Giant Men and Violent Women

What Happened?

ASHLEY

The pianist is playing "Is This Love," Bob Marley-style, and I can't help but think of Presley Ann. It's only because I'm holding my own coffee, laced with tequila and cream. It isn't exactly as good as Bub Black Coffee, but it'll do. The coffee and the music remind me of the guy in Roxbury. That reminds me of Presley Ann. It's not that I'm thinking about her because I miss her. It's just the music and the drink. They both remind me of her. That's pretty much what it is. So...yeah...

But, more important than that, Great Aunt hasn't come tonight. That's what everyone down here is gossiping about—in hushed whispers, of course. She left with Presley Ann. No one has heard from her since, and neither has her husband—or so everyone assumes.

The Boston Society slyly remarked last week, Rachel Wheat has been terribly coy in recent months, choosing to remain home with her husband, Mayor Longleaf Wheat, and quietly enjoy the season.

Everyone knows that this is utter bullshit. Great Aunt is said to blame her husband for pressuring their son into a life that he never wanted. A life that ultimately got him finished. Women might forgive a multitude of sins, but never will they forgive the mistreatment of their children. Great Aunt has left her husband. But her whereabouts? No one knows. Well, no one, except Presley Ann. But enough about Presley Ann.

The jazz band plays around me, bombastic billionaires shout for the joyous New Year, and their jet-set wives shrill with laughter. Great Aunt's husband, Longleaf Wheat—or as we call him, The Mayor since he runs the largest city in New England—has his hands stuffed in his tuxedo pockets, gazing out of a floor-to-ceiling window and onto The Governor's lawn, into the fog. I stand among revelry but can't help but follow The Mayor's gaze out onto the lawn.

A load of B-list journalists are snapping pictures of a ball scene they were denied entrance to. Maybe I should make my way over there and talk—

"The man of the hour!" Mercer screams out.

I turn and see him holding a white porcelain cup filled with coffee. The interesting thing about Mercer is that he's the heir of Hampshire Ciders, the most popular ale brewery and tequila house in New Hampshire, yet he doesn't drink liquor. Ever.

One would think that Mercer's pranks and antics would be because of a slight level of addiction of some sort. Especially from a socially acceptable addiction, such as alcohol. Because how can his mother, Tilly, explain to people that her son was perfectly sane and sober last month when he decided to replace all The Governor's salt in the saltshakers with sugar? And why would Mercer do this as The Governor was hosting a dinner for the president of the United States? Especially when the president came to New Hampshire to welcome the newest governor into office.

"I'd rather have them all believe you're boozin' every chance you get than to let them know you're just stupid as hell!" Aunt Tilly hollered at Mercer and his fiancée later that evening.

Both Mercer and his future bride struggled not to laugh. I, on the other hand, can never hold a straight face during a good joke that ruffles the feathers of Aunt Tilly. Louisiana didn't think it was amusing at all. The president would be reluctant to come back and visit her father if he assumed that he was the brunt of a joke among good ol' mountain boys. Louisiana would have been really bothered had she learned that both Mercer and I accomplished the sugar prank while the head kitchen worker, Pope, was busy teaching one of the other prisoners how to properly stir soup.