The Interviews Part I

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, July, 2012 I didn't have the phone numbers of any of the Visceral Realists any more. I didn't even own a phone. I racked my brain, trying to work out how I could contact them. Then I wondered, is there any one I could find, who could then contact the others, you know, create a domino effect. I remembered that Kris was working at the University of Pennsylvania. I could try there. I told Big Vic and he dialled Directory Assistance to get the number for the University. I called it, and asked to be put through to her. I got through to her Personal Assistant. He told me she wasn't available, could I leave a message. I said it was urgent that I contact her. He asked me what was the nature of my business. I said I was an ex-lover who owed her a lot of money and I wanted to return it urgently before going overseas. Only one of these statements was correct, but I thought at least one of them would work, if not the combination. He laughed and asked, "There are lots that meet that description. Believe me, I'm the one who has to keep the tab. Which one are you?" He laughed again when I said, "Don Juan." But he weakened. "Look, I can't give you her cell number, but if you try this number, you might be able to page her before she leaves the country. But you'd better hurry. You've only got 40 minutes." I rang the number and learned it was Philadelphia International Airport. They asked me to hold, while they paged her. Big Vic said it was OK, he was paying.

[Magdelanye]

: ..magdelanye,casa perdido,just after the shit hit the fan.

Meanwhile, as I was lacing my boots and preparing to leave the flat, Sir Ian was realizing the depths of his folly in banishing his friends He missed his acolytes. He missed Traviolla. He was looking for something that he had misplaced. He faced the fact that he had no one to blame.He had had the book in his hands, had consulted it often, not fully appreciative of of its value.GOOSE they had dubbed it mockingly, for ease of reference. He had not made a special note of where he laid it last. He had been too lazy to bother to put it back in its place. If he had the GOOSE, with it’s vital statistics,recipes and lists,he would be more in control. If he had the access codes,he could call any of his acolytes and maybe rewarded with the information he sought,the location of the book. But the access codes were in the book. It was most annoying.

It was not as if Traviolla had not left him a list of everything he might need to know in her absence (of course it was in the GOOSE).The chief acolyte and secretary had gone over every possible eventuality and prioritized his additional new duties.He had been quitly overwhelmed and,truth tell, still somewhat resentful at being left behind while she got to go on an adventure without him,so he had paid scant heed to her actual words,offering her a bored yawn and tepid reassurance.”yes yes, I mean no, I won’t forget to check the call waiting stones” he had reassured her, and that he had done. So his present predicament.

“I’ll be back as soon as I’ve located the missing link” Traviolla had promised.”Shouldn’t take more than a few weeks. I have a great lead”. she hinted, smiling enigmatically. She would rather not be tied down to specifics and did not mention New Orleans or hotel reservations. She had kept her reservations to herself. Sir Ian was nothing if not resourceful, and she needed some diversion as things had been heating up in an awkward way between the two of them.She did not mention the summons from the cabbage detectives,fearing to discombobulate the master alchemist with the evidence that something was amiss. The wording of the summons was ambiguous,which was only to be expected. but the stains on the parchment were alarming,pineapple and tomato,a very poor food combination,as their research had already confirmed.

Really, things had gone on as things do when left to their own devices.He carried on with his experiments and his data collection. He remembered (mostly) not to overwater the plants.He checked the call waiting stones at dawn and at dusk.He remembered (mostly)to eat.He read and listened to music.He took long walks. He was more attentive to his wife.He almost didn’t notice the anomaly in the array of the call waiting stones and might not have,so routine was the procedure, and as usual his mind had been racing ahead,considering the wine he would uncork to accompany his lunch.But there! One of the control glyphs was glowing softly. It was a signal! The glyph that signified the Hierophant of Ord,finally responding to a call put in 280 years ago,according to the records. Methodically,Sir Ian scanned the pertinent file and quickly grasped the details required to calculate the window of opportunity for their reply. He located the alogrythms necessary to decode the incoming message.The command word and the access code he needed to activate the transference mechanism were kept in a seperate file, for security’s sake.The location of which was recorded,in the master book. His GOOSE was cooked. If he did not reconfigure the stones into a holding pattern within the window of opportunity, the connection would be lost.

Sir Ian decided not to wait for lunch. He had sought and he had not found,not the GOOSE with its clues nor the other volume,slim,wasn;t it? with silver. or was it grey, embossments on the spine.That one,the book of command words, was definitely in its place. Sir Ian could not recall the last time he had consulted it, there being such a considerable time between calls. He hefted himself to the sideboard and chose with considerable care a vintage to match the occasion,a murky looking bottle with a faint sketch of a dandelion as a label. At least, it looked like a dandelion,neither fruit nor vegetable, nor herb, really, he would have to look into it but for now, Sir Ian was rummaging around for the corkscrew when the doorbell chimed and I appeared.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, July, 2012 I was nervous, I was angry, but Don seemed to be just as nervous. He was even more obsessed about the Big Cabbage than I was. It was as if he really was intent on eating it with his carload of Cabbage Detective friends. Who knows, maybe if we found it in time, they could dine out on it, now that they seemed to be on their way to New Orleans. Depending on whether it had been refrigerated since it was stolen (or lost?), we only had four days before it started to deteriorate. Today was Saturday. That gave us until Wednesday. I looked at Don sleeping upright on the lounge. He looked angelic when he was asleep. Well, he did. Then he started to mutter something. He wasn't sleeping, he was in a trance. He grew ever more agitated. I started to worry about him. I shook his shoulder. "Don, Don..."

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, July, 2012 "Don, Don, wake up!" Big Vic was shaking me. I didn't know where I was. My mind was blank. "What's wrong? Where am I?" Vic tried to reassure me, "It's alright. I think you just fell asleep." He wasn't very convincing. Something made me ask, "Did I say anything? What did I say?" Vic looked puzzled. "It sounded like gibberish to me. You just kept repeating one word. But I could barely make it out...'Serbian'? 'Syrian'?" None of them meant anything to me. Then a word, no, two words, entered the forefront of my mind, as if insinuated by the gods, a shaman or the author of some fiction. My lips moved and I heard myself say, "Sir Ian." An image came to me of a blonde, Anglo-Saxon man who looked like Brad Pitt. Then I realised he looked exactly like me, only he was white. Was he some kind of alter ego? Not just a body double, but a doppelgänger (or should that be a trebelgänger)? What did Brad Pitt, Sir Ian and I have in common? It had to be something more than sex appeal. Why was this trinity manifesting itself in my mind? Was somebody trying to tell me something? Was it an omen? Did it bode well? And what was Sir Ian doing with those stones? I fell asleep again, much to Vic's consternation, as he would later tell me when, one by one, Kris, Mary and Viajero turned up and I awoke, as if from a three year long trance.

