17,237 Words

Without emphasizing the ways that Handsome Man and B.O. Boy had been kneecapped by a pair of congested lesbians, Troy was nevertheless happy to include Ryan Seacrest in the splashy press conference that was hastily convened on the front steps of the Museum the following morning. Mercifully, the thieves had been carted off to jail just after midnight, leaving plenty of time for Bracy and Kansas to rest up; even had it been publicized, looking at him in his designer jeans and a pair of thousand-dollar sunglasses standing next to the Mayor, no one would have believed that Bracy’s good looks could have failed to debilitate even the most hardened criminal.
And Troy felt that Ryan Seacrest added a touch of Saturday Morning Super Friends nostalgia to the proceedings. The Wonder Twins had had that monkey, those Teen Angels had had Captain Caveman—or maybe that was the other way around. Still, the notion of a crime-fighting animal mascot appealed to Troy, and she was sure it would appeal to Our Fair Citizens.
The Museum abutted a vast and verdant park, and the plaza around back would ordinarily have made for a more scenic setting, but Troy had been hanging around Bracy for a long time; the Main Entrance to the Museum was on one of Our Fair City’s broadest and busiest boulevards, and she knew that with him prominently displayed on the front steps, all smiles and sunglasses, a crowd would quickly gather.
And thus it was in front of a veritable mob that she delivered her remarks. She had risen ahead of the roosters to tend to her own hair and make-up, devoting enough attention to the details of her wardrobe and her own sunglasses to ensure that at least most of the cameras and TV viewers could tear their gaze from Bracy for at least as long as it took her to take credit for helping to stem the flow of crime in her town, but she knew her heroes would gobble up most of the attention, which was, after all, kind of the point.
“Fellow Citizens,” she intoned, blocking her stylishly windblown hair from her telegenic face with a carefully placed, tastefully bejeweled hand, “Last night, at this very museum, a scandalous crime was nearly perpetrated.” In the event that she had not managed to whip up enough public interest in the Cub Scout Rocks, she felt that use of words like “scandalous” would help keep her audience focused. “Had the literally priceless Jewels of Mary Magdalene been stolen, Our Fair City would have become an international laughing stock. The perceived lack of security and competence would have done untold harm to our reputation, and therefore also to local business and industry. Instead,” she said, taking one emphatic step to her left to allow Bracy to dazzle from center stage, “thanks to these two men and their adorable and devoted dog, two criminal masterminds were thwarted and an important piece of the world’s cultural heritage was preserved. The Jewels of Mary Magdalene belong today to the people of the world rather than to a pair of unscrupulous scallywags, and the people of the world have two Fair Citizens to thank for that.” Here she paused for dramatic effect, allowing the camera flashes to slather herself and the strategically positioned Dynamic Duo behind her with affection before she launched into the Big Finish. “Criminals and scheming thieves, take note,” she warned, wagging a manicured finger. “Our Fair City should no longer be considered a soft target. Our Citizens are resolved to enjoy all that life in Our Fair City has to offer in security, and any criminals that dare to darken our streets will be ushered into our jail by the worst thing to happen to lawbreakers since Hammurabi chiseled his Code. People of Our Fair City,” she invited, placing a hand on one of Kansas’s narrow shoulders, “please help me show my appreciation to B.O. Boy…” Hold for applause, followed by, “and his crime-fighting partner and mentor, to whom even Mary Magdalene owes a debt of gratitude, Our Hero, Handsome Man.”
Bracy stepped modestly forward with a wave of thanks, and held his hand out to Kansas, who joined him center stage. Troy signaled with two discrete fingers that Bracy should ratchet up his smile, and when he did, the crowd went wild. Flash bulbs popped like strobe lights and a smitten busker blared his trumpet with impromptu fanfare, although it could barely be heard above the din of applause. Troy was only too happy to leap back into the spotlight and pose playfully between her two friends, forging an indelible link in the memories of every voter, campaign donor, and potential investor who saw the local news or the front page of the morning paper between her and the Saviors of the City.
Basking in the glow of the new era of citywide prosperity and growth that she had promised, Troy was only too pleased to run for her second term as mayor without the distracting nuisance of an opponent. Locally owned shops peddling locally produced wares opened in neighborhoods both swank and spare across the City; sidewalk cafes and happy hour patios overflowed with patrons and laughter; businesses boomed, the City’s coffers bubbled over, and roads, parks, and city services were polished to a gleam. Handsome Man and B.O. Boy were embraced by the rich and the poor and the young and the old as celebrities, and moved through the streets of town like floats in an endless parade, congratulated and cheered everywhere they went. Worshipped by all walks of life for his arresting looks, the line of skin care products that Bracy discovered in a small local boutique, embraced and eventually came to publically endorse naturally sold like hotcakes. Admired in the media and in local lore for his courage in triumphing over what was rumored to be remarkable olfactory adversity, every scented candle, powder, or oil that Kansas even considered putting in the condo immediately became the must-have item of the moment.
