Originally, I planned to start this part where we left off in Part Six, but fucking Wolf wanted me to relay some of his comments to all of you. As you all know Wolf is a little “different” from us normal guys, so we have to cut him a little slack. Remember, he lives with “lower-case bitch,” (my ex is upper-case Bitch) and that’s punishment enough.

First of all, he read through the entire six parts and had this to say: “Do you realize you’ve written 71 pages so far and you’ve only covered six days. That Part Six was a real winner! It took you 15 pages to cover just 9 hours, that’s ridiculous. I always thought you were an Idiot Savant, I just haven’t proven it. Although I’m very well acquainted with the Idiot component of that disorder in your case; I just haven’t identified the brilliant component yet.” “What about my satirical writing? I suggested. “Like I said before, I still haven’t identified the brilliant component yet,” he snapped at me.

Wolf, you have to understand that this is an extremely difficult topic; I’m dealing with the death of a fellow traveler,” I said somewhat defensively. “Then deal with it and cut out all the other crap,” he replied. “You ought to know by now that “other crap,” as you put it, is how I dispense valuable information to the guys in the form of parables,” I said. Actually I was kind of proud of myself because I could never think of a way to use the word ‘parable” before in a sentence. I hope it means what I think it means.

“Do you even know what the word “parable,” means?” he went on the attack. “Of course I do, I only use words that I’m familiar with. Any more questions, asshole? I hissed at him. “Oh yeah, what about the seven page parable you wrote to tell the guys about the meaning of the number 24 jersey. Something that long is called a fable, not a parable. “Fuck you Wolf; what’s your point? I bluntly asked him. “Why didn’t you just say don’t wear that number, it’s consider gay in Brazil,” he said as he sat back in my favorite chair and smugly smiled at me. “Fuck you Wolf and get out of my chair.”

As I poured myself a glass of Scotch, picky Wolf took issue with that too. “You’re drinking far too much each day,” he admonished me. “But I only have one drink a day. Shit, you’re the one who told me I could continue to drink if I kept it under control. We even agreed on one drink-a-day if I used an “Old Fashion” glass, didn’t we?” I lashed back. “But I never imagined that you would find a 16 ounce “Old fashion” glass and fill it to the top without any ice,” he said as he glared at me. I shot back with, “Yeah, I found it in a novelty shop. Do you like it? Anyway I prefer my Scotch “neat,” which to the uninformed means without ice.” He then added, “Just look at yourself, you have to hold the glass with both hands. You look like a little kid with his first “Slurpee.” He had a point there because I was holding my glass with two hands because its so damn heavy.

“Let’s get back to the subject at hand,” he said as he watched me sip my Scotch. “What subject?” I asked. “You have to write more concisely and get to the point quickly or you’ll loose you reader base,” he continued. “What reader base? I mean…..I will?” “Of course you will. Just look at how many discussion posts there were in the first twenty-hours after you posted Part Six. I count four. Look, TheRightWay is so embarrassed he didn’t even post and you tell me he always posts,” he said with a grin on his face. He had another good point there, but I wasn’t going to concede my artist endeavors to this asshole.

“Alright, I’ll be more to the point from now on, but its difficult dealing with Bob’s death,” I replied. “From what I’ve seen so far you only touched on that topic in about 8 paragraphs in 71 pages of crap,” he stated. “After he left, I went back over the entire report and found out that I had actually directly discussed that topic in seven, not eight paragraphs. I briefly considered correcting the little twerp, but decided against it.

Now, I don’t want anyone to misconstrue what I say next as an advertisement for Don’s service, that’s not my intention. But if any of you are planning a trip to Rio and think you might die while you’re there --then by all means hire Don. He’s so good at his job; he can even arrange to get you cremated in a country that, for all intents and purposes, bans that practice.

Bob’s death was certainly a learning experience for him. After dealing with the various authorities in connection with Bob’s death, Don knows his way around Centro, the courts and Consulate in ways he never expected. I must add that Wally’s assistance was invaluable too. The only problem with Wally was the fact that he seemed to always have a fucking headache, which was probably due to some weird tropical allergy. I was able to confirm that diagnosis when I called him in Arizona two weeks after he returned. He told me he hadn’t had a headache since he left me in Rio. That made me feel good.

