Cole and Rusty were relieved by a few of Sitwell’s finest. The duo stood in the lobby of the sorority house and looked out through the window. A sea of Looky Lous had formed and since most of them were in college, they were all holding red plastic cups filled with all manner of alcoholic beverages.
“Countess Cuca-who-ga?” Cole asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rusty said. “I’d say you must be living under a rock if I didn’t spend most of my time with you.”
“She famous?” Cole asked with true sincerity.
Rusty stared at Cole as though he had snakes popping out of his ears. “Is she famous?”
“Well who the hell is she?” Cole asked.
“Only the first recording artist to ever have a record go octuple platinum,” Rusty said. “That’s eight times the platinum.”
“She one of those rappers?” Cole asked.
“Pop diva,” Rusty replied. “Sang about her big ole badonka donk.”
“Badonka what?” Cole asked.
“Jesus,” Rusty said. “It’s what the kids call a big ass these days, Cole. Please get out more. Really, I’m worried about you.”
“She can’t be that good if I’ve never heard of her,” Cole said.
“Oh hell,” Rusty said. “If it isn’t on the Country Western station then you’ve never heard of it.”
“A fat ass is nothing to sing about, Rusty,” Cole said. “Pickup trucks. Horses. Long lost loves that will never come back again. That’s the stuff good songs are made of.”
“You’re forever trapped in the 90s,” Rusty said.
“Last time period that ever made sense to me,” Cole said.
The easily offended protesters were back and they began pounding on the glass.
“We want answers!” one protestor shouted.
“Cops are worse than Hitler!” another protester cried.
Cole rested his hands on his belt. “Goddamn hippies.”
“They call ‘em hipsters now,” Rusty noted.
“Same difference, different century,” Cole said.
“Yeah, well, Mr. Trapped in 1999,” Rusty said as he watched the angry college students bang their fists all over the glass door. “You’d better join us in 2017 right quick because this shit is gonna be big. I’m talking O.J. Simpson big.”
Cole blew a contemptuous raspberry at his partner. “No way that famous big butt girl was in the same league as O.J. Simpson.”
Rusty held up his phone. He pressed the NN1 app and Kurt Manley appeared on the tiny screen. “This just in…our NN1 celebrity murder analyst is here to talk about why the Countess Cucamonga case blows the ever loving shit out of the O.J. Simpson case…”
“I rest my case,” Rusty said.