound like an idiotic rube. He didn't want this lawyer-man to know of what he was capable. He wanted to keep his cards close to his chest.

"Mr. Stanisnotion? I'm John Johnson, of Fitzbaum, Peterson, Hearshy, and Johnson." He held out his hand.

F. Larry noticed the man's mustache for the first time, and he narrowed his beady little eyes. He had been right, the man was a lawyer. F. Larry tried quickly to conjure in his mind a defense for every petty crime of which he thought himself guilty during the last six months, as he held out his hand. There was the girlie magazine he'd bought, read in the car, and chucked out the window on his way home. Had some impressionable young nun found the darned thing? Had the FBI done a thorough fingerprinting job, and matched the one's on the mag with the one's F. Larry had been forced to produce when he'd joined the Navy some twenty years before? Johnson's hand was dry and smooth like a rich baby's butt, though F. Larry had never actually felt one of those before. Was it that car door his own car door had hit in the parking lot of the Stuckey's out on I-95? Well, if it was, it was the Camino driver's own fault, since he was all but straddling the yellow line, and F. Larry had the ugly waitress' ear to prove it- she'd been very sympathetic when he's complained about the discourtesy of driver's over his bowl of extra-texan chili. Sympathetic, and butt-ugly. "Yeah," he finally said, "I'm Stanisnotion."

"I'm sorry to bother you so late in the evening, Mr. Stanisnotion, but I wanted to make sure your best interests were satisfied." The dapper little lawyerman with his ninety-dollar tie and his thousand dollar smile and his mustache that was probably cut and trimmed by his nineteen year old wife while they lay naked under a sun lamp listening to George Strait and drinking the kind of martinis that only come out of expensive bottles, he was about as eager as an uncut Doberman.

F. Larry had no damn idea what this suit was talking about. Best interests? Did Johnson really want to see that F. Larry got that satellite dish? If not, he didn't know a damn thing about Stanisnotion's best interests. The head of the household checked his shirt front quickly for chicken grease or gravy stains and decided to act superior. "Really, Mstr Jaaahnsn? And what-ever can you be talking about, prithee?" Never end sentences with prepositions when talking superior.

But Johnson was a professional, and neither eyebrow shot up in questioning fashion. Releasing F. Larry's hand, he said, "Well, considering your recent change of status vis-a-vis the socio-economic spectrum of things, I'm sure there are any number of sycophants and leeches flocking to your door."

F. Larry understood what Johnson was saying about as much as Sister Filligree, his eight grade teacher, a nun who had suffered a stroke and was therefore partially paralyzed on her left side, understood trampolines. But F. Larry did understand that this shyster's command of metaphorical language was dangerously inadequate. Leeches never flock. They ooze. "I'm afraid, mister Jaaahnsn, that you'll have to explain yourslf, forsooth."

Just then, young Horationess appeared under his father's arm. He smelled like chicken. "Kin I play Nintendo dad aw c'mon please?"

F. Larry looked down at his son with enough pride to bust a gut. That's it, son, show this ambulance-chaser that we're an upwardly-mobile family, that we're equipped to take on the heady future, that we got, dagnabit, NINTENDO! He smiled and said, "Sure thing, son. But let your sister play too, otherwise you'll forget to do your modern physio-astronomy calculus homework." F. Larry didn't have to worry about his son questioning the cryptic homework statement, since, at the word "sure," Horationess had been off like a shot. F. Larry looked back at Johnson, his own eyes gleaming, proud of his own WIT!

Johnson stood with his arms to his side, a very unnatural pose, and looked plainly at F. Larry. He said, "Mr. Stanisnotion, my firm would like to take you on as a financial client, so that your fortune may be better utilized and made to grow even larger."

F. Larry blinked. "Ummm, what fortune? You got the right guy?"

Johnson grinned sort of evil-like, saying, "You don't have to be coy with me, Mr. Stanisnotion. I'm your friend."

F. Larry decided that he'd had enough of this darn fool. Fortune? Quickest way to get cash-dollar out of a man was to tell him he was going to get more later. Money-hungry sharks. F. Larry dropped the superior facade, saying, "Mr. Johnson, I don't think I have any need for a lawyer, and my supper's getting cold. So if you'll just excuse me, I got to—"

"I'm not a lawyer, Mr. Stanisnotion, I'm an accountant. I'm here with regards to your wining the Ed McMayo sweepstakes. We want to take care of your money for you."

