John gets up of the floor and sits down on one of the couches along the wall, beneath three of Nicks strange and colorful four foot by four foot pastel renderings of bar scenes. The characters in the paintings are grossly twisted and faceless as they bend and melt over the bar and each other against a dizzying and meandering background. Striking, they never failed to catch the attention of any guest who entered the apartment. “Unmute it,” John says.

Fetching the remote, Travis unmutes the television in time to hear Yosemite Sam scream as Bugs throws a match into the powder room. The two sit mesmerized by the classic cell animation. “Where’s Nick?” Travis asks. He and Nicks rooms were next to one another on one side of the apartment, and Travis had heard him leave earlier.

“He said he had to get some supplies or something. You still wanna’ get that amp fixed?”

“Yeah, you bet.”

“We should head out soon then. I think the shop closes at five.”

“That’s cool. I didn’t think about that.” He pauses for a moment, tearing himself away from Yosemite Sam, blackened and frozen from an explosion, flying through the air and what is left of his ship. “Let’s get the Fat Kid to go with us.”

“He probably wont be back for a while.”

“No, the other Fat Kid.”

“Ian?”

Travis nods.

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”

Glancing to the television and back, Travis asks surprised, “Were you already up when Nick left?”

John rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I didn’t really go to sleep.”

Turning back to the TV, Travis just says, “That Cosmoblastarific meditation must be fun.”

“Cabalistic,” John corrects him.

“Noooo!” Travis hollers at the television in cathartic relief.

“Whatdya’ think he’s been up to?” asks John.

“Well, I hope he’s not dead. I don’t remember how this one ends,” Travis says.

“Ian, dumbass—whatdya’ think Ian’s been up to?” John says, sitting back on the couch.

Stuffing another large handful of Cheerios into his mouth, Travis mumbles, “Fa-tr-i-tee sh-tuffles.”

“Do you think he’s been drinking?” John asks innocently.

Muting the commercial, Travis turns the arm chair to face John with a squeaky zeal, but keeps turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees in a circle. “I can’t believe how drunk we got last night,” he says, riding the chair around and giving it another push with his toes.

John growls in his perverted uncle voice, “That’s Schlitz, baby!”

“My tolerance must be something awful these days. Seven or eight and I can barely drive.”

Patiently placing his hands together in a priestly fashion, John intones, “It takes practice, my son.”

“Did you finish that whole bottle of Cuervo?”

“No. There’s still about a quarter left if you want some.”

“I wonder if tequila tastes good with Cheerios?” Travis contemplates his bowl. They both knew it was a rhetorical question. “Let me take a shower and put on some clothes and well go.”

“Good. I’m not taking you anywhere smelling like that.”

Sniffing under his arm, Travis looks hurt. It’s not that bad.

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