With unsubtle urging from Troy, the local media and Bracy himself harped sans cesse on the crucial roles of Handsome Man and B.O. Boy’s physical attributes in the City’s remarkable turnaround. It was therefore a perfectly natural progression for Handsome Man to open first one, then a series of spas and wellness centers, and from them to launch a panoply of products and programs promising to improve the appearance, odor, and physical fitness of all and sundry who crossed their thresholds—wallets open, naturally. Skin cleared, bellies retreated back behind beltlines, and the money rolled in. The benevolence of her rule assured Troy adoring constituents and a compliant City Council, and as her faithful friend and merry mascot, Handsome Man was quickly ensconced at the Top of the World. Bracy had never looked better, had never felt better, and had the world in the palm of his hand. Life in Our Fair City was good, and Bracy’s life got better every day.
Until the day Spanky Fatbutt came to town.


Part Two

Chapter Nine


Years passed, as they will, and, speaking generally, Life in Our Fair City outstripped even the most optimistic expectations. Grass in the parks glittered like acres of green carpet samples, birds in the trees chirped in harmony, and the lion at the zoo lay down with the lamb. Well, next to the lamb, ever since Troy had orchestrated having their habitats moved one next to the other to mirror the bucolic splendor that her administration—with help from Bracy and Kansas—had wrought upon the town.
It’s not like nothing bad ever happened. There was still the occasional car accident or long illness, and the weather went to shit in January no matter how desperately Troy wished it wouldn’t. But, after shelling out substantial amounts of money, time, and energy to follow Bracy and Kansas’s photogenic example, huge swaths of the populace glowed with health, smelled like warm spices or sunkissed flowers, and strolled the avenues hand in hand with smiling loved ones.
There is of course no such thing as a zero per cent crime rate, and Bracy and Kansas were occasionally called upon to intervene at a mugging or a robbery (Handsome Man’s spas didn’t come for free, after all), but there wasn’t a crook in town whose eyes could withstand Bracy’s grin and Kansas’s aura; all but the slipperiest criminals were easily apprehended, and there was more than one baddy bragging around the jailhouse lunch table that he had masterminded this or that crime just so he could see Handsome Man from up close.
In the weeks and months before the Grand Opening of Handsome Man’s latest and greatest Midtown Getaway Spa, in fact, the criminal element had been laying exceptionally low, and Troy, as a not-so-silent partner in the venture, thought it would benefit all concerned if Handsome Man was fresh in everyone’s mind. So she recruited an old flame from two towns over to knock over a series of much-beloved malt shops before succumbing to Bracy’s charms on the five o’clock news two days before Opening Weekend, over the course of which they naturally raked in a fortune. No media outlet was on hand when the miscreant in question was quietly chauffeured out of town on the night of the Spa’s Opening Gala, and Troy was firm in her belief that what people didn’t know about what went on behind the scenes of running the Happiest City in the Country (three years in a row, thank you Life & Style Magazine) wouldn’t hurt them.
Fighting crime had never been a particularly time-consuming pastime of Bracy’s, and he did very little of the day-to-day running of his spas, gyms, boutiques, and wellness centers, so he was left to divide his time as he saw fit between romancing Kansas and luxuriating in spa treatments. He naturally combined these two activities as frequently as possible, which suited Kansas fine, and the two spent much time lolling on the lanai at a Handsome Man Spa wrapped in robes, nibbling sushi rolls and sipping champagne.
Excepting two particularly stubborn scars on his forehead, for the first time in his life Kansas’s skin was the approximate color and tone of cream in a pitcher and, while his hair persisted in presenting a windblown bedhead style, it felt like silk between his fingers and shimmered in the sun like caramel enrobing a Halloween apple. Steadily advancing through his thirties, he cut a less waif-like figure than he had in B.O. Boy’s early days, but his lopsided smile and world-weary eyes continued to enchant, and his underarms were more dangerous than ever. A stack of specially treated robes awaited his arrival at every Handsome Man facility, the custom “BOB” monogram on each a signal to the laundry staff that, when used, it should be incinerated as speedily as practical.
