The Kingdom

Shugar Belt, land of the living dead, home of the beaten, the broken, the chopped-up and diced.

Shugar Belt, Alvy's kingdom where frantic serfs scurry about to nowhere. A warehouse of lost souls, a vacuum of dreams, an empire built on the anti-matter of hope.

Shugar Belt, an island fortress devoid of dignity where shadows of men like crow-faced Rusty Applebaum shake and shudder thirty-seven-and-a-half hours a week, not more, never less.

Don't cross Rusty unless you want your meager paycheck whittled away. His simple joy in life is to dock your pay, withold your check, piss you off. Rusty Applebaum, a bespectacled humanoid form of life with distended whiskered nostrils and two black spots for eyes. Rusty Applebaum, a spectre stewing in the juices of frustration.

"Rusty!" Alvy barks.

See Rusty jump. See how he jumps.

"Get me two grand in US dollars for my trip to New York!"

See Rusty run. See how he runs.

"Rusty, there's a mistake on this month's trial balance! Rusty, you paid this invoice twice! Rusty, are you listening to me?"

Rusty, Rusty, Rusty.

See Rusty cry. See how he cries.

Shugar Belt, it's possessed.

"Pedro!" Fat Nat, the factory manager bellows. "You shipped the Bloomingdales order with two styles missing! You idiot! You moron! I told you it has to go complete!"

"Bbbb-but the cancellation date--"

"The rest of the order is getting tagging! Don't you fucking know what's going on in the factory?!"

"But there was a printing mistake on the--"

"What are we selling?! Books?! Who the fuck reads the tags besides wetback idiots like you!"

"But, Nat..."

"Just get the fuck out of my office before I crush your brainless Mexican skull."

Pedro stumbles out of Fat Nat's office overlooking the plant. He trips on the last stair and rips his pilled polyester pants. Fat Nat and his three assistants, Jean-Claude, Jean-Paul and Jean-Guy-with-the-fucked-up-tooth, howl with laughter. Pedro curses his fate in Spanish. Back in another life he was on the Mexican Equestrian Olympic team and drove a Mercedes. Then things went wrong.

"Easy to go down in life, hard to go up," Harry's mother liked to say.

Pedro gets up quickly and slams the door behind.

"Remember this, boys," Fat Nat says to his three chumps."Pedro is here for one reason; for me to shit on," and he breaks out in a maniacal laughter. The chumps think that their boss is hysterical.

On the other hand, Pena, the accounts receivable manager with the gorgeous manicured blood-red talons, the anklet and the toe-ring, loves her job. The pay is good - not great, she's got an air-conditioned office and a company car. And she's pretty good at her job, loves to collect her money. And that makes Alvy happy. Almost as happy as their daily 'receivables reviews,' when Pena gets down on her knees between his legs.

"The best time to call the parasites; the lawyers, the bankers, the accountants."

"He's sharing this with me?" Harry thinks.

"You know you've made it when you're telling those dick-head  parasites to fuck themselves while you're getting blown. Pure bliss, Harry, pure bliss."

And how could you honestly disagree?

"A great time to be alive, Harry, a great time to be alive."

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.   

"Get out of there, Harry, before it's too late."

"When the timing is right, ma. When the timing is right."

Alvy's away on business in New York. Pena calls Harry into her office for a 'house account credit review.' She locks the door. Harry evens the score. Almost.

"Money is money," Harry's father liked to say.

And Harry wanted what was due to him. So he began skimming from the cash sales. In any case, it was really stealing if you only what you were owed. He only stole to balance the books. Harry Starr was no thief.