This morning I went to meet my new friend Polonium 210. I was afraid to tell her about the little club from the other night. I remembered that last week she’d told me, “You know, there are places you shouldn’t go in Paris…it’s not safe.”
“Like where?” I’d snorted with all my urban bad-assed-ity.
In a hushed tone: “Like…the 20th.”
I just have to add here that all my Polonium 210 peoples have certain characteristics in common. You basically need to have a diamond-encrusted front door for them to grace your humble abode, and all your stuff needs to have DOLCE & GABBANA stamped all over it (doesn’t matter if it’s bootleg). Hell, I don’t hold it against them. It’s only been in the last few years that they've achieved the ability to roll with all this bling.
I didn’t tell her where I’d gone.