THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION: FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY: NO OFFENSE OR ACCUSATIONS IMPLIED.

Prince’s private plane sat on the tarmac at Quad City International Airport on April 15, 2016 at 4 A.M. Prince had long since been rushed to a nearby hospital in Moline, Illinois. Prince’s manager stood outside the plane beside the pilot, who was sucking down a cigarette so hard it glowed with the fury of spot light. The pilot’s finger tips trembled, shaking the smoke in his lips, “That was fucked up.”
Prince’s manager Ron glared nervously at his iPhone, “Yeah, it was fucked.”
“You think he’s dead?”
Ron’s voice squealed, “I hope not, shit. I haven’t gotten any word back from the hospital yet.”
Mike, the pilot, said, “The internet has already caught word of this shit I bet.”
“Think so?” Ron thumbed around his iPhone, searching the net. “Hell yeah it has. How in the… how do they get this news so fast?”
Mike shrugged and sucked the last possible draw from the cigarette; then he thumped it into the void. He grabbed his pack from his shirt pocked and bumped out another one. His quivering lip held the smoke while he lit it.
Ron said, “Get this shit, the rumor mill already has him dead.”
“Oh hell no! He can’t be dead. I can’t be looking for another job.”
Ron laughed, “You and me both.” He sighed deeply, eyes shut and slightly shaking his head, “Of course, if things don’t pick up, I may have to anyway.”
“We that bad off?”
“Well,” Ron thumbed around his phone some more, “this piano and a microphone tour is small venues. We don’t catch a lot of cash from them. And he has already missed two shows.”
“We doing more venues than normal, though, right?”
“That’s the idea. But it isn’t like back in the day, when the Revolution or the NPG was touring. We made some bucks then.”
Mike nodded and dragged a long deep draw.
“Course,” continued Ron, “we have the rights to Purple Rain now. That’s something. It’s due for a re-release. I told him he needs to be thinking about getting the Revolution back together and push those sales.”
Mike waited with the smoke in his fingers, and then asked, “And?”
“He ain’t gonna do that shit.”
“Why not?”
“You just have to know him. If it makes sense, it’s against the rules. Projected sales for a re-release are really low. Ain’t nobody interested.” Ron took the index finger of his free hand and poked around on his iPhone, “Here, I show you.” The glow of the phone’s screen shifted against Ron’s white shirt, and he furrowed his brow as he looked at the screen. “Fuck,” he murmured.
Mike asked, “What is it?”
“The rumor mill is working overtime. It’s actually effecting the projected sales.” Ron’s eyes widened as large as saucers, “Fuck me. The anticipated sales are flying off the chart now. It believes Prince is dead and the numbers are climbing through the mother fucking roof.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah seriously. If he was really dead, you and me would have some gold lining the pockets of our pensions.”
Mike said, “I know this is going to sound bad, but that would be nice.”
Ron raised an eyebrow and glanced at Mike through the corner of his eyes.
Mike raised his hands as if in surrender, “I’m only saying the numbers would be nice. I don’t actually want him to die.”
Ron puckered his lower lip and bounced his head in a series of nods; he lowered the phone to his thigh and rolled his eyes upward. “You know. There may be an idea there.”
Mike’s mouth dropped open as his cigarette was only inches from his mouth. He did not take the draw, “Killing Prince ain’t no idea.”
Ron squealed, “I didn’t say nothing about killing Prince.” Mike stared away in another direction and Ron said, “But there are other ways to handle this.”
Mike took the last draw off the second cigarette, “I’m not following.”
“Prince ain’t really been worth a shit since Vanity died. It’s truly fucked with his head. He’s always did a little drug now and then, but right now, he’s chugging them fuckers down like Skittles. So, this gives us a little room to play, cause he can’t really keep up with shit right now anyhow.” Ron pointed a finger at Mike to emphasize his words, “We got this guy, his name is Sam Denny, and he is a dead ringer for Prince. We hired him back in the late eighties, and he is one of our most guarded secrets. See, when there is a charity event or some shit Prince needs to be seen at, we used to send him. He would just stroll through, smile at folks, act a little weird, and then leave. Press would brag on Prince, and Prince didn’t have to be there.”
Mike grinned and lit another cigarette, he felt he knew where this was going.
“Thing is, with Sam, he can’t do no talking.”
“Why, is he stupid or something?”
“Stupid? Well yeah, he is a little dumb, but that’s not why. It’s his voice.”
“It’s a give away?”
“You better goddamn believe it is. He may look like Prince, but he sho as hell don’t sound like Prince. He sound like the goofiest one damn nerd you ever heard in your life. Real nasal like. And when he laughs, it sounds a lot like a jack ass choking to death.”
Mike chuckled and choked on his smoke, “That’s a crazy ass idea. Can’t be done.”
“What do you mean it can’t be done?”
“Just that. Can’t be done. Too much can go wrong. Too many variables. Murphy’s law is a bitch, and you don’t tempt her.”
Ron smiled and threw his shoulders back, “It can be done. And what if I told you it has already been done.”
