This morning I woke up to a piece of paper hitting me in the face. I’m still staying at the rooftop hotel, so I suppose that is not the worst thing that could have hit me. Groggily I peered at the page: it was a handbill advertising a maybe-party this Sunday, hosted by Krewe Bayou.
Last year around this time, I asked the shadowy figure calling herself Queen Notakraken how a person might join the krewe, if he were so inclined. You are already in Krewe Bayou, she told me. Everyone is in Krewe Bayou, whether they know it or not.
You would think that as a member of the krewe, I would have heard about this party earlier, or whether we’ll parade, or what. You would think that, and you would be wrong.
So all I have to go on are whispers, and this poster, and what looks to be party decorations on the roof next door. They say that Ghosty Kips had to cancel on spinning the platters because of a family matter, and that the mysterious “DJ Tabasco” stepped in handily to save the day with his collection of Cajun, zydeco, and swamp pop recordings. (They don’t say what “swamp pop” is, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Okra-Cola.) They say that there will be plenty of beer, which will come in handy in case of fire. They murmur of a trivia contest with “fabulous prizes.” And I overheard a rumor to the effect that “everyone gets a baby kraken friend.”
Now you know everything I do.
Jack Mondieu, Ace Reporter, is often perplexed.