Nothing is easy in Brazil except getting laid and robbed. I’ll attempt to walk you through the long and torturous trail Don blazed to fulfill Bob’s last wishes. First of all, as previously stated Don needed to get a copy of Bob’s Will sent to Brazil via Fax and then translated into Portuguese and presented to the designated Clerk for certification. To complicate matters, after the Will was translated and presented to the clerk, he demanded an original certified copy of Bob’s Will in English not Portuguese. Federal Express got it there within two days. Don found that he was often taking one step forward, followed by two steps backward, but after all, this is Brazil.

That was the first step in dealing with the Byzantine Brazilian bureaucracy. After this initial step was completed, the paper work would be submitted to a Judge so that an order allowing cremation could be issued. Strangely, the clerk who issued the “Order for Cremation” was located right across the street from Terma Sixty-Five. What a great location! I wonder what he does on his lunch hour?

Meanwhile, at the same time that was going on; the Coroner was performing an autopsy to determine a cause of death. When Don told me that this was to “rule out foul play,” I replied, “Ironic isn’t it.” Don gave me a confused look as I continued on, “Wasn’t that why he came to Rio in the first place; in a manner of speaking, that is?” Don rolled his eyes and told me to go back to my Mobile Command Center.

After the autopsy was completed, Bob’s body was taken to the city morgue and held until Don could secure another court order releasing it to the funeral home. Throughout this whole ordeal, the funeral home guys seemed to outdo themselves with creative ways of adding unnecessary fees. Don very successfully thwarted their efforts. It reminded me of how I outsmart Fernando all the time. Where was I before I started to digress off into space? Oh yeah, back to the Coroner. The Coroner ruled that Bob's death was due to natural causes and from every indication, he slipped away peacefully in his sleep.

As you can well imagine everything in Brazil needs to be done in triplicate and there's always a clerk involved that can magically expedite things if so inclined….. wink, wink. Otherwise they slow things to a crawl. Don and Wally somehow, don't ask me how, managed to successfully "grease the skids" without my help. From what I understand, they did it in record time. Actually, they were really quite frugal in their dealings with the officials and, consequently, saved his family a considerable amount of money. When I asked them how much they spent they wouldn’t tell me. But I surmise that they used almost as much lubricant “greasing the skids” as is consumed at a gay gang bang -- not that I would know anything about that. Never been to one! Or two for that matter.

While all this was taking place, Don, Wally and Roberto also had to make several trips to the US Consulate offices in Centro. On their first visit they present Bob's brand new passport, which had only one stamp in it, to the US Consulate together with a valid death certificate, indicating the cause of death. This was a necessary and essential step because without it, his ashes could not be returned to the US. The Consulate gave Don a printed sheet outlining the numerous bureaucratic steps that need to be completed by the Brazilian authorities to ensure a swift return of to his remains. I managed to get it away from Don and was shocked to read the following paragraph. Honest, this is verbatim:

"The city morgue refrigerator is in very poor condition for many years, and the terrible smell does not encourage anyone to keep the remains for more than a few days or even less."

I know it doesn’t sound as though it was written by an American; I can assure you that this is what is handed out by the US Consulate. As soon as I finished reading it out loud, Don and Wally suggested that I accompany Roberto to the morgue the next day to submit the proper paperwork to the Morgue Clerk. "Don, I would really like to go, but I have to man the Mobile Command Center tomorrow," I said as I started to look at my cell phone hoping it would ring.

To further complicate matters, Bob's personal effects were with the Tourista Policia in Leblon, which is located at the far end of Ipanema, miles away from Centro. I offered to go there to retrieve his belongings in hopes of seeing that hot female cop again, but Don reminded me that my Mobile Command Center needed me. Fuck, don't you just hate it when Don uses my own words against me? I do!

All of Bob's clothes, money and his luggage were in Leblon. On Thursday Don, Wally and Roberto picked up everything and found, to their delight, that every penny of Bob's money was accounted for. It's good to know that the Tourista Policia is an upstanding group because almost every Authority or Official involved in this process wasn't, including Delta Air Lines.

