She drives in there with a couple of hard lefts, in a Rubicon going too fast and when she gets to the window she yells over the blaring oldies 96.9 “two of whatever Benny gets.”

She bristles. “Where’s Benny?”
She bristles back. “So you’re Aroma Johnny. He thinks a lot of you.”

‘Ya, he talks about you too. You’re the medium hot with milk, right?”

Johnny now wears a mask and gloves, from behind plexiglass and such.

What do they think is gonna happen?

She survived the virus in more ways than one. As a gerontologist in dementia care, she saw the fever and watched the epidemic and kept them comfortable with hospice. She closed her place to visitors two or three months before the “drive thru, shoot out at the ok corral, call her out, Benny and the Jets” ENCOUNTER.

Tarantino would cast her in Kill Bill III in a blink. She drinks expensive tequila and wears designer Chuck Taylors. The staff worship her. She plunges stuffed toilets and eschews make-up.
Oh, did they test positive?

(None of your business.)

Bill knew his assassins although were left wondering about them. Bill is revealed as manager of the year, Master of Freud, Shakespeare, taboo Greek myth perversities galore.

Benny is another story.
Likewise for the Jets.

I’ll see you on the other side.

The gerontologist was freaked. You mean on the other side of life?

No, silly, the other side of the building. Drive around, Hot Milk and lighten up. Bang bang, order here, pick up on the other side.

We’ll meet again Johnny and don’t cross the Rubicon, if you know what I mean.
(Thanks Vera Lynn; see also Dr Strangelove and Julius Caesar)

They are the perfect sample to follow in this place and time. Your hair hurts from statistics and on the other hand, personal accounts of tragedy are heart breaking.

(Like Sisyphus, you must imagine Bill.version.3.0 as having these two cross paths in their curious lives).

Like your hair

Thanks, like your ink.

Like your Jeep.

Alpha females, Jets, mid May 2020.

B B B Benny and the Jets. Are the Jets safe?
Is anybody?