Randy's Shoes - Part I

"You got a friend in me. You got a, friend in me. When the road looks rough ahead ---"

Click.

Another day, another victory, I say to myself. It's 8:30AM, at least according to my Woody & Buzz alarm clock. Woody's looking mighty fine this morning. With my left hand that turned off the alarm, I stroke Woody's hat.

"Reach for the skiiieeesss!" says Woody.

I, Morpheus Randy, chuckle. What a fun cowboy. Hanging over Woody's shoulder is Buzz; he's also looking out of this world this morning. I reach for my patented Newman glasses next to the alarm clock. Filthy rich as I am, I just can't get on board with laser eye surgery. I don't know why, but for some reason I feel like lasers are the fucking devil, and it will somehow affect my vocal chords or my composition skills. Funny, I know, but hey, I've made it this far in life without laser eye surgery; why change a good thing? I'm an Oscar award winner, and two-time Pulitzer prize winner, and I run the best god damn fantasy league in the world. I'd be stupid to change my ways, right?

With my sight now at a perfect 20/20, I rise out of my linens (thread count 1,800+) and place my feet softly into my slippers. Something feels funny - what the hell? What's that? I rise and look back onto my king-size mattress; there's a mop of brunette hair on the opposite side to where I slept. What else is new? I chuckle again. I look down at Buzz, who looks right back. He saw the whole thing last night, I presume.

Buzz, you fucking dirty space-man. Can't you give me some privacy? Morpheus Randy chuckles once more. Oh, how I constantly please myself, and my bitches too, apparently.

Being the gentleman that I am, I slipper my way quietly out of my enchanting bedroom (aka. House of Girls-Gone-Randy) without awakening Ms. Mystery, down a flight of Frank Lloyd Wright inspired stairs, around a slight bend and into my kitchen. I look out the window; it's snowing like a Christmas card. Now, where the hell is ---

"Good morning, Morpheus Randy."

Ah, Jeeves. The best man-servant money can buy. And holy hell, did I dish out the bacon to acquire his services. That's not to say that he's breaking my bank (very few people could bring me to that capacity), but his compensation is nothing short of admirable. "As you were, Jeeves," I say.

"Thank you sir," says Jeeves. "I've prepared you a little breakfast. Home-style poutine with some bacon, eggs and beans, finished with a little oriental green onion. You've been such a fanatic for those onions ever since your return from Asia."

150 calories, tops.

"Just lovely," I say, nodding with satisfaction.

"And," Jeeves cuts in before I get a word in, "I've prepared a light waffle and fruit bowl for..." Jeeves hesitates, "... Ms. Greyleith."

Greyleith... What?! That's Brenda up in my room? Shit, shit shit shit!

"And don't worry," says Jeeves before I speak. "I had her records checked while you... checked her out last night," Jeeves says, grinning. Fucking Jeeves; man-servant extraordinaire, but cheeky like you would not believe. "She's clean. Twenty-two actually; looks like you gave yourself a few years of breathing room. No need to panic."

A relief. I am a man of integrity, power and principle. But fuck young hot tail is something I take much to literally. "Thank you, Jeeves."

Jeeves nods. "Anything else I can do for you this morning before I attend to your shoes?"

I sit down, breathing in the breakfast ensemble. Brenda Greyleith. Seriously Randy, seriously? You just can't get enough of office assistants, and they can't get enough of you. I look up at Jeeves, tapping the mahogany table with my bass hand (that's left hand for you non-piano players).

"Yes, there's something you can do, Jeeves. Please go to guest house 'A' and assemble some attire for Ms. Greyleith. Since she's made it to House of Randy, she must be a size zero. Bring her something green; it'll complement her rich brunette hair. Pull a few bath towels and a hair dryer. I believe she is working the afternoon shift at the office; give her the keys to the Lexus if she wishes to drive herself, otherwise you may escort her in the Bentley."

Jeeves nods and begins to walk away. I stick a fork into my breakfast and have a bite. Simply delicious. What a perfect morning, I say to myself.

"Pardon me, I almost forgot," says Jeeves, returning to the kitchen. "You have messages. And, you're not going to like them." Jeeves motions to the answering machine on the counter, which is flashing with 30 new messages.

Oh fuck. I bet it's Glenn.