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal, New Orleans, July, 2012
Don Juan was really out of it when I finally met him at the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport. It was a good thing that Victor Bray was there. He recognized me from a photo on one of my books, so he was able to get my attention as soon as I got off the plane. Don Juan, slumped against a pillar in the terminal, was looking bleary and muttering something about "Sir Ian" and a goose while he kept looking at his reflection in the window. I looked at Victor, he looked at me, and we both shrugged. We each took one of Don Juan's arms and led him to the airport bar where, a few cups of coffee later, Don Juan was looking a lot more clear-eyed. Over some red wine, Victor and Don told me about the saga of the cabbage. As they talked, I realized that what was stirring me into righteous indignation wasn't some abstract principle about the rights of vegetables, as much as it was my anger that someone would bring pain to someone I cared about. We quickly decided that it was important to mobilize the rest of the Cabbage Detectives so we could find the giant cabbage, restore it to its rightful owners, and celebrate with poetry and red wine. With resolve, I picked up my phone and called Mary.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, July, 2012 Somebody was stroking my hand. I won't tell you what was going through my mind before I opened my eyes. But when I opened them, they detected a woman who looked just like Angelina Jolie. (Whatever was going through my mind could not compare.) She was stroking my hand, then she burst into tears, when she saw that I was awake. I said, "Don't cry for me, Viajero. I'm better." Then I fell asleep against the pillar. When I awoke, it was Kris who was stroking my hand, saying, "Here, drink this, it'll do you good." I looked at the cup and realised it was airport coffee. I didn't know whether it would do me good, but I assumed it would wake me up. Viajero was nowhere to be seen. Had it all been a dream? And where was Mary? Not to mention Jenn(ifer), Jay, Steve and spenke? Where were the three Steves when you needed them? I pulled Kris gently towards me and kissed her on the lips. She recoiled like never before, "Oh, yuck, that coffee tastes terrible."

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal, New Orleans, July, 2012
I didn't mean to recoil from Don like that, but I had forgotten how terrible airport coffee is. I handed him some mints as I listened to Mary's phone ring. When she picked up, I could tell she was surprised to hear from me - she thought I would be en route to Chile. I explained the reasons for my detour, as Don started to move into an upright position, although he was still relying on a column to hold himself up. Mary said that, although she was at work, she would employ a ruse she had used before to fool her boss. She created a mannequin out of some boxes, poster tubes, and a globe, set it up at her chair, and snuck out of the office. As she hung up, she promised me that she would collect the rest of the Cabbage Detectives and meet us at the New Orleans airport.

[Mary]

Mary R, Big Daddy's Bar, Bourbon St., New Orleans, LA , July, 2012

I was already on my third drink by the time I head from Kris. I was shocked to hear from her, I was sure she’d be knee deep in chili plants in Chile by then. Unbeknownst to her I was already in New Orleans and waiting for further instructions. I’m sure it would’ve been smarter to wait somewhere a little more subtle, but the lure of Bourbon street beckoned and weighed down with beads I stumbled into Big Daddy’s and sipped on Hurricanes while listening to Kris explain that she was on her way. “Sit tight”, she told me, “We have a change of plans. Vegetables are dead. Fruits are forgotten. It’s a new era.” I was excited. I had long since lost interest in the movement, most of us had by then, but as history teaches us the sheep mentality is alive and well and flourishing in all “non-conformists”. “We’re all here, we’re waiting” I told Kris. On the table with me sat Jay Rubin and Eiji the cat who were both enthralled with “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles”, Jenn frantically turning the pages of “The Savage Detectives”, Viajero Haldez using her knife to turn the pages of “Chronicle of a Death Foretold”, Esteban with his face buried inside “Infinite Jest” and Magdelanye sighing into the pages of Pynchon’s “V.”. Kris said she was arriving the next morning with Don Juan le Graye. Did I dare enquire about Jim? With liquid courage, I did. “Jim is another story,” she said gravely. “I’ll explain when I get there, it’s not safe to talk over the phone.” She hung up and I ordered us all another round and pulled a Dicken’s book from my purse. It was going to be a long night.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, July, 2012 While Kris was looking for a better cup of coffee, I took an opportunity to look into her handbag and inspect what she was reading. "The Master and Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov. Hmmm. Doesn't she know that magic realism stinks, and a Russian no less so than a Colombian? I had to make sure that Bulgakov did not delay the successful completion of our mission. I opened the book and saw that Kris' bookmark was between pages 92 and 93. I moved it to pages 156 and 157. It wouldn't put an end to the distraction, but it might give us an extra hour of time together.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, July, 2012 While Don seemed to be temporarily non compos mentis, I got to thinking. What possible motive could someone have for stealing the Big Cabbage and the Gold Medal? Were they after the Cabbage, or just the Medal? What would you do with the Cabbage? Eat it, like eating cuts of meat from a prize-winning animal? Preserve it? It didn't make sense. What value did the medal have? You couldn't display it. It had my name on it. You couldn't melt it down and sell it. It wasn't made of gold. Then I started to think, maybe this whole thing was intended to be a distraction, something that would take my focus off the World Drag Racing Championships, which were due to start...oh my god, is that the time...TODAY! THE FIRST RACE IS THIS AFTERNOON! They had almost succeeded. Then I realised this might be the nefarious work of my drag racing nemesis, I am embarrassed to say, my fellow Aussie, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and her racy drag entourage.

