by William C. Blome
Andrew himself wasn't going to do it, that's for sure, so he had you and me lift the little pony straight up off the ground, while he hurriedly laid down four empty whiskey bottles. Then he had us lower the pony down such that a bottle was under each hoof. I wouldn't have believed how scared the horse became (a kind of shivering in place), and, at the same time, how rigid and still he tried to be (he did not move). As the seconds ticked on, I became convinced Andrew—and then you—were right, that we were all in an extended moment of rare good luck, and that for as long as the little horse staid stabile, anything we wished for would be granted.
So to speak, we all simultaneously rubbed the lamp. Not surprisingly, Andrew went for the outsized and grandiose: he opted to drive himself in a vintage 1953 Buick Roadmaster up high into La Paz and be coronated King of all the Bolivias. You, understandably, had a sweet, elderly slave slowly and expertly comb and braid your pubic hair, then shoe polish your areolas to a darker brown, and then stroke your fingers again and again before sliding on three rings of random metals and stones. I, not rebelling or straying from character, demanded of a passing cloud that I always be free from pestilence, and that I eternally be a teenage male, with a penis off of Milton Berle and a scrotum sack from between Seattle Slew's haunches.
But Christ, it's awfully hard to be objective about anything entirely dependent on a little beast precariously balancing itself on dark green bottles of vanished booze, and I'd guess that roughly six minutes after placement, the horse simply fell off and ran away. However, for what it's worth, to this day Bolivians angrily refuse to recognize Andrew as King. You're hardly the most smartly-fashionable courtesan for miles and miles around. And I seem to be this hard-for-even-me-to-fathom, perpetually-wheezing geezer.