Mr. Butterbaum was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, well after lunch but still a long ways before the breakfast of the following day, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poont.
"Bless me, Poont, what brings you here?" he cried, sneezing first before he cried, which is to say he spoke loudly with a desperate lilt to his voice, not actually involving tears or the tantrum of a child. Then, taking a second look at Poont, then a third, then getting around to taking his first look quite belatedly, "What ails you?" he added. "Is Dr. Niceguy ill, or acting in such a strange manner as to suggest a physiological split personality brought on by the horrible side-effects of an experimental elixir designed to stave off the sniffles?"
"Mr. Butterbaum," said the man, who this time is Poont, the one speaking, "there is something wrong." Poont left it at that for the sake of drama and making the chapter longer.
"Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine and a pair of novelty glasses for you," said the lawyer, who was Mr. Butterbaum, who was also a lawyer. "Now, take your time, put on those googly glasses and tell me plainly what you want. But don't forget to drink your wine, as it doesn't grown on trees, but rather vines, in a manner of speaking."
"You know the doctor's ways, sir," replied Poont, possibly referring to Dr. Niceguy's abject gayness. "And how he shuts himself up in cabinets when threatened, much like a ringtail lemur. Well, he's done it again; and I don't like it, sir. May my entrails be stomped out by cattle if I like it," Poont continued, quite nastily. "Mr. Butterbaum, sir, I'm afraid."
"Alright," said the lawyer, Butterbaum. "This chapter's long enough. Get to the point."
"I think there's been foul play," said Poont, mumbling and talking into his hand.
"Foul play!" cried the lawyer, startling poor Poont to his very bejesus. "My God, foul play, foul play," Butterbaum mulled the words as if tasting them in his mouth, like chicken. "Nope! The term has no meaning to me. Of what do you speak?"
"Know not I, neither do, sir," was his answer in the English of the day; "but will you come along with me and see for yourself, so as to avoid my further lengthy explanation?"
Mr. Butterbaum's only answer was to rise, belch wetly and with an embarrassed glance aside get his hat and great coat, the coat which had fathered his previous coat and grandfathered his current one; but as he did so he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler's face like a rash, as Poont was a butler, which may or may not have been mentioned before. And also wonderful was his realization that when Poont followed, he set his glass of wine down untasted, which meant more for him, meaning Butterbaum.
It was a wild, cold, ricockulous night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though she'd indulged in too much boiled cabbage and was afflicted with the westerly winds. The night also featured a flying gazebo, which was all the rage in that day. The wind made talking, not to mention kite sailing, difficult, and also flecked the blood into the face. Which is to say it made one blush, not that there was actually blood in the wind caused by the terrible misdeeds of Mr. Dribbles, which come later.
The wind seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of garbage, streetwalkers and carneys, who were all paper-light and heavily influenced by the wind. Mr. Butterbaum for once wished for streets not so deserted; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; to purse upon them his manhood and laugh as their cries for help were drowned out by the cruel winds. This thought, however, he deigned to keep from Poont until such a moment when the subject of manhood pursing came up.
The square, when they got there, was all full of wind and dust, and nighttime. Poont stopped short in his tracks, turned back toward Butterbaum, and nervously removed his hat.
"Well, sir," he said, "here we are. Let me know how it all turns out."
Poont then lit out quite unexpectedly, like a ferret from a foxhole, scurrying off toward a better-lit part of town.
"Ah, shit," said the lawyer.
