Part II of the Oscar Post

(Prelude: I'm not going to write about the cartoon...I'm not going to write about the cartoon...I'm not going to write about the cartoon. Let's just say put judgment aside and agree that the jury is out on whether Delonas is a good or bad person or a racist. We can definitively say, though, (thanks to Gawker) that Delonas isn't a very bright cartoonist.)


II

The staccato knocks which were intended to alarm Jet instead gently pushed Alden's hollow, metal door open. Two thoughts rushed through my head as the door revealed a freshly turned-over living room: they're expecting me and I'm in great danger.

I scanned the room and saw Alden to my left, gagged and tied to a chair with twine. It was a sloppy job. He could wait.

I looked to my right. No Jet.

As I backed against the door, pushing it with the palm of my right hand, I looked into Alden's eyes and put my finger to my mouth. It didn't occur to me at the time that his muffled pleading was not the result of fear, but a warning.

"Pep-pep-pep-pep-pep! Jet! Pep-pep-pep. Come here, Jet!"

I heard movement behind me and about-faced. My eyes darted to the ground, expecting a medium-sized black cat, but instead I was startled to find a pair of black, leather dress shoes planted firmly on the ground, exiting a man's violet pinstriped pant legs like two upside-down whack-a-moles.

"We do not respond to 'Jet' in this form, Mister Eustice," the man said, his voice haughty from years of affluence. I trained my eyes slowly upward from the shoes; to the blue paisley tie bookended by two fat, violet lapels, to the waxy crags around his piercing blue eyes, and finally to his sly, white smile.

"Should I call you Tom?" I asked, genuinely confused. "Or Mister Wolfe?"

The man laughed.

"No, Jim. You may call me Christian," he paused and stared at me with the same sly smile, "or Mister Rosenkreuz."

To be continued...