“You trying to tell me you believe Elvis and Kennedy are out somewhere playing golf today? You don’t believe in all that shit do you?”
“I don’t know about Elvis or Kennedy. But what if I told you I know for a fact it has been done before.”
Mike puffed a large white cloud, “Who?”
“I can’t tell you who. But I know for a fact it is true. I even know their general plan for getting the job done.”
Mike shrugged, “Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean you can pull it off.”
Ron nodded, “Okay. So, I’ll make a bet with you. See, we haven’t been able to get in touch with Sam Denny in the past five years. He just doesn’t return any text or calls anymore. Hell, HE may not be alive. So, if I send him out a text, and he replies, I will consider fate is on my side, and you have to help me pull off my plan.”
Mike laughed, “I don’t know about all that.”
“You’re not frightened to bet are you?”
Stroking his chin, Mike said, “No. Not chicken.”
“And, if we pull it off, I will add another twenty percent to your pension. You will be able to retire the very day Purple Rain is re-released.”
Mikes hand froze on his chin, he stared off in the distance. Moments passed as he remained silent, his gaze distant with contemplation.
“Okay,” Mike said, “you’re on. If this Sam doppelgänger guy replies back to your text, and it’s got to be soon, I’m in.”
Ron giggled as he typed the text message to Sam Denny. The phone chirped as the message was sent. The two men stood solid, staring at the screen. A couple of minutes passed by, and there was no reply. Mike smiled, “Told you. Murphy’s law is a bitch. We have no control over anything.”
Ron pursed his lips and admitted defeat, “Guess not.”
A deeper chirp rang from the iPhone and the screen glowed. Both men looked at it. Ron began to laugh, and Mike solemnly said, “You have got to be kidding me.”
For the first time in over five years, Sam Denny had replied.

April 18th, 2016, Paisley Park. Outside the studio building, Ron and Mike carried on a conversation concerning their plan. Ron spoke, “There is mainly three parts to this plan, fake Prince’s death, have the cops come over and make witness to the fact, and have a pre-arranged hearse carry the body to a pre-arranged location. Then we get Prince on a plane, and he is dead as far as the world knows.”
“So, you done checked this out with Prince? He onboard?”
Ron shook his head violently, “Noooo. Prince has to stay out of the loop. He would never go for this, and even if he did, he would fuck it up somehow. It’s paramount that he not know anything about this.”
“So, I am guessing we fake the death with the doppelgänger?”
“Yeah, that much you have right.”
“And the fake hearse is needed because he isn’t really going to be dead.”
Ron smiled broadly and patted Mike on the chest with the back of his hand, “There you go. Simple, right?”
“No. The cops will know the doppelgänger is NOT dead. They tend to notice things like that.”
“Wrong. We are going to inject Sam with a strong tricyclic antidepressant. He will fall into a cataleptic state, that for all practical purposes looks Ike death.”
“Sam is going to let you do that?”
“Sam thinks he is coming here to get costumed and go to a charity benefit.”
“So, he doesn’t know?”
Ron bit his lower lip and nodded. Mike rolled his eyes and asked, “So who you going to find to drive the fake hearse?”
Ron grinned, “You will drive the hearse.”
Mike took a step back, “No. Can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t drive.”
Ron’s voice shrilled, “The fuck you mean you can’t drive? You pilot planes.”
“I don’t know how to drive a car.”
“How in the hell is that even possible? How can you know how to pilot a plane but not drive a car?”
“Can you drive a car?” Mike growled.
“Hell yeah.”
“Can you pilot a plane?” Mike asked.
“No.”
“How about that. You can do one and not the other, just like me.”
Ron sighed, “Okay. Okay, I know a guy. I will make a call and we will have a hearse.”
There was a couple of moments of silence and Ron said, “As a matter of fact, this could be a good thing. While I am taking care of the cops, you can be getting Prince out of here.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Easy, you tell him Jimmy Fallon called and wants to play table tennis. He will jump on that. Then you take him to my SUV and have him wait there until I come out. Then we drive him off, never to be seen again.”
Mike nodded and lit a cigarette, “Okay, so we drug Sam, have the cops confirm the death, load Sam in a fake hearse where he is taken to safety, and get Prince out of here.”
Ron said, “In a nutshell. Very simple. And most important…”
Mike blew smoke and replied, “Prince and Sam can’t know anything about it.”
“Right, Prince and Sam can’t know anything. And I mean, not a damn thing.”

April 21, 2016. Paisley Park, one A.M. Ron paced the floor just inside the main lobby. He mumbled the plans over and over, nervously wringing his hands together. He looked up at the painting of Prince’s eyes over the atrium and said, “What the fuck you staring at?” He started at gazed at the entrance, Mike was rapping on the glass pane door. Ron hissed, “Fuck.” He trotted to the door and unlocked it, then opened it, and barked at Mike, “You’re late mother fucker. And I told you not to use the front door.”
Mike shrugged, “I couldn’t find the door you told me to go to. I been walking around this building for about fifteen minutes. I wasn’t late.”
