"Fucking Zionist pigs," insisted Galviono, getting us ejected from the Cash Cab with zero winnings.
I tweeted my outrage. When I looked up from my iPhone I realized that we were near where K.M. lived with his girlfriend, Carol. I only met her once. Some sort of party.
"It was our wedding," Carol explained a few minutes later. "Who is this guy?"
"I am fucking Jan Galviono," he said, menacing her with his silver codpiece.
I pulled Carol aside and asked her some questions. She didn't know her husband was dead yet. I figured K.M. was on the trail of this frock coat or he wouldn't have been shooting blood all over kitschy lampshades in the vicinity of Jan Galviono.
"Yeah, he was going to the Museum of Modern Art to meet someone named W," she said. "Real mysterious. I don't know what it was about, but I know this W character drives a Zipcar."
"Thanks, Karen," I said and hit her with some light kino. I remembered her name was Carol, but figured that since she was back on the market it was important to make her second guess her number. Carol gave us a clue. There was a Zipcar dropoff not far from the apartment. If we were lucky...
"Hey!" Galviono shouted as we crossed the street. I hustled across the street as quickly as my RMC jeans I shrunk to my legs with a spray bottle would allow. We were running towards two men in white suits with white dreadlocks exiting a Zipcar. No, not two men, they were identical and as genderfucked as Hitler back at MOMA. The folded frock coat was visible on the back seat of the Zipcar.
"The Wachowskis!" I said. "They've got the coat."
"You're too late, chummers," warned the girl brother, drawing his smart Luger and katana.
"They did it all to feed Keanu's addiction," I said into my phone mic to transcribe to my RSS feed.
The boy brother began swinging a weighted length of monomolecular wire. Sweat dripped from his post-surgical elf ears. I can't stand violence. This rent money deal was going sideways, like the movie of the same name, only unrelated to wine and more related to rent money.
"Give it up Galviono, the coat is gone," he said flatly. "He is the One. He sees the code now."
"He can manipulate patterns," warned the other brother.
As if signaled magically, or perhaps by text message, Keanu Reeves descended from a nearby ornate staircase wearing on of his famous frock coats. Although it didn't perfectly fit the theme, I took a picture and updated my bad shirts tumblr anyway.
"The coat is mine," said Keanu.
"Go back to Zion!" shouted Galviono. He attempted to attack Keanu I think, but a taxi van appeared from nowhere and ran him down. He was dead. Dead as K.M., dead as my hopes of making rent on the office, dead as the Enter the Matrix servers.
The door on the cab slid open and inside I could see the blinking ceiling lights of the Cash Cab, only they were green and blinking in perfect synchronization.
Well, that didn't work out quite how I had hoped.
Did Louis C.K. jerk off in front of two female comics? And why are these ladies squandering an opportunity to learn from a comedy legend?
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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