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal, New Orleans, July, 2012
At this point, events started to move quickly. I knew that Don Juan, Victor and I had to meet Mary and the other Cabbage Detectives ASAP. As I was helping Don Juan to his feet and trying to remove his hand from my handbag (he must have been looking for a flask), Victor started to pace around the terminal, shaking his fist in the air, making motions that looked like he was steering a car and (this is the really odd part) singing something that sounded like "I WIll Survive." Airport security officials were starting to eye us when I finally managed to maneuver Don Juan over to Victor, got Victor, who was then hyperventilating, to breathe into a paper bag, and finally calmed him down enough for him to explain his theory of what happened to the Big Cabbage and the Gold Medal. He was certain that his arch-foe Priscilla and her entourage of racing drag queens must have absconded with the Big Cabbage and the Gold Medal to prevent Victor from participating in the World Drag Racing Championships, which were going to be held in a few hours. The three of us huddled together (with Don Juan collapsing against me at intervals - I'm still not sure what that was in aid of) and finally decided to drop Victor off at the race track on our way to meet Mary. We were certain that the Cabbage Detectives could recover the Big Cabbage without Victor, and we thought his appearance could throw our cabbage-stealing foes off their game. The three of us finally left the airport, got into Victor's car, and drove to the racing track. When we let Victor out, I noticed that he was leaving a trail of pink and purple sequins behind him, but I thought it was more polite not to say anything. I got behind the wheel, and Don Juan took up his usual place at the radio controls, looking for some power pop to speed us on our way. To the sounds of the Velvet Crush in the background, we drove into the sunset towards the Cabbage Detectives. It felt like old times - Don Juan and I were headed to recover a cabbage-shaped icon that seemed to represent the community of poets, activists, and friends that we had built so many years ago. I was learning a lot, and questioning some of my choices over the years. Was it smart for me to have focused more on abstract ideals than on the loyalty and friendship of the Cabbage Detectives? What good is a movement that doesn't have humans at its heart? I also had to admit that it was good to see Don Juan again. We had shared something really special once, and I had to admit that he still looked a little like a darker Brad Pitt if the lighting was right and I squinted a bit. I drove a bit faster, spurred on by the urgency of our quest, as well as by my impatience to see our comrades. I also knew that we would have another obstacle to discuss when we reunited - how to deal with what had befallen Jim. I couldn't imagine our succeeding without him, but reuniting with him would be its own challenge.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, NOLA Motorsports Park, Nicolle Boulevard, Avondale, New Orleans, July, 2012 I think Kris was sure I'd accompany her into New Orleans to meet with the rest of the Cabbage Detectives when they arrived. I didn't have an opinion, I was unconscious. Even Vic forgot about it, until Kris had driven off from NOLA in the direction of the city. Only, the reality was Big Vic needed me as part of the crew for his car. Minutes after Kris dropped Vic off at NOLA, he'd rung her and got her to turn around and bring me back. I knew nothing until I was standing outside the Motorsports Park, negotiating our entry. No sooner were we inside the gate, when Big Vic spotted the Prime Suspect. A dozen fans festooned in a garish pink and purple uniform, perched on platform soles and ribbons flowing everywhere, surrounded a space age dragster, and seated comfortably inside was Priscilla Briggs, wearing the same outfit as her fans. I don't know who saw whom first, Big Vic or Priscilla, all I saw was Priscilla hiss at Big Vic. I didn't have to speculate about Big Vic's retort for long. He just laughed and said, "A man's got to know his limitations, Briggs." Priscilla's tongue vibrated like a snake's and her dragster moved on. I could sense Big Vic's attention turn to me. I don't know what he was going to say, all I know is he didn't notice what I saw on Priscilla's rear spoiler. There, in lime green print with a black border, was a logo promoting, of all things, "Cabbage Power". My jaw dropped and my finger pointed silently at the logo, and eventually Big Vic saw what I had seen.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, NOLA Motorsports Park, Nicolle Boulevard, Avondale, New Orleans, July, 2012 Needless to say, I was angry when I saw the sign. But that was just the beginning. I chased Priscilla's dragster through the bustling crowd, until finally I caught her just as she was about to enter the track. She knew I was coming and heard me when I shouted, "What's this Cabbage Power bullshit, Priscilla?" "Methane, Victor, methane. It's the fuel of the future, and it's going to power me to world drag racing domination." Now, I was so furious, I'm sure my face went the colour of a beetroot. "Methane? Methane?" In retrospect, I don't know why I repeated myself, nor can I excuse or justify my next exclamation, "Briggs, that can't be legal, you're fuckin' inthane!" At least I didn't repeat myself twice.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, NOLA Motorsports Park, Nicolle Boulevard, Avondale, New Orleans, July, 2012 It was too late for Big Vic to do any more. He had to get ready for his race. Instead, he let me phone Kris on his phone. I don't know why I didn't think of it, but she suggested I look for Priscilla's garage at the track and see if the Big Cabbage was there. "If he's using methane, maybe he's got some sort of mobile methane generator. And where there's a generator, there's bound to be cabbage, piles of it." Great idea, but I wasn't going to be able to find it in time. They needed me in the pit. Kris was on her own now. Unless she'd located the Cabbage Detectives.

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, US Highway Route 90 Near New Orleans, July 2012
After I got the call from Don Juan, I had to change plans on a dime. I knew that I wouldn't have time to drive to the Cabbage Detectives, pick them up, and return to the racetrack in time to save The Big Cabbage. I took a deep breath, picked up my phone, and called a number I was hoping I wouldn't have to call. On the other end of the line, I heard, "The NOLA Pineapple Company, how can I direct your call?" I took a deep breath and asked for Jim. In the time since I had last seen Jim, he has gone into a new psychiatric hospital with cutting edge facilities to treat people with vegetable and fruit related disorders. I'm not sure exactly what the treatment involved, but when Jim got in touch with me a few months earlier, he told me that he was now working as a chief researcher for the NOLA Pineapple Company. He had risen up in the company, and had access to the key to the executive washroom, a prime parking space near the entrance to his office building, and -- most important for our purposes -- a company helicopter. When Jim answered the phone, I quickly explained our situation, and asked whether he could leave the office and use the helicopter to pick up the Cabbage Detectives and get them to to the racetrack as soon as possible. I didn't know what kind of response to expect - Jim had moved on, and I was worried that he wouldn't want to go back to the past with us. I shouldn't have worried - he didn't hesitate. He promised to have the Cabbage Detectives to the race track as soon as possible. With a sigh of relief, I hung up, and then transitioned into Cabbage Detective mode. I parked the car in a back parking lot, got a flashlight, a skein of rope, and some grapes (for a snack) out of the trunk, and made my way to a row of buildings on the far side of the race track.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, NOLA Motorsports Park, Nicolle Boulevard, Avondale, New Orleans, July, 2012 I watch Priscilla out of the corner of my eye. She is inching ahead of me. I speed up. If I win this race and the Cabbage Detectives find the Big Cabbage, I promise to whip up a meal of sauteed cabbage, tofu, diced tomato and chilli they won't forget. I lick my lips, then I think of adding mozzarella and basil. Maybe I could make a cabbage margherita pizza. I accelerate harder. We both time under ten seconds. I beat Priscilla in a photo finish. She hisses at me again, not for the last time. When she emerges from her dragster, I notice she's changed into black leathers. They look pretty good to a humble tomato farmer. I wonder if she speaks parceltongue. Hiss.

[Mary]

Mary R, Miss Bea Haven's Tips & Tricks (For Boys Who Aren't), New Orleans, LA, July 2012
This was my Epiphany. Sorting through the bargain bin of sequined jock straps, chicken fillets, nipple enhancers and extra-long fishnets it suddenly became clear to me. Miss Bea was watching me from behind the counter "Honeychild, you look like you've seen a ghost! Is is the Mangina tape? It doesn't hurt them, promise". I shook my head and walked to the back of the store to gather my thoughts. "Let me know if you need help with the assless chaps! They come in twelve colors!" she called. Suddenly things were starting to seem clear. My hangover was fading and here amongst the gaff panties and wigs I knew why Kris couldn't or wouldn't explain about Jim over the phone. And why she'd sent me here to pick up supplies without telling me why or for who when she was supposed to meet the rest of us at Big Daddy's. Was this how they were hiding Jim from the authorities? Was Don Juan next? Victor Bray? We, the revolutionaries, the anti-conformist poets, the leaders of the most important literary movement of our time - are we about to change the Drag world? When I wrote "Limbo" the others had commented on it's representation of the in-between, the not quite there and not quite here, the disbelonging. When Kris' book was published we had no doubts about our direction, vegetables were oppressive and it was our duty as history makers to destroy them. But this? My phone rang and it was Kris again "Bring the stuff to the hotel. And bring backup. You might be followed. Also, do you know how to apply three inch long eye lashes to an unwilling and squirming male?" Miss Bea gave me her card as I paid for the supplies "You call me, we can always use more talent at the club, you tell your friends - " she leaned in and whispered "I know why they are here and so do others. Tell them to be careful."