Since Wally was returning to United States on Saturday, he graciously offered to take Bob's luggage with him on the plane. You would think that would be a rather straightforward proposition, but apparently that's not the case with Delta Air Lines. Can you believe it; they had the audacity to charge Wally $100 extra for Bob's suitcase even though Wally showed them Bob's unused Delta return ticket and a copy of his death certificate. Wally thought this charge might be due to the fact that the plane was full and space was limited, but he soon found out that the plane was half empty. Perhaps this is their bizarre way of offsetting losses on "Bereavement fares," for people going to funerals. Then again, maybe they have been in Brazil too long also.

Remember when I called Wally two weeks after he returned to the states to find out about his reoccurring migraines? Well, during that call he asked me an oddball question that perhaps you guys can help me decipher. I still don't have a clue what he means. He asked me, "Were you on the same Delta flight out of Rio that I was on?" I told him that I wasn't, but he didn't believe me. He insisted that I was on it.

When I asked him to explain, he said the following: "After arguing with Delta about Bob's luggage, I finally got to my seat in the rear of the plane and tried to relax. The next thing I know, the head flight attendant tells the cabin staff to "cross check all exits." Suddenly there's a loud explosion and the rear slide deploys as lights flash and sirens wail. They gave me a $100 voucher because of the delay. Did you get one too?" He wouldn't tell me anymore and I still don't get it. Do you? I think Wally stayed too long in Brazil!

To you guys reading this that might not seem like a lot of work, but I can tell you that it took Don, Wally and Roberto all week long to get this accomplished. I would like to tell you all the sordid details on how many people had their hands out, but I can't. That information is privileged and will forever remain in my little brain fully protected by a faulty memory and the First Amendment. After all, I'm a reporter so I'm covered by that, aren't I?

Now, back to the usual crap! Felix called me within 15 minutes of leaving the beach and he's all pissed off at me. "What did you tell Ken?" he asked. "I didn't tell them anything," I replied. "All he did was laugh at me as I stepped into the store and he said only one word -- catcher," Felix confided. "Felix, don't blame me for your own fuck-ups, take some personal responsibility. Aren't the one who told them that you were a "catcher" in the semi-pros? I didn't tell them, you did. Then again maybe it's those sandals you're wearing. Go home, throw them away and put on your docksiders. But don't forget to stop the pastry shop to pick up something for dessert tonight."

In his thoroughly confused state all he could manage to say was, "Okay." Ten minutes later my phone rang and was Felix again. "What do you want this time?" I snapped. "Jag, I'm just calling you to let you know that you were right." "Right about what?" I asked. "I'm in the pastry shop and it's full of queers. Two of them even approached me as if they thought I was gay too," he said in a nervous voice. This was fantastic because Felix's voice goes up several octaves when he gets nervous and I can just imagine him saying, "get away from me, you queer," in high shrill voice.

God, I wish I was there, but I'm stuck here on the beach manning my Mobile Command Center. Oh well, at least I take my responsibilities seriously, not like some of the others who will remain unnamed. "Hey Felix, whatever you do don't forget to buy some dessert," was the last thing I said to him as I pushed the end button on my phone. I'm not worried, he'll survive somehow.

As I hung up on Felix, MBL turns to me and says, "I tell Timex Felix with another woman on Beach." Go ahead and I'll tell her that he almost fucked a clown too," I replied. That was all I needed to say to end the conversation as she sat there brooding "I no talk to Felix in my life," she started up again. "I'm sure Felix will appreciate that and fully enjoy his trip in silence," was all I need to say to finally shut her up for good.

As we leaving the beach and settling up with Fernando, I had MBL question him to make sure that he was going to church tonight to pray for Bob. He told MBL that for R$5 more he would put in some extra effort, so I gave it to him. MBL just shrugged with an exasperated look on her face. On the way back to the apartment, MBL suggested I go buy some wine while she picked up my laundry. I called Felix and suggested the meaning of the favella bar, which was right around the corner from the supermarket. He agreed and before he hung up, I told him to bring my jersey in a bag so that no one would see it.

