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Back to Vegas, Part 3 (Suspense, Fiction)
July 12, 2011 - Burt Angeli
"To poor little Pythagorish may the little reptile rest in peace."
Sienna, the oldest of the three sisters, was well on her third rather generous whisky.
There they were, three Celtic women, with very Italian names (owing their parents' love of Italy) toasting a dead python in a pub overlooking Galway Bay on the West Coast of Ireland.
The trip had been planned for months, but it turned into a bit of an Irish wake following the death of Pythagoras, the python.
The sun had set for good for the poor little slithering creature as time had finally caught up with him and he had joined that great Ark in Eternity. The python, who had been rescued from a carnival, had been Ravenna's pride and joy.
He had learned to eat hardboiled eggs rather than "live" creatures. And while the poor dear did frighten the rest of her extensive collection of creatures from time to time (especially her rather well fed Sheltie who was always suspicious of this creature that wanted to cuddle with her), Pythagoras was always a hit on St. Paddy's day when he was the star attraction at Cousin Pat O'Hanlon's Irish Pub.
"Aye, surely if the good saint himself had met our Pythagoras, he wouldn't have forced him and his kin to leave the old sod," Little Pat would boast to one and all who came to drink Guinness, dance a jig and pet a python - which usually occurred well after a few pints of stout were downed. "He really was a sweetheart," the second and most sober sister, Fi as in Fiorenza not Fiona, opined, "as mother would say, he wouldn't even choke an Englishman."
Two of the sisters, Si and Fi, were planning the next phase of their trek across the exquisite ancestral home of their mother. The youngest, Ravenna, was trying in vain to telephone her husband, Kevin.
"Blast you Kevin, pick up the phone - it's been hours," Ravenna knew her husband had ignored her instructions on feeding their four-legged family and wouldn't even notice her notes posted on the refrigerator. "Oh am I going to send him the mother of all text messages," as she angrily typed "UR on Ur own, idiot, but the kids better be OK."
Her ire was well founded as she recalled her first, and hopefully, last trip to Las Vegas where she had, with the help of her friends, Jacques des Jardins, former NHL great and his partner, David, rescued Kevin and Oslo from the evil Eddie, a greedy treasure hunter who was determined to leave the luckless pair buried in the desert.
"Speaking of Mother, she would want us to see Knock," Fiorenza remembered the site where the Blessed Virgin Mary was said to have appeared to poor Irishmen in 1879.
"I'd rather go look for some dolmen stones or some crop circles," Sienna's religious tastes tended toward the druidic.
"By the way, where's that driver you ordered? I hope he's not like the guy you found in New York, what was his name?"
"Desmond," Ravs added.
"He was all right," Fi argued, "He was just happily married that's all."
"Well, what good is that," Si the longest married, and least happy of three lamented.
The three were just finishing their last toast to deceased members of their clan, some of whom were decidedly more reptilian than poor Pythagoras, when a slight tap on Fi's shoulder told them their driver was there and from the looks of things, Si was going to have a very miserable vacation as a strapping young lass with a West Coast accent was telling them their carriage awaited them.
(To be continued)
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