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, NOLA Motorsports Park, Nicolle Boulevard, Avondale, New Orleans, July, 2012 Big Vic had been right to be impressed by Priscilla, but when she got out of her car, one thing was very clear to me - he was a she. Unless she had a sock in her underwear, well, a pair of long socks, actually. Maybe Big Vic had been right when he said, "A man's got to know his limitations, Briggs." What wasn't apparent was whether Big Vic had known about Priscilla's gender all along and still found her, I mean him, attractive. I would only find that out later. When we caught up for a Mystical Pizza at Mike's favourite NOLA restaurant, Angeli on Decatur.

[Traveller]

Viajero Haldez, Canal Place Theater, New Orleans , July, 2012

I don't remember much of the day before we tried to hide Jim by dressing him in drag. Mary always said it had actually been Kris's idea, but i think it had really been her own idea, and she just tried to blame it all on Kris, because of the disastrous results it had produced. I woke up with a terrible hangover after getting distracted on our way to New Orleans with a bunch of philistines who had tried to convince me that movies were better than poetry and chasing giant vegetables. I feel so ashamed that i had temporarily lost sight of our goals, and had snuck away from my literary friends; i console myself with the idea that eventually, the most arduous revolutionary flame can start to burn lower with the passage of time. I have no idea why i listened to them, these silver-tongued devils, but it seemed a good idea at the time. Before going to bed, we stopped by at Bulgakov's and had a contest seeing who could drink the most Margarita's while only picking up the glasses with our lips and knocking them back with a flick of the head - a kind of: "Look ma! No hands!" contest which ended up in most of us messing sticky liquor all over our clothes, which of course, created a good excuse for the most sozzled of us to try and lick it off some of the rest of us. Anyway, let me not digress from the Cabbage Detectives. I knew Juan had been off to New Orleans (or was it Queensland? ) on some drag-racing expedition with some parsley-tongued sequiny shemale called Priscilla, (whom Juan was really chatting up so seriously that i wondered how i could have missed his bi-orientation before ...or perhaps he thought he was a she?) and some Australian dragster drag-racer whose name reminded me of a donkey somehow. I remember waking up on the carpet after my night of debauchery with the sound of the landline clanging like cymbals in my head. I tried to ignore it for a bit, but it wouldn't stop. Then my cellphone's SMS notification tinkle started to assault me. I tried to mash the phone into the carpet, but realized i was mashing sticky Margarita leftover into the buttons, and quickly removed my hand. After cleaning up a bit at the washtub, i squinted at my messages. "Big Cabbage!" "Huge cabbage! " " Giant cabbage! " seemed to be the what they were all about. Ok, so some giant cabbage was on the loose, terrorizing the inhabitants of New Orleans. That's what i thought initially, anyway. I groaned. The memory of the smell of cabbagy methane hanging in the air the last time i had been to drag races with Don Juan, Priscilla and Vic Bray made my stomach heave. I stumbled to the basin and reached it just in time. Great. Cabbage! That was all i needed now. Then i listened to my voice messages and instantly started to sober up. I'm afraid i'm a bit hazy about the details - but i had messages from Mags and Juan gabbling something about some goose. It was when i heard from Kris and Mary; being that Jim was in trouble, and that they needed my help working out some disguise to help him go underground, that i shook myself out of my haze and got myself a cab to get to the Louis Armstrong Hotel pronto. Room no. 68, they'd said. I wasn't prepared for the sight that met my eyes when i entered the room...

[Ian]

Victor Bray, NOLA Motorsports Park, Nicolle Boulevard, Avondale, New Orleans, July, 2012 Have you ever seen a helicopter full of Mexican poets in full camouflage gear descend ten feet, one after the other, to the ground on a rope ladder? Neither had I, but I have now. Unless you were one of the 20,000 drag racing enthusiasts there that day, you're going to have to wait for the film. The identity of the Executive Producer is a closely kept secret. All Don Juan will tell me is that he looks like a blonde version of himself.

[Traveller]

Jay Rubin, 1Q84, Murakami Corner, Harukiville, July 2012

All I remember, is that I had thought it was one big drag. Something about racing, cabbages and... sequins? .. why they didn't tell me that they were actually having a lot more fun than poring over Japanese/English and Russian/English translations?

[Traveller]

Priscilla Sequins, Impostorville, Lollywood, Californica, July 2012

Waaaaal, mate? Wha' c'n I tell ya? Don Juan AKA Sir Ian? Yeah, ah know 'im. Either 'es a schizo, or some kind of impostor, or 'oo knows? He could be workin' for the CIA for all ah know.

Why it all confuses me, is that sometimes 'e looks like an Anglo-Saxon version of Brad Pitt, and sometimes like a Mexican version of Brad Pitt, but anyone who comes close to lookin' laahk Braddy can kick his shoes under mah bed anyday, mate.

All i know, doll, is that 'es hung like a.. - well, he's built like a film star (who's let it slip a bit - actually, quite a bit, but nevermind) and, sheesh..

Anyways, he shore likes his racin' that's for sure. (an' he likes 'is dragsters too!)

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, July, 2012 I can't tell you what happened at Priscilla's garage. One of the others will have to do that. I wasn't there. I was too afraid there would be violence, and I faint at the sight of a nosebleed. I don't know how I'd cope with a fully-fledged revolution. I want to fast-forward to Angeli's. When Priscilla was caught red-handed, cabbage-fisted, cauliflower-eared and beetroot-faced, Big Vic was more gracious than one would normally expect of a hot-blooded Aussie tomato farmer and drag racer. He accepted Priscilla's apology in return for the Big Cabbage, as long as Priscilla agreed to shout both entourages to dinner that night at Angeli's. This is where it gets serendipitous. But first I have to tell you that, when Lupe left the Sonora Desert and returned to Mexico City, she stayed there for only two years until making her way north to New Mexico, before eventually settling in New Orleans. I didn't recognise her at first. She had dyed her hair burgundy and she seemed to be fuller-breasted than I recalled. Anyway, when we were seated, she came over and announced, "Hello, my name's Lupe and I'll be your waitperson this evening." (She didn't laugh when I asked, "Shouldn't that be 'your waitperchild'?") I still didn't recognise her, until some time later in the night, she took a liking to Priscilla, who was still dressed in her leathers. I could tell Priscilla liked her as well. All you needed to do was brush aside the tablecloth. Anyway, before the pizza was served, Lupe came over with an ornamental knife sitting on a velvet cushion on a silver tray. I recognised it straight away as her pimp, Alberto's, notorious nine-inch knife, and then the penny dropped. But before I had time to register the fact and introduce myself, Lupe had taken Priscilla into the office behind the reception and closed the door. A few moments later, she walked past our table, heading in the direction of the kitchen. I asked whether everything was alright. "Better than alright," she replied. "Alberto's knife is too short." She was looking for a bigger one. So ultimately it was Lupe who helped Priscilla get to know his limitations. Only Lupe could know that some men's limitations are longer than others.