On my way to the favella bar, I saw Don sitting Alcazar with another individual. Actually, he was sitting there with BobbyT and he introduced us. Usually when people meet, me one of two things happen. Come to think of it, more often than not both happen at the same time, but that's not the point. The first thing is that guys usually take a step or two backwards when they hear my name. Sometimes they'll say something like, "you're the guy who writes those funny stories," or something along those lines.

BobbyT is an entirely different story because he just sat there sipping his tea and said, "Oh, you're the guy who writes all the run-on sentences," then he smiled. I was stunned! Not because I was insulted or anything like that. I was just amazed that in one simple sentence comprised of 10 words, he totally captured the essence of my writing style. I smiled, thanked him for his "complement" and excused myself as I went to meet Felix at the favella bar. "God damn bastard, what does he know about writing?" I muttered to myself as I shuffled off.

Felix was waiting at the bar with my jersey in a white plastic bag like the ones you get from the supermarket. Honestly, he looked queerer holding that bag than he did with that jersey on. Yup, he also changed to his docksiders like I suggested, in case you were wondering. As we were standing there having a beer, I casually suggested that we go up into the favella to see the sights. He flatly refused saying, "I read your report, it's filthy and full of garbage up there."

Silently, I cursed him because I wanted to expose him to as many germs as possible to see if I could get him sick or at least let his germ phobia run rampant. Since the "favella field trip" was out of the question, I had to come up with another suitable alternative. Within minutes I thought of the perfect solution. This new place was ideal. It had everything to assault each of Felix's senses as well as a dirty environment to make his skin crawl. All I had to do was figure out the perfect way to "pitch" the idea to him. Hey, just because I use the word "pitch," don't get the wrong idea!

When I got back to the apartment, I found a heap of clothes on the bed. "What's this?" I asked MBL. "Your laundry," she replied. "Did they wash it?" "Si, but they no fold; I think they no like you," she replied with a Muppet like smile on her face. Fortunately, most of clothes weren’t too wrinkled, but my cotton dress shirts were another story completely. "Help me fold everything so we can go to Felix is for dinner," I asked. "I no go Felix's, but I fold wash," she replied. "Look we promised Felix, how about this; I fold the laundry and we both go to Felix's. It will be fun," I tried to tell her as convincingly as possible. "Last night no fun, why tonight fun?" She asked. I was a good question that had no answer so I pretended as if I didn't hear her as I went back to folding my clothes. God damn laundromat!


We arrived at Felix's apartment at 8:45 p.m. and Timex arrived promptly at 9 p.m. As she walked in the door, Felix who hadn't spoken in over 10 minutes, said, "Jag, don't you wish you had someone like Timex, always on time." MBL goes ballistic cursing in Portuguese and finally Timex was able to settle her down. Because I told Felix that MBL did want me talking to him, we all sat around in silence for the next hour slurping soup. Believe it or not, it was one of the most delightful evenings I've ever had in Brazil.

Jag,
Fuck Wolf. Your stuff is better than the novel I am reading right now, and I can 't wait for each new installment.

Hi Jag

I have just come back from delivering and explaining my companys audited financials to the bank manager. I don't know if you do this in the States but here after the Auditors are finished making your life a misery its the bank managers turn to fuck you around. Its like a few hours of the spanish inquisition on a bad day. But when I got back to the office there was your report so I but down the shot gun and had a LOL read, feel proud of yourself, you just saved the assholes life. That and the fact that I leave in a few weeks and don't need the hassel.

BT,

I'll pass your comments on to Wolf. Actually I'm thrilled that only you and Isawal posted in the last twenty-four hours.

I was afraid that some of the lurkers out there would post and provide Wolf with confirmation that his comments were valid.

Fuck him, he's an idiot!

Jag

Isawal,

I feel for you having to go through that ordeal. Yeah, we have similar business practices in the US and we also have something that's as sinister as the Spanish Inquisition--it's called Divorce Court.

Jag

Great story Jag,

It's not easy to die, especially in a foreign country. We should all be so lucky as to have a good fellow like Don watching out for us in life and death. If Bob had passed away in Bangkok his remains, or whatever is left of him, would still be there. But that might not be so bad afterall.