His breath was constricted and on a sudden impulse he ran to the bedroom, grabbed his dirty magazines, the dildo, and the accusatory diplomas. He ran back through the kitchen and out the back door with Hudley following at full bark. He threw everything in the trash barrel and grabbed the charcoal lighter off the grill cover, dumping most of its contents on the magazines. A fulsome roar of orange flame followed the match. The dog raced barking in ever tightening circles around the smut pyre. Warlock stepped back amazed at the heat as if, he thought, the inflamed beavers were protesting. He turned his back and squinted at the sun, a little surprised to see it.

He sensed a new timbre in his voice when he called an old friend in New York, a poet-sculptor, painter, bon vivant, swindler of sorts. Ralph Garth would know what to do with the squid. Warlock wanted to move on from the squid which, since the magazine burning, had lost drama. His foundation which had owned the avowed intent of boosting the Arts and Sciences had given Ralph an ample year’s grant to free him from financial worry so that he could devote himself, whole hog, to his work. Warlock and Diana had spent a joyous week with Ralph Garth in New York celebrating the artist’s good fortune. Unfortunately the trustees were underwhelmed by the results. One, a huge painted plaster contraption called The New Leda, showed an enormous red-dicked swan putting the blocks to a cheerleader who bore more than vague resemblance to Diana. When plugged in the machine went through the motions, as it were, with Ralph Garth there in a railroad engineer’s cap, and a can to oil the flanges. The whole project had been at least partially redeemed when NASA with its Arts in Space project cofunded Ralph’s attempt to project the avant-garde film Flaming Creatures into outer space. There had been a dinner with the governor’s wife, an arts patron, a NASA official (who was gay, it turned out), a college president, and other chichi riffraff. Then on a cool autumn night behind the mansion of a trustee, Ralph had projected the film into the heavens in a cylinder of light, somewhat in the fashion that a child shines his flashlight at the moon. Everyone clapped. Warlock had nixed a predinner showing of the film when he learned that an actress-actor transvestite ate a plate of poodle shit in the film. A bit rich for the audience, he judged, after Diana queried Ralph on why anyone would eat poodle shit, and Ralph had replied that there are more things than are dreamt in your philosophy, Horatia. Ralph later admitted he’d netted a cool ten grand after projector and film rental, enabling him to winter in Osso Buco or some such Jamaican hotspot.

“Ralph? This is Warlock. Johnny.”

“Oh. Johnny, who’s Warlock?”