(the words of Drake Marshall)

My father died from COVID, thank god. I can’t tell you what it means to me. He was out there in New York, an early case, for all I know he’s in one of those semi-trucks you see in news articles, overflowing with dead bodies. My mother, hapless dolt that she is, is taking care of everything, or their butler is, or who knows. She told me about it on the phone. “That’s terrible,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t expect any strong expressions of emotion. She informed me that she knew it would make me unhappy and I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. At some point there will be a funeral.

Meanwhile, here I am at the club, the Egyptian-themed spa that is still owned by the family of Alvin Albrecht, my childhood friend from school. When the lockdown started the spa closed so, so our old school set is using it as a secret base, preparing for the Mad Max Apocalypse that may be coming. The pools are working and our favorite saunas are still hot. Alvin’s family is being generous with their long-term employees, keeping them on as a skeleton crew. Everyone here knows the place so well we never interfere with each other.

I’m spending a lot of time crying and laughing, having strange feelings that should be about my father in some sense but can never truly because he was such a twisted fuck.

… That’s the point where my mind breaks. I can’t follow a train of thought when I think or talk or write about him because he beat me up so much when I was younger.