[Traveller]

Priscilla Sequins, Impostorville, Lollywood, Californica, July 2012

Come to think of it.. that gal calling herself Priscilla who was always followin' Juan around, she definitely had a bigger knife than Sir Ian had, but ah may be misrememberin'... I still well remember the night that Priscilla an' I made out under the table at Angeli's. Juan was with this bunch of people callin' themselves the Cabbage Detectives, who I really thought was a bunch of loonies, them being all into pohtry and high-falutin books an' stuff as they were. There was this one crazy-lookin' gal who always carried this huge knife with her- something about keeping it sharp for when they found this 'uge Cabbage that they were all looking for, (though to tell ya honestly, I personally thought they ware all a bunch of fruitbaskets - the ones who weren't nutty or Lupy.) Anyways, of the people sittin there that night, i wasn't too shore 'oo was in drag and 'oo not, but when Priscilla started draggin' at mah skirts an' ah saw what she was barely concealin' under 'er own skirt, ah decided to dive under the table in that seedy dive where I'd bumped into Don Juan again (who looked a lot like Sir Ian on that parteculiar night). I immeejutly recognized 'im because of the Brad Pitt thing, ya know. Anyways, Priscilla dove in there with me an' we instantly started a'snoggin' right there under the table. Ah said to her - "Ave you got a cucumber in yore pants there, miss?", an she jus given me a knowin' smile, all mysterious-like. Ahm never gonna tell what she really 'ad in 'er pants. An' it was right there that night that ah decided to change mah own name to Priscilla. That other Priscilla she was so good, she was.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, July, 2012 A funny thing happens to you when you're on the road or in jail or in a mental institution. If you don't shave (like I hadn't for almost two years), if styling your hair in the morning is just running your fingers back towards the crown, then one day you will realise that you can't remember the last time you looked in a mirror. It was when I went to the toilet at Angeli's that I passed a long, full-length mirror on the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a middle-aged man with grey hair and a long straggly beard, everything about me was unkempt. I was no longer in my twenties or even my thirties. I looked like a Deadhead. But what shocked me most was the colour of my flesh. I was no longer a darker version of Brad Pitt, an olive Pitt. I was fair-skinned. As I had aged, without noticing, I had got fairer. How much of my identity was inextricably linked to my complexion? To my lotharious Latin looks? Did this mean that all my rhymes and verses had turned to prose? How could I live in this new skin? I didn't think I could. I went out to the kitchen and asked Lupe if I could borrow Alberto's knife. Lupe was suspicious, but compliant. She trusted the old me. I returned to the toilet, stood in front of the mirror and held the knife to my adam's apple. Then with one swift movement, I dragged the knife across my throat and proceeded to shave off, first, my beard and then my grey locks. By the time I'd finished I looked like a clean-cut version of myself, well, my new self (which I had never been before). I thought I could almost pass for a lawyer. I even knew some Latin maxims. I was ready to ask Viajero to marry me ("Visne mihi nubere, Viajero?"). I headed back outside, but before I could say anything to Viajero, she exclaimed, "Sir Ian?" I didn't know what she was talking about. It took the wind from my sails. The moment was lost. I had to find out who Sir Ian was. Who had been my rival for her virgin love? And had he beaten me to the chaste? It didn't matter any more, but I still needed to know.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, July, 2012 Everybody was having a great time. I would like to have continued my conversation with Priscilla, but suddenly she was dragged under the table by the other Priscilla, a Cabbage Detective (either that or a fellow traveller) who Don Juan swore was 100% female. After fifteen minutes or so, I started to worry that they hadn't surfaced. Once again, I brushed the tablecloth aside and took a peak. I couldn't see what was happening, but I could guess. Despite the noise of the restaurant, I could hear some strange contest going on. They seemed to be counting. "Thirty-one Mississippi, Thirty-two Mississippi, Thirty-three Mississippi..." Given the context, I assumed it was something like an Australian wife asking her husband, "Are you ready for bed, Murray Darling?"

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, Louis Armstrong Hotel, Balcony of Room 68, New Orleans, July, 2012
I know Don Juan was worried about bloodshed in Priscilla's garage, but he had nothing to fear. For one, it's hard to get much of a jump on anyone when wearing 7" stilettos unless that person is already horizontal or tied down (not that those weren't options), and for another, there was a lot of padding around to cushion an attack, not to mention that sequins deflect knife blades well (some trivia I picked up over my years of political activism). At any rate, I have to admit I was relieved when I saw the helicopter hovering overhead. A sparkly silver rope with purple feathers at intervals slowly descended out of the helicopter, with the Cabbage Detectives heading down it. Viajero, Mary, Jenn, Esteban, and Magdelanye were wearing full camouflage gear, as were Jay Rubin and even Eiji. I didn't know it was possible to dress a cat in camouflage. And at the top of the rope was Jim, fully decked out in drag, including sequins, feathers, fishnets, stilettos, and what looked like a pair of lavender assless chaps in his hands. As he got off the rope, I eyed the chaps. He looked at me and whispered, "Backup." We huddled together near the shed and worked out a plan. Jim had volunteered to act as a decoy, so he was going to head into the shed first and beg to be part of Priscilla's crew. As he did that, singing and dancing if needed, the rest of us, with some sequins covering the camouflage, were crawling into four different entrances in the shed, looking for the Big Cabbage. Viajero was worried that we didn't have gasmasks, but there just wasn't time to prepare. We all took our stations, and Jim took a deep breath, gave us a thumbs up, and went in. As I crawled through a small side window, I had a clear view of Jim, surrounded by drag queens. He was brilliant, if a bit unsteady on his heels. As he sang, "I Wanna Be Loved By You" (his homage to Some Like It Hot), he did things with his boa that I didn't know were possible. Shaking my head, I refocused on the task at hand. Priscilla and her crew looked stunned, which bought us some much needed time. In the end, it was Eiji who first discovered the big cabbage, as he got ready to jump on top of it. It was easily the tallest thing in the shed, and you know how cats are about heights. Quickly and quietly, everyone but Jim crawled into place near The Big Cabbage, which was located at the far end of the shed next to some sinister looking equipment. Our challenge was for Jim to create enough of a distraction for the rest of us to get the Big Cabbage out of the shed and back outside, where the copter was ready to airlift it to safety. We took a deep breath. caught his eye, and gave him the signal.