Under the almost constant care of a massage therapist, two estheticians, two nail techs, a nutritionist, a hair stylist, an aromatherapist, a personal trainer and an Official Photographer, Bracy had elevated Handsome to a level rarely seen outside of photoshop, and Kansas still marveled at the almost mythological way Bracy’s body rebuffed the notion of imperfection. They were naked together (or, in Kansas's case, real close to it) most of the time they spent at home as well as being pampered by every willing hand in town, and occasionally just to pass the time, Kansas would scrutinize Bracy’s body for even the soupçon of something that could be considered a flaw. By somebody somewhere, for heaven’s sake. But the harder he looked, the more elusive any such flaw became. His ass was plump, but mouthwateringly so; his nose turned up at the end, but in an irresistibly cute way; his eyes were of an indistinct color, but this only served to make them harder to climb out of. His chest was expansive, his waist was sturdy and snug; his hair shone as though he wore extensions made of sunshine and his tight, tanned, unblemished skin glowed from within as if he’d eaten a nightlight. Consequently Kansas could still spend hours doing little more than beholding Bracy, in which pastime he was fervently engaged this particular afternoon as the two lovebirds sprawled on an oversized divan on the rooftop lanai high atop Handsome Man’s high rise Midtown Getaway Spa, snacking on seafood cakes and prosciutto-laced macaroni and cheese and gossiping the afternoon away with the Mayor.
“Wait, so what are they called?” Bracy asked, leaning forward to refill Troy’s champagne flute, then Kansas’s, then his own.
Troy referred to the neighborhood newspaper open on her lap. “Spanky Fatbutt and the Buffet Boys,” she re-read. “Under ‘style,’ it says ‘Big Band, Swing, and Here We Go!’”
“Ooh, that sounds fun,” Kansas declared.
Troy had brought the latest copy of CitySheet to peruse the review of the Spa’s opening weekend—which: raves—and had since fallen back into the depths of her papasan chair, flicking through the paper page by page and reading aloud whatever snippets snagged her eye.
Troy shrugged and read from the article. “’The Left Bank Supper Club opened a few weeks ago to rave reviews from this and other reporters, but has since proved to be somewhat sleepy on weekends. Big-boned bandleader Spanky Fatbutt and his brash Buffet Boys are fresh off a whirlwind South America tour that, by all accounts, had them dancing in the streets, and The Left Bank Supper Club’s maitre d’, Fleurelaine Weatherby, assures us that their swinging sound is just the groove to get you to move.’” She tapped the paper with a newly polished fingernail and said, “Friday’s show is sold out, tickets still available for Saturday.”
“Ooh, we should go on Saturday,” Kansas proposed, draining his glass.
Bracy wrinkled his nose. “What’s with that name? Who wants to go see somebody named ‘Fatbutt’ do anything?”
“I dunno,” Kansas said, “They sound kinda fun to me.”
Bracy arched a meticulously plucked brow. “Yeah well, you want to watch out,” he snarked. “If your butt gets any fatter, nobody’s gonna want to spank it.”
Kansas smirked and stuck out his tongue. He hadn’t gotten fat by anybody’s definition, but there were challenges when one’s boyfriend had built a career as a super hero around his looks. Like Bracy’s, Kansas’s power was undiminished with the passing of time, but he didn’t have to look like a million dollars to smell like a million burning tires; he had rather hoped that the fact that Bracy still wouldn’t be in the same room with him after all these years if he wasn’t wearing at least a t-shirt would conceal the few extra pounds that he knew he had added lately. Annoyed that his butt had betrayed him, he popped another seafood cake in his mouth in an effort to show Bracy that he was unconcerned and held out his glass for more champagne.
Troy leaned forward and filled it. “Don’t be churlish,” she scolded Bracy. “Kansas is a lovely boy and he’s filled out nicely.” She’d noticed, too, but when a “boy” is closer to forty than he is to twenty-one, these things happen, and if Bracy ever left town on vacation without him, Kansas wouldn’t even have competition for the title of Hottest Guy Left. “And he’s right,” she went on to declare, “We should go and see the show. It’s not like you, Bracy, to want to sit out of the Hottest Ticket in Town.”
“What do I care?” Bracy waved her off. “If you two want to go, of course we’ll all go.”
“Saturday night, then?” Kansas enthused.
“Oh no,” Troy scolded him. “We’ll go on Friday.”
“But it said they were sold out.”
Troy smiled and, raising her glass, slid her twinkling eyes from Kansas to Bracy and back again. “They’ll squeeze us in,” she predicted.