Lair of the Silken Palms

Landon pulls into the small alley parking lot at 1:50 PM. Their appointment is at two o'clock sharp, and neither Martin nor Landon knows what to expect.

"This should be pretty interesting," Martin says. "I can't imagine why he has a secretary."

"You read his website. He's a philanthropist. Maybe that...requires a lot of scheduling," Landon suggests, but signs point to him being just as baffled as Martin.

Turns out that Vommy Bamboo wasn't the hardest guy to find. A quick search of his name turned up the "Vomit Bamboo Foundation", apparently a way for Vommy to use his trust fund wealth and cantankerous spirit for the greater good. Perhaps the Vommy Bamboo videos had just been a convincing act. Even that might be helpful, though.

The building containing his office is neither lavish nor run down. It looks to be home to several office-dwelling entities, from talent managers' offices to other non-profit organizations. The location, at least, is not intimidating.

"Yeah, let's just get in there and see what's happened to the guy," Martin says.

The two men exit the vehicle and enter the building, noting that the foundation's office is on the third floor. Martin tries to get Landon to take the elevator, but he is of course too fit for that.

A nondescript sign marks the entrance to Vommy's office, where Landon holds the door open for Martin to venture forth. Waiting to greet them at a clean, modern desk is a cheery plump woman sitting behind a keyboard.

"Hello!" she beams. "You must be Mr. Avery and Mr. Freeman."

"Uh, yeah," says Martin. "We're here to see...Vommy, Vomit, whatever."

"Mr. Bamboo is ready to see you whenever you're ready," she says. "His office is right through those double doors." Martin looks at the plain doors. Everything's too normal so far. Perhaps the interior of Vommy's office is a terrifying mess.

Inside, a wall of skunky perfume hits Martin like a warm bucket of water to the face. It smells like Vommy has been trying to mask his weed with cheap incense. Martin gives Landon a look of uncertainty when Landon crinkles his nose.

"Gentlemen," says Vommy Bamboo in a lilting trill.  His hair is short and dark, just like his beard. Silver-framed glasses sit high on his nose. He is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, carrying his signature ukulele, and a large iguana rides across his shoulders. "I'm so happy to see neither of you is black."

"What?" says Martin.

"Have you ever touched dicks?" Vommy asks.

"Have we..." Landon starts.

"Touched dicks," says Vommy. "Have they touched?"

"Not recently," says Martin.

"Hmm. I guess that will have to do," says Vommy. He shakes hands with Landon, then with Martin. After releasing his grip, he runs his fingers down the side of Martin's face. They're disturbingly soft, like the hands of a eunuch. "Please have a seat."

He points to a leather couch opposite his armchair. There's no desk to be seen, but there is a low coffee table in the middle of the seating arrangement. It seems odd to Martin that there are several other doors leading out of the "office".

"You are welcome to one doughnut or one danish and a cup of coffee." Martin notes the two mugs with a small pitcher of creamer and a bowl of sugar. There are also two plates with one of each baked good on them. Martin wonders what Vommy would do if he ate both, but he doesn't feel like testing this man.

"So Mr. Bamboo," says Landon, taking a sip from his coffee and picking up his doughnut, "do you know why we're here?"

"No," says Vommy. His fingers pull out a pleasant tune from the ukulele while his iguana swings its tail.

"Okay," Martin says. "Well, you've probably never heard of me--"

"Nope!" Vommy blurts out. He laughs to himself as he continues playing his song.

"Right," Martin continues, "but I saw your videos a long time ago, right around when I was moving here, and they became a source of inspiration for me." Martin wasn't going to touch the food, but his pastry is starting to look delicious.

"I can only imagine what sort of dull imagination you must have," Vommy says. "Would you boys mind if I touch myself a bit?"

Martin is caught completely off-guard, but Landon is mentally present.

"A bit," he says. "I think that would be a bit traumatizing for Martin."

Vommy snorts his disapproval.

"Anyway," Martin says, trying to keep a grip on the reason he's here in the first place, "I don't really know how busy you are these days with this foundation, but if you have any tips on being a jerk, I could really use them."

"For what?" Vommy asks.

"This woman is publishing a book about me saying that I'm really nice at heart, and that will ruin the reputation I've cultivated. How can I convince everyone that I am truly a bad person?"

"I don't know," Vommy says, staring at nothing in particular. "You could marry a black man. That would be the ultimate middle finger to society."

"Sure, sure," Martin says, hoping to move away from the bigotry, "but what about something that doesn't involve reshaping some of my major characteristics? I'm not, y'know...gay."

"Look, you're the one who's trying to be a jerk. I don't want to give you advice anyway. You're just trying to take my routine." Vommy stops playing his ukulele and stands up. "If you think I'm such an asshole, then why would you think I'd help you? That's absurd."

"Point taken."

"If you need help, go get it somewhere else," Vommy says, trying to push his glasses up his nose even though they haven't slipped. "That's not what we do around here."

"We? You and your secretary?" Martin asks.

"What exactly does your foundation do?" asks Landon.

"That, I'm afraid, is none of your business." Vommy walks to the double doors and opens one, standing to the side. "I'm going to have to ask you boys to leave." Landon just finishes his doughnut, and Martin decides now is the time to take both options and split. He makes no attempt to hide his theft from Vommy and walks out just behind Landon.

"Do you need another appointment?" asks the secretary.

"No, that's quite all right," says Landon. "Let's go."

As they're walking back down the stairs, it dawns on Martin that he still doesn't have a plan to keep his life from imploding.

"Any ideas for a Plan B?" he asks.

"It may not be your idea of a plan, but we could just talk to Tess, see what she has to say."

Martin sighs. "You really are always right."