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, Louis Armstrong Hotel, Balcony of Room 68, New Orleans, July, 2012
Jim was brilliant, brave and very inventive - either that, or he was spectacularly clumsy in a way that paid dividends for us. He launched into what appeared to be a very well rehearsed version of Happy Birthday, as sung by Marilyn Monroe to JFK. As he did it, he started to do some slow high kicks alternating with bumps and grinds against Priscilla and the other drag queens. When he got to the climax, he seemed to try to grind and kick at the same time. Teetering on his stilettos, he got caught in skirts, and finally staggered into a huge pile of spare tires next to some barrels of oil. That set up a chain reaction- - barrels were rolling everywhere at high speed, leaking oil as they rolled directly towards a huge dressing area with sequined gowns, feathers, hats, jewelry, stilettos -- everything a well dressed drag crew member would need. Screaming in horror, the drag crew and Priscilla practically ran over Jim in their haste to save their wardrobe. That gave us the cover we needed. As Viajero bravely ran to Jim, pulled him to his feet, and led him to safety, the rest of us ran at the Big Cabbage, hit it hard, and rolled it until it smashed through the shed wall. To the sounds of screams and crashes behind us, we all ran to the helicopter, rolling the Big Cabbage as we went. The copter crew helped us to attach the Big Cabbage to an industrial strength flat, we all boarded the helicopter, and we took off just in time. As we flew off, to the sounds of angry screams and vows of revenge from the drag crew members who managed to get away from the ruins of the shed, we looked at each other and smiled. Mary started to pass around a flask, but our celebration was cut short as Jay suddenly said, "hey, what are those big silver things ahead?" We looked, and gasped - they were wind turbines, and the blades would turn the Big Cabbage into slaw if the pilot didn't do something soon. Jenn, in her take charge manner, moved next to the pilot, who was not accustomed to flying with any cargo as large as the Big Cabbage under the helicopter. At the last minute, he pulled up on the controls, and we just barely cleared the turbines. We finally had the Big Cabbage safe and sound. As we landed on the rooftop heliport at the Louis Armstrong Hotel, I took out my phone and reached Don Juan on Victor's phone. "We have it! The Big Cabbage is safe!"

[Ian]

Victor Bray, NOLA Motorsports Park, Nicolle Boulevard, Avondale, New Orleans, July, 2012 I had just got out of the shower, when Priscilla Briggs and some of her team presented themselves at the sliding door of our garage. Priscilla was obviously embarrassed about something, though I couldn't tell whether it was the fact that she had stolen the Big Cabbage and been caught out, or the fact that the Cabbage Detectives had retrieved it so effortlessly. Whatever, Priscilla had her tail between her legs. At least, I think it was a tail. She knelt in front of my glistening body and tugged wantonly at my towel, offering to do whatever I wanted by way of apology. It was actually Don, thinking he had come to my rescue, who suggested that she shout dinner at Angeli on Decatur. To this day, I don't know why he intervened. It was my Big Cabbage, and I thought it should be my prerogative to determine the form of redress or undress I imposed on Priscilla. Sometimes I wonder about what she might have done if she'd removed the towel between my legs. But Lupe discourages this type of moody introspection, as only she knows how.

[Traveller]

Viajero Haldez, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, July, 2012

To this day, i cannot tolerate the smell of boiling cabbage. Yes, we may have rescued a giant cabbage from a squalid life of methane production for drag racers, but i often asked myself if the whole operation was worth putting poor Jim through that cabaret routine when he acted as a decoy in our liberation attempt. He did look as if he was having fun though. I've been wanting to ask him for the longest time, if he really enjoyed impersonating Lady Gaga as much as we enjoyed his performance - not to mention his version of Freddie Mercury singing "The Great Pretender". I warned him beforehand that he shouldn't attempt the Monroe number, but i guess he simply was too fond of that routine to let it go. Luckily the whole thing actually turned out extremely well in the end.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, July, 2012 I've never seen Lady Gaga. Apparently, she gets dressed up in a meatlover's version of the high heel and cabbage leaf outfit that Jim wore that night.

Nobody does it better than our Jim though (thanks to Big Vic for the photo. He took it with his "smartphone"; it's some kind of new camera that can also make phone calls):







Jim is hoping that his new cabbage dressing will take off in the art world.

[Magdelanye]

Brad Pitt,Angel Island,undisclosed latitude,July 2012...

When we saw the footage on tv,with the dramatic rescue by helicopter,I was first interested in the plot,and could see myself playing the rakish Jim,and a whole subplot began to spin out about a Cabbage Liberation Front with headquarters in Findhorn.
Of course, my interest in giant vegestables (and fruits too, to be fair) is somewhat related to the necessity of providing for my growing family with their gigantic appetites.
My speculations were cut short when Angelique pressed pause and pointed out to me, not one but two replicas of my own self, a darker and a fairer version. Angelique was already going for speed dial (she is a bit obssesive about copyright infringement)when I stopped her with an urgent finger. It's perfect,honey, I told her. We can hire them to appear in my place whenever I don't feel up to going out.What about me? Angelique wanted to know.Sometimes I don't feel like going out. I hadn't noticed that,I told her,but before she could reply it came to me: You could just send one of your robot clones. Angelique gave me one of her world class smiles,but I noticed she was blushing. Connecting the dots,I became suspicious.Confessing a secret wish to stay home(with me?) Blushing(my girl is not shy). Deftly,I lifted her from her chair and if her lack of resistance and weight were not enough to confirm my fears, the label stenciled behind her ear proclaimed the fact that Ahgelique was way ahead of me in matters of strategy.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, Penthouse Suite, Louis Armstrong Hotel, New Orleans, July, 2012 Tuesday afternoon was a bye for us, and Don Juan le Graye went browsing through the second-hand bookstores of New Orleans. I thought he might have been looking for poetry, but when he returned, he had a giant volume with the letters "G.O.O.S.E." engraved in silver on the black leather binding. He wouldn't let me look at it, and instead he went straight into his room and didn't emerge until we were supposed to go to dinner. I knocked on his door, but he said he wasn't feeling well and to go without him. When I returned about 10:30, he was asleep in his room, but there was evidence that he'd been in the kitchen cooking or preparing a meal to be cooked, but nothing to suggest he'd eaten. I looked inside the fridge and pulled out a large red porcelain bowl that contained some white meat, chicken pieces or duck, marinating in a delicious smelling sauce. I took a spoon out of the drawer and dragged it through the marinade. I could detect soy sauce, ginger, garlic, spring onion, sugar, even finely chopped or blended tomatoes. Then I remembered the name of his book and wondered if it was a recipe book. It was actually on the bench in the kitchen, open at a page that he must have used for the recipe. He was cooking a "Little Juiced Goose". The recipe seemed to be a complicated one, because it ran over two pages. I turned the page and saw the heading, "What to do when your goose is cooked." Under that was text that I couldn't decipher. It seemed to be in code or a foreign language unlike any I had seen in my years of tomato growing and drag racing. On the right hand page, there were illustrations of stepping stones leading across a stream. They were round and flat and looked like the pizza stones I had seen in the oven at Angeli's. Were Don's stones supposed to be an escape route? What or who was he trying to escape? And when? I hoped he'd at least hang around until after the championships had finished and we'd had our farewell dinner at Angeli's. They were going to let me use the oven to make cabbage margarita pizza for the team. They even had the Big Cabbage in their cold room.

