E-Godz by Robert Asprin

Author:Robert Asprin
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fantasy - Epic, Fantasy - General, Historical, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy fiction, Family-owned business enterprises, General, Fiction - Fantasy, Fiction, Fantasy, Wizards, Inheritance and succession, Science fiction, Epic, Brothers and sisters
ISBN: 9780743498883
Publisher: Baen
Published: 2005-03-01T00:18:26.482000+00:00

Chapter Nine

The people who live in the greater Los Angeles area take umbrage when outlanders

think of them and their sun-kissed life-style solely in terms of media clichés. Dov Godz

had been made aware of this fact on the first of his many non-business-related trips to the

Left Coast, when he had casually remarked to his dining companion about how many

impossibly perfect-looking people he'd seen since his arrival.

"Even more than in South Beach," he said. "I guess there must be something in the

water, huh?"

He meant it as a joke. It was not taken as such. Indeed, he was promptly taught that

he had said the Wrong Thing. He would never forget that lesson. He thought about it

every time he returned, mostly because the earache he contracted from the ensuing

lecture/rant never cleared up completely.

Now, watching the hazy landscape below come closer as his plane made the final

approach to L.A. International, the memory came drifting back as it always did. Once

more he was seated at one of the best tables at Marozia's, the Pacific-Rim-ItalianMacrobiotic-Thai-Fusion restaurant du moment, listening to his ladyfriend Brytanni

calmly explain to him how he had erred.

"Oh wow, I mean, like, what is it with you people from Back East?" she shrilled.

(Having a native-born SoCal accent, her pronunciation made Back East sound like

Among the Lepers. ) She crossed her long, tan, lotion-sleeked legs, revealing a number of

fascinating views easily ogled through the glass tabletop. Dov nearly choked on his

brioche, but Brytanni was oblivious.

"You're all, so, like, L.A. is all palm trees and smog and movies and Porsches and

Rodeo Drive and crap. It's all: You're from L.A., you must be shallow. As if! I mean, my

friend Wyndsong is from Marin, if you want to talk about posers, and even she's smart

enough to know that we are not all body-image-obsessed media slaves around here." She

took another mouthful of imported Finnish mineral water and chewed it carefully,

making every calorie count. "If we were that two-dimensional, would I have agreed to

meet you now, right when they're announcing the winners of the Shimmies?"

"Uh, what's the Shimmies?" Dov had asked, wiping soggy brioche crumbs from his

chin.

"Oh . . . mah . . . gawd!" Brytanni was so taken aback by his woeful ignorance that

she slapped her forehead. Then, realizing the harm she might have inadvertently wrought

to her skin's elasticity, she broke open a collagen capsule, slathered it over the assaulted

area, used her cell phone to speed-dial her plastic surgeon for reassurance and to make a

just-in-case maintenance appointment, and finally replied: "The Shimmies are only the

numero uno premier award to recognize the achievements of spokesmodels in the

cellulite reduction appliance field! I can't believe you didn't know that. And you call us

shallow!"

Dov had apologized most sincerely for his lack of cultural awareness, but the damage

was done: Brytanni was so upset that she actually ate a piece of cheese out of his chef's

salad before rushing from the restaurant and driving off in a huff to see her guru. (There

was no need to phone ahead for an appointment: Baba Yamama was also a registered

psychic.)

She

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