Scene: Dauna Robinson ‘The Dispatcher’s ofiice.
Cast: Dauna Robinson : The Fijian Shark Goddess
Bernie Benedict: ‘God Whisperer’ and Interpol agent.
Mary: Mother of Jesus — who hates Dauna
Bernie had been asked his Interpol associate, T.K., to study up on the subject of Panpsychism (“All things have a soul”) before moving to Hawaii. He didn’t know why — until now. Bernie had a feeling that everything in Dauna Robinson’s office was alive. Dauna returned to the office and set her soft bottom upon the thrilled sill. Bernie’s heart paused in deep silent reverence for the wooden board. Dauna paused to light another happy cigarette and admire another bit of Hawaiian ‘scenery,’ derelicts sleeping in their pee on the sidewalks of Chinatown.
“SNAP OUT OF IT, BERNIE!” demanded a second woman’s voice from the ‘the Bernie file’ on Dauna’s desk.
Bernie jumped up, staring at the folder. “Dammit! Who the hell?”
“What is it, hun?” asked Dauna.
Both of them saw the image of the Virgin Mary spreading like a coffee stain across the manila folder. Uh, oh shit…sorry, ma’am, Bernie apologized to the folder. Mother Mary had appeared on his browser a couple of times, but the two never spoke. Mary scared all of her lonely son’s friends away with her icy condescending looks.
“I said snap out of it, cupcake! Or it’s your funeral!” said Mary.
“Funeral? Please! Not now!”
“Who are you talking to, hun?” asked Dauna. “Is there someone on the folder? It isn’t your new pal, lion chow, again, is it?”
“Lion chow? No. It’s his mom. Ms. Robinson, did you just call Mary’s son lion chow?”
Flat Mary rolled her eyes toward heaven and said in Latin, “Odio hoc canis (I hate this bitch).” The mother of God shook her haloed head in disgust and disappeared from the folder.
“P-leeeeeease, Ms. Holier-Than-Thou,” said Dauna. It seemed that Jesus’ mom had left the building. Dauna looked at Bernie, “Agent Benedict, let me tell you the truth about Mrs. Goody Two Sandals.”
“The Snow White of the desk set thinks that I’m trying to corrupt her precious little boy. Do you know what I think? I think that your melancholy hippie pal wants ‘a taste.’ The kid should be dating. Did you know that his dad, or mom, or their family cat cursed me with Tourette’s after I used the old man’s name in vain? So, I, Ms. Potty Mouth, have a free ticket to call Merkin Man whatever I want.”
“Merkin Man?” Merkin Man sounds like a commercial.
“What? Should I ask Mr. Love-In to forgive me? He knows that I’d just start cussing again.” She smiled at Bernie. “Do you know what? I think that it turns him on.” Dauna turned away and lit yet another overjoyed, happy-to-die cigarette. The small smooth scars on Dauna’s neck caught Bernie’s attention.
Dauna knew what the new agent was thinking, even as she faced the window. “On my island, we call these scars ‘shark hickeys.’”