[Magdelanye]

..magdelanye,en route,between dimensions. When,after a month of anxious waitng,I had not heard back from any of the cabbage detectives in response to my application,I began to turn my attention to other things. There was a slim volume of my verse due to come out that fall.I had hoped....but it was better not to hope. I convinced myself that they were a bunch of charletons, just larking it up and not worth my bitterness. So it was a bit of a shock, months later, at precisely 6 am,when I was jostled out of sleep by the clacking of the phone. The voice was low, guarded, and urgent. It was Traviolla, instructing me to go immediately around to sir Ians castle.No time to explain,she interrupted herself, my flight is on final boarding.Indeed in the background I could here a loud amplified voice.I took down the access code she gave me and made a note of the number she was calling from. There was a click and the the line went dead.I had a mission.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Penthouse Suite, Louis Armstrong Hotel, New Orleans, August, 2012 Wednesday, what a day, Big Vic won narrowly on all points and was crowned World Drag Champion. This time all of the Cabbage Detectives were there to see him race, although I could tell Jim was a bit jealous of Big Vic's horny crown. Still, that night, Jim got plenty of chance to wear it. It wasn't the first time Big Vic had won at NORLA and he had plenty at home. He was going to do it anyway, but Big Vic asked me to make all of the arrangements for a special dinner that night at Angeli's. He was even so gracious that Priscilla and her team were invited. In fact, I ended up booking out the whole restaurant. I asked whether Lupe wanted to work or be a guest, but she said she'd rather have fun and get paid (I said, if Big Vic had his way, she would have fun, get paid and get laid). I made the booking for 7:30 for 8. I got Big Vic to text everybody (whatever that means), but I think something must have got lost in translation. Even though the restaurant was just a few blocks away, magdelanye and Jim arrived at the Penthouse Suite 10 minutes early, greeting me as Sir Ian and asking if they could look at my castle. What were they doing here? I showed them the suite, but they seemed unimpressed. "We were expecting something more palatial." Magdelanye reached into her handbag and pulled out some crystals. She assembled them on the dining room table. She and Jim stood back and watched them, as they moved unaccountably and formed an arrow pointing towards Decatur Street, where Angeli's was. "Come on," I said, "We're running late." They agreed with me. In fact, they seemed to be in a bigger hurry to get there than I was. On the way out, I wasn't supposed to notice, but I did, Jim borrowed my GOOSE book. I made a mental note to make sure he returned it.

[Ian]

Don Juan le Graye, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, August, 2012 When we arrived at Angeli's, Viajero was already in the kitchen, surrounded by the chef and his assistants. She had just managed to slice the Big Cabbage in what the chef regarded as record time for a vegetable (sorry if that sounds like he thought Viajero was a vegetable, but Natasha Wimmer wasn't available for the Cabbage Detectives Project). He offered Viajero a job, if she ever wanted to move to New Orleans. Lupe asked if Viajero's knife had ever belonged to her man. "You would be a lucky woman, Viajero." "Lupe, my friend, that knife has never been used to measure my men, only to part the unfaithful ones from their cojones." Everybody looked at me, I don't know why. I had sworn to stop salivating at her breasts when she slapped me at NORLA. She raised the knife above her shoulder and brought it down on an olive, cleanly severing seed and flesh into two identical halves. She surveyed my section of her audience. One of the male waiters screamed, then headed out to the restaurant with two bowls of unsalted cashews. I put up my hand to stop him, but he looked at my crutch and hurried off, assuming that, for the moment, I still had a full quota of nuts. Big Vic's Aussie sense of humour had made an impression on me. Now all I had to do was make an impression on the love of my life, the woman who held my expectations close to her chest, the woman with the big knife.

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, August, 2012
When Mary and I arrived at the restaurant with Jay, Eiji, Jenn, and Esteban, things were a bit chaotic.The waitstaff seemed edgy. They were thrusting bowls of nuts at us, but moving away before we could take any. It was very odd. At intervals, we heard ominous thuds coming from the kitchen, along with sounds of nervous laughter. Knowing Viajero's usual demeanor in the kitchen, I assumed she must have been deep in the throes of food preparation. I just hoped that if there were other people in the kitchen with her, they would keep their extremities far away from her blade. As I was remembering some of Viajero's other kitchen episodes, Mary tugged my arm and pointed to a corner, where Jim was sitting, wearing what looked like a crown, reading a large book with a worn red and green leather cover. He seemed oblivious to the mayhem surrounding him (Eiji had slipped his collar and was running around the dining room, darting between the legs of the waitstaff as nuts were flying everywhere). There was no sign of Don Juan. I assumed he would make a dramatic entrance after the nuts had stopped flying.

[Traveller]

Viajero Haldez, A balcony on the top floor of Castle Le Graye, August, 2012

Do you know that I was actually a meek little lamb before I had met Don Juan Le Graye? Although I was actually secretly in love with more than one of the Cabbage Detectives, it was Don Juan who brought out the fire in me, always taunting me with that sardonic smile that he seemed to wear like a badge. It was he who inspired me to explore the realm of sado-knacker-and-nut cutting, whereas I would have been quite content to have stopped at bondage and a bit of teasing the batter, and poaching the eggs without slicing them. ..but just being tied up didn't seem to do enough for Don Juan. When i was working on something in the kitchen i really needed to get the juices flowing, and if it was Don Juan i was working on in the kitchen, a huge knife seemed to be the only thing that would be likely to get his adrenalin pumping. It was a day much like today; - i had had another cryptic SMS from Magdelyane. She said the GOOSE had escaped from the castle and we urgently needed to get hold of it because of some formula. I was hoping she meant the formula for my wine and mint aperitif that i had lost either while engaged in helicopter maneuvers with the CD team, or while clinging for dear life to the back of a dragster onto which i had accidentally landed while trying to steer Jim away from a gang of mad cross-dressers who were incensed about their ruined outfits. I tried to ask Kris what formula it was that we were looking for.
She said not to worry, that either Mary or Magdelanye knew the answer, and that i should under no circumstances ask Don Juan what was going on.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, August, 2012 I don't know what Don saw in that kitchen or what Viajero did to him, but when the chef called me in, he was knackered, as they say in the Aussie testicular vernacular. All his vital parts seemed to be there, but he and/or they needed a rest. It had been a demanding few weeks. We carried him to the office and placed him on the bunk. Hopefully, he'd recover in time for the cabbage margherita pizza. The funny thing is that, just as we entered the office, magdelanye exited it, wearing some divine ornamental gown and a gold Aztec pendant. She looked like some high priestess. But of what? I didn't find out, well not straight away. Nor did Don, if he didn't already know. Who knows what Priscilla would make of it? It was just as likely that she would slip into some weird scene like this like an effete hand into a velvet glove. The Cabbage Detectives "did their thing", while Don slept and I put together the cabbage margherita pizzas in the kitchen with the help of the chef and his assistants. I made one change to the recipe I had conceived in my mind. I added cashew nuts. Viajero had chopped enough to feed a poetry convention for a week. I had never doubted her aptitude with a knife, but it was definitely a master stroke that made the difference. We were ready to serve by 9pm. They were still chanting and dancing and nibbling starters and sipping the orange margaritas they had especially ordered from the bar. An eerie silence descended on the Cabbage Detectives as we entered the dining room and they slumped back into their seats. They sat there embarrassed and shame-faced as if they'd been caught out in some bizarre sexual and culinary ritual and had to resort to fajitas interruptus. I went into the office and woke up Don. It was time he had something to eat and, as I later found out, learned exactly who it was that he was. Or who it is that he is. I was never good at grammar. Or I've never been good at grammar. Gee, I don't know. Why is it that, when you get drunk, it's your grammar that's the first faculty to suffer. Or is it "which"? Then I started to wonder whether maybe magdelanye was some kind of which, I mean "witch". A seer, a seeress, a soothsayer, a sorceress, any one or more of them. I don't know. I'm just a humble tomato grower and drag racer. I keep my feet and vines firmly planted on the ground and my ass in the driver's seat of a drag rig. This was all new to me.