F. Larry looked at Johnson like a fish looks at a bicycle. And, he was starting to get fed up. "You damn fool, I ain't won no sweepstakes. Getcher hide off'n my property."

FOOM! FOOM! F. Larry was bombarded with lights so bright he was blinded in an instant. The air become thick with the smell of ozone and developer. "What the hay?" Through the haze of his reluctantly returning vision and the glare of several lights, like cops on a mary-jane bust, F. Larry could see people running around excitedly. A voice shouted out, "Congratulations!"

A hand, warmer and bigger than Johnson's, enveloped F. Larry's, and shook it until the latter feared his fillings would fall out. Finally it stopped, and the hand clapped F. Larry on the shoulder. "How does it feel to be a millionaire?"

F. Larry blinked several thousand times, and at last made out the face of the man before him, obscuring Johnson. Indeed, it was Fred McMayo himself. The man just about everybody in America wanted to see. F. Larry couldn't help himself as he said, "Holy SHIT!"

Fred turned his head quickly back at the camera and said, "Edit that out." He looked back at F. Larry, smiling. "Mr. Stanisnotion, I'm Fred McMayo, and I'm here to present you with a check for five million dollars!"

F. Larry couldn't help himself as he said, "Holy SHIT!"

McMayo made a waiving gesture to his people behind him. A young, pert woman tripped lightly up the stairs exactly the way Missus Stanisnotion wouldn't, holding one of those huge, easier to autograph checks. She handed it to McMayo, eyeballed Stanisnotion as if to say money was not a difficult thing to spend, hint hint, and tripped lightly away again.

McMayo put his arm around F. Larry, and grinned into the blinding lights the way only a celebrity used to such nonsense could, holding one end of the huge check. F. Larry held the other, and goggled at it. It was made out to F. L. Stanisnotion. Holy cow. F. Larry couldn't help himself as he said, "Holy SHIT!"

"We'll overdub," McMayo said. "Now, Fortinbras— can I call you Fortinbras?"

F. Larry giggled. "You can call me anything you want, Mr. McMayo. Holy SHIT!"

"We'll have to do some paperwork here, you know, taxes—"

"Of course, my first name isn't Fortinbras, really."

"I see. Anyway, Uncle Sam will want his cut, and—"

"Actually, that's my brother's name. Mine is—"

"Wait a minute." McMayo stood back. "Did you say your brother's name is Fortinbras?'

"Yeah, but I don't mind. Hell, for five million you could call me Satan himself. Holy shit!"

"Now wait just a god-damned minute," McMayo bellowed. "Is this 39 Oldso Way?"

"Yeah, yeah," F. Larry said, nodding his head vigorously. "You got the right place."

"Does your brother live here, then?"

"No, he used to, but when dad died he willed the place to me so I kicked old Forty out. Man's gotta give his family a place to live, right?" He made a smile. "And now I can afford to—"

"Jesus Christ." McMayo said, stomping down the steps of the rickety porch, taking the big check with him. "We got the wrong damn guy." He stomped over to the limo, where the light-tripping girl from before held the door open for him. McMayo got in. The girl shut the door, looking at F. Larry as if to say, "Not in your wildest dreams, bucko."

The lights went away, and the various camera persons got into their own vehicles, until then hidden away to better manufacture the surprise, and drove off. F. Larry saw Johnson dancing timidly at the bottom of the porch stairs. "You wouldn't happen to know where your brother is living now, would you?"

F. Larry Stanisnotion was stunned. What the hell had just happened? From fried chicken to confusion, to elation, to despair. And now his good for nothing brother was filthy rich. Numb, F. Larry heard himself say, "Twenty-two twenty south Blakemoor. Go wring him for all he's worth, you stinky little weasel." Johnson disappeared like a shot.

F. Larry walked slowly back into his home, locking the door behind him. He looked at the time on the v.c.r.— the whole thing had taken all of fifteen minutes.

F. Larry turned to look in the kitchen, at his wife, who's face was covered with mashed potatoes, and who's hands where busy shoveling the stuff into her dangerous mouth. She looked up at F. Larry guiltily, and glanced at her half-chewed celery stick. She swallowed thickly, and said, "Who was at the door, honey?"

F. Larry sighed, and did his best to keep his eyes open. "C'mon, precious. Let's get you cleaned up and go to bed. I guess I'm feeling a little amorous myself, tonight."

Missus Stanisnotion squealed with glee, because if there was anything that her two-ton butt loved more than chocolate, roast-beef, or root-beer floats, it was F. Larry Stanisnotion himself.