I stumbled into the CEO’s backyard, half-drunk and totally high, with five pounds of tepid coleslaw in a plastic deli container, and I must admit I felt a little like a hero in my own mind when I caught my reflection in the pool house window: the temporary tattoo lightning bolt streaking across my left cheek, my polarized aviators with mirrored lenses, and my vintage black trucker hat that said Gangsta Napper in neon pink letters. At the buffet table, I encountered an immediate setback when I set down my giant vat of store-bought slaw next to an even larger tub of what looked like homemade slaw. “Goddam fucking hell,” I said aloud to no one in particular and then I turned around and there was a young-looking priest admonishing me with his eyes. I apologized to the padre for the profanity. “My only responsibility was to bring the slaw,” I explained, “and now it appears that some overachiever has undermined my sole contribution to the day. Great!” I mixed up a couple massive martinis at the unmanned minibar and handed one of the glasses to the priest. That perked him up. I said, “How’s business? You done any exorcisms lately?” He shook his head, said nothing. I said, “How about any altar boys? Just kidding. But seriously, Father, you’re going to need to administer the last rites here. This party is dead. No one’s even in the pool.” The priest sipped his martini in silence and after an interminable minute my boss sidled up and said, “Daniels, I see you’ve met Father Kevin. He’s the new company chaplain. He’s also a corporate lawyer. Going forward, if you need any legal counseling or life advice, Father Kevin is your man. He’s a real listener, this guy. Cheers.” My boss clinked glasses with us and beelined over to the CEO’s poolside cabana where a couple receptionists in blue bikinis fanned the great man with gigantic palm fronds. “So,” I said to Father Kevin, pausing for dramatic effect. “I have a confession: I have herpes. I picked it up in college. Go wildcats!” The  lawyer-priest exhaled audibly and said, “Are you high or something?” I said, “Absolutely.” He said, “That’s what I thought. Look.” He held something in his hand. It was a gold star. I looked closer and saw that it was a U.S. Marshal’s badge. “Oh, man,” I said, “don’t bust me.” “I’m not going to,” he said, “I’m here for him.” He pointed across the pool to the CEO. “What did he do?” I asked. “What didn’t he do,” he said and walked away. I watched the undercover Marshal approach our CEO. The beautiful fanners stopped fanning the great man when the Marshal flashed his badge. Then the CEO stood and turned and the Marshal cuffed him. If I wasn’t high out of my mind I’d have thought I was out of my mind. It isn’t every day you see the CEO led away in handcuffs by a cop dressed as a priest. Afterward, my boss took to the diving board and said, “Good. He’s gone. Now it’s time to have a good time.” Everybody cheered and jumped into the pool in their clothes. Reggae played. I hung poolside and mixed up another martini. It was a celebration drink. There was much to celebrate. With the CEO out, that made me second in command now.

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Mel Bosworth is the author of the novel Freight, the poetry chapbook Every Laundromat in the World, and co-author with Ryan Ridge of the short fiction collection Second Acts in American Lives. His work has appeared in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Tin House, Per Contra, New World Writing, Santa Monica Review, Melville House, American Book Review, and elsewhere. A former series editor for the Wigleaf Top 50 and a former assistant editor for The Best Small Fictions, Mel curates the Small Press Book Review, an online archive. He lives in Western Massachusetts.

Ryan Ridge is the author of four books, including the hybrid novel, American Homes (University of Michigan Press, 2015). His work has appeared in American Book Review, The Collagist, DIAGRAM, Los Angeles Review, Lumina, Passages North, Salt Hill, Santa Monica Review, and elsewhere. In 2016, he received the Italo Calvino Prize in Fabulist Fiction judged by Jonathan Lethem. An assistant professor at Weber State University in Ogden, Utah, he co-directs the Creative Writing Program. In addition to his work as a writer and teacher, he edits the literary magazine, Juked. He lives in Salt Lake City with the writer Ashley Farmer.