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, August, 2012
I was relived when Victor announced it was time for dinner and we we all moved into the dining room and sat down. Our places were marked by place-radishes with our names carved on them - another sign of Viajero's handiwork. How did she do such intricate work with such a big knife? The evening so far had a surreal cast. It wasn't just the odd behavior of the wait staff, or the profusion of nuts. It was also all the mysteries that made our gathering something much more than a Cabbage Detective reunion. Where was Don Juan? Would Viajero come out of the kitchen to join us at the meal? What in the world was this goose that everyone kept talking about, and did it go well with cabbage? Were Magdelanye and Mary finally going to let us know what this formula was that they were researching before, and when they told us, would it make any sense? And why were there paparazzi outside of Angeli's, all muttering something that sounded like Brangelina?

[Magdelanye]

.magdelanye,penthouse suite, loius armstrong hotel,new orleans..

It was becoming clear to me at last. Elecromagnetic and other subtle vibrations were interfering with the incarnation factors,and identities were leaking through the time gates. Obviously, Sir Ian in my dimension was manifesting in a future masquarading as the present notorious Don Juan La Graye.Only the manifestation was sporadic and incomplete,which explained his peculiar behavior,constantly falling asleep or into a trance like state.In fact,I suspected the whole lot of Cabbage Detectives had probably been infected with mistaken identities.

In my dimension,as I waited nervously for someone to answer the door,the unreality of the summons struck me anew.I reviewed my brief conversation with Traviolla,failing to extract any further meaning,but something was nagging me. That announcement in the background!That was not an airport Traviolla was calling me from, but a timeport!At that moment the door was precipitously opened to reveal a rumpled looking man who I assumed must be Sir Ians doorman until I noticed that what I had taken to be an exotic uniform of sorts was actually a bathrobe, and this was no major domo, but Sir Ian himself.At first, he too, was baffled by my appearance, but when I had explained about my application and the mornings phone call from Traviolla, he paled.As he explained to me, after he had allowed me to cross the threshold, he could not doubt Traviolla's loyalty,but he was beginning to wonder if it was entirely coincidence that GOOSE had gone missing at the crucial moment when he needed some procedural advice. The window of opportunity was still open, but if they could not not find the access codes,the connection would be lost. The only thing for it was for me to travel to this other dimension and see if the GOOSE had manifested there. I would have to find the Cabbage detectives and find out what they knew.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, August, 2012 The pizzas were a great success, but unbeknown to me, there was to be one more savoury course. Don's Little Juiced Goose served in the fluffiest crepes you've ever seen with the absolute goose coup de grace, a gooseberry chutney. It's great when the whole animal is put to good use. Only nobody could have predicted what would transpire while we consumed our magic goose, let alone magdelanye and Viajero, a double act the likes of witch I thought I would never see. Nor did I expect to see Don (or was it his doppelbanger, Sir Ian?), so dishevelled and disrobed. Anyway, I'll let someone else describe these events, because I was partly distracted by Lupe trying to recover a spoon that she had dropped under my end of the dining table.

[Kris]

Kris Readerman, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, August, 2012
The goose really was delicious, very savory, nicely accentuated with the fruity taste of the gooseberry chutney. Victor kept making comments about the chutney that made me guess he didn't know that gooseberry is a fruit, but I was worried that if I brought that up again, the whole fruit vs. vegetable debate would start up, and I didn't want to chance that. As we were eating, I looked around the table. Jay was sprinkling what seemed to be crumbled tofu over his and Eiji's plates. Esteban and Jenn were composing poems in honor of the margaritas that we had been drinking for about 3 hours by that time. Mary and Magdelanye were whispering over what looked like a secret decoder ring from a Cracker Jack box. And Viajero seemed to be using the tip of her knife blade to cut away little bits of Don Juan's robe while he was listing to towards her and trying hard to focus on bringing his fork to his mouth (sometimes with no food on it). As I was reaching over for a second helping of the goose, suddenly Mary held up a chalice with a cabbage engraved on the side, and Magdelanye sprung from her chair and dropped what seemed to be three crystals, glowing green, purple, and silver, into the chalice. A multicolored mist rose in the air towards Don Juan who, looking more and more unsteady in his chair, tried to inch away from it, but to no avail. The mist formed a mirror in front of his face, and we saw, hovering in the center of it, what appeared to be a light-skinned version of Don Juan. As we gasped, and as Victor dropped his drag race championship crown in surprise, the Don Juan doppelgänger pointed towards Don Juan, opened his mouth, and began to speak.

[Ian]

Victor Bray, Angeli on Decatur, Decatur Street, New Orleans, August, 2012 I wasn't conscious of what was happening at first, but the smoke under the table started to become oppressive. Love can lift a man's performance, but I couldn't breathe and tongue kiss Lupe at the same time. I had to surface for air. And that was when I heard the white blonde-haired Don Juan say, "Don Juan, we've found you at last. You're reformed. We're reformed. Get up on stage and join your friends." I examined Don Juan for some sort of clue, but he looked as surprised as me. Then he surveyed Mary and Magdelanye, and for the first time in days there was a spark of recognition in his eyes. He leaped onstage, dragging the girls with him and embraced his look-a-like like a long lost brother. Then the lights dimmed and a military drum beat emerged from the DJ's console in the corner (which I now realised was being deftly worked by Viajero, who was billed as "Queen of the Beats"). "Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Sir Ian, and I give you Los Abbadabbacadabra, the world's greatest Anglo-Hispanic Abba tribute band outside Australia." A disco ball started to revolve above his head, the smoke from the dry ice got denser, the lights got more colourful and the drum beat started to get more insistent. Then Priscilla stood up and screamed, "Ooh, I know this one, it's my favourite song!" As one, Sir Ian, Don Juan, Mary and Magdelanye grinned and motioned to Priscilla to join them onstage with his scarves. Suddenly, the drums stopped, Don Juan asked us all to charge our glasses and he toasted, "To Revolution and Poetry!" Lupe clicked my glass with hers and whispered in my ear, "And Love!" Then, without more, the drum beat resumed and the singing began, "Can you hear the drums, Hernando? I remember long ago another starry night like this. The stars were bright, Hernando. They were shining there for you and me, For liberty, Hernando." Kris downed her margarita and enquired politely, "I hope you don't mind if I get up and dance on the table?" I almost joined her. Everybody else did. Well, those who weren't on stage. Instead, I felt the tug of love. It was Lupe pulling me back under the table, where I belonged.