Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

Diane’s the town gossip. She probably holds the world
record for never shutting the fuck up.
Having a conversation with her is like being subjected to
water torture: it goes on and on in a constant, painful drip until
eventually, you crack and lose your mind.
Without bothering to say hello, she pulls up an empty chair
from the table behind us, sits down next to me, and leans in,
engulfing me in the scent of lavender and mothballs.
In a hushed voice, she says, “His name is Kage. Isn’t that
strange? Like a dog cage, but with a K. I don’t know, I just
think it’s a very odd name. Unless you’re in a band, of course.
Or you’re some kind of underground fighter. Whatever the
case, in my day, a man had a respectable name like Robert or
William or Eugene or such—”
“Who are we talking about?” interrupts Sloane.
Attempting to look nonchalant, Diane jerks her head a few
times in the direction of where the stranger sits. Her shellacked
gray curls quiver. “Aquaman,” she says in a stage whisper.
“Who?”
“The man by the window who looks like that actor in the
movie Aquaman. What’s-his-name. The big brute who’s
married to the girl who was on The Cosby Show.”
it.
“Are you talking about Jason Momoa?”
“That’s it,” says Diane, nodding. “The Samoan.”
Sloane rolls her eyes. “He’s Hawaiian.”
Diane looks puzzled. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
Grateful I’ve got a full glass of wine, I take a big swig of
“Whatever,” says Diane. “They’re all large brown people
is my point. Quite handsome, in a native sort of way. Of
course you can’t trust those island types. They’re used to
living free like gypsies, wandering around in their raggedy
caravans and never wearing shoes. I just feel so sorry for the
children. Raised like wild animals. Imagine!”