Ron said, “Okay. It don’t matter now. Come on in.”
Mike stepped inside and asked, “Sam here yet?”
“No, not yet. He should be on his way. He thinks we are meeting this late to try on the costume and take a dry run for a charity event happening tomorrow.”
“Cool.”
“Now when he gets here, you let me do all of the taking. We need only one story and let me take care of that.”
Mike pursed his lips, “I ain’t got no problem with that.”
Sam was outside the door, rapping much similarly as Mike had moments before. Ron smiled, “There he is.”
Mike looked at Sam, “Damn, he does look like Prince.”
Ron opened the door, “Sam! Good to see you, so glad you could help.”
Sam spoke nasally, his voice diving up and down while bubbling through a slight lisp, “Hey Ron. Glad to do it.” He then laughed, and for all practical purposes it could have been a mule hee-hawing.
Mike cringed and muttered, “goddamn.”
Ron motioned to the elevator, “So, let’s go on upstairs and try on your costume.” Walking through the lobby, Ron asked, “Have you gained any weight?”
Sam honked, “Lost some, actually. Times been tough. I been unemployed for about six months and kind of sick the past couple of weeks.”
Ron exclaimed, “Great, perfect. The costumes should fit just fine.”
Upstairs in the fitting room, Ron and Sam were dragging a large wooden crate off from a high shelf. Ron said, “Careful, this thing is heavy.”
They slid the crate as far as it would go before gravity assaulted them. Ron asked, “Ready?”
Sam nodded and whistled, “Ready when you are.”
Glaring directly in Sam’s eyes, Ron reminded him, “It’s heavy. Real heavy. On count of three.”
Ron gave the count down, and the two men tugged hard on the crate. Sam’s end flew out of his grip instantly, and the crate barreled down, pinning Ron’s hand beneath one of the corners. Ron screeched in pain. Mike hustled to the crate and Sam helped lift it off Ron’s hand. After removing his hand from under the crate, Ron embraced a clinched fist in his armpit and danced around in pain. Mike took Ron by the shoulders and said, “Hey, hey. Let me see it.”
Ron closed his eyes tight and help out his hand gently. The bones in the hand were crimped and clearly broken. Ron asked, “What’s it look like?”
Mike answered, “It looks like shit.”
Ron opened his eyes and cried out, “Oh fuck me. Shit.”
Sam trumpeted, “I’m awful sorry, Ron. I told you I been sick. I’m weak from it.”
Ron grimaced, “It’s okay, Sam. It’s alright.”
Mike asked, “Want me to call an ambulance? You should get that looked at.”
Ron shook his head, “No. We can have it looked at after we done. Go find me some ribbon in here or wrap it in.” Mike trotted to the wall where ribbon of various sizes hung on spools. Pointing with his good hand at the crate, Ron commanded, “Sam, open the crate and see what’s there.”
Sam opened the crate and rattled, “There’s only one costume in there.” He reached in and pulled out a black set of sweats, “Not much of a costume. Want to help me get another crate?”
“Hell no, bring those over here and let me see them.”
Sam handed the sweats over to Ron, but was stopped as Ron gestured he could not take them due to his broken hand. Sam blushed and lip synced the word sorry.
“Those look like his every day sweats,” said Ron. “Why in the hell did he have those in a crate?” Ron shrugged it off, “Okay, those will have to do. Try those on and come downstairs, we’ll be waiting on you.”
Mike and Ron walked out of the fitting room in the direction of the elevator. Before getting there, Ron stepped quickly into a side room and motioned Mike inside. While wrapping his hand with wide purple ribbon, he said, “Okay. We are almost down to the wire. When Sam comes down the hall, you will have to stick him with the shot and pump the drugs in him.”
Mike said, “Like hell. I ain’t sticking nobody with a needle.”
Ron gritted his teeth, “You have to. I can’t do it now. My good hand is broken.”
“You don’t understand. I’m afraid of needles. I can’t stand the sight of them. I can’t jab someone.”
“There’s nothing to it. You don’t have to look at it. Just jab him, and then push down the plunger.”
The corners of Mike’s mouth drooped, “I don’t like this. I just say we forget it.”
“We can’t forget it. Look, everything is still in order. The plan will still go without a hitch. This isn’t a big deal. You can do this. Think, pension, retirement.”
Mike puffed out his chest and sighed longly and deeply, “Shit.”
“You can do this.”
Mike closed his eyes and wobbled his head around, “Okay. Okay. Give it here.”
Ron reached across his body with his good hand and pulled the syringe from the opposite pocket. He carefully handed it to Mike. “You have to be ready. He will be out any moment. Pull the cap off the needle.”
The cap snapped loose and the needle was exposed, Mike sobbed, “Oh lawd. I think I’m gonna pass out.” He began to sway.
Ron tapped the pilot on the check with an open palm, “Mike, Mike. Stay with me.”
Mike swooned even more, his lips turning a paler shade, “I don’t feel so good.”
The open palm swept back and popped Mike sharply on the face. Mike’s eyes jarred wide open and his head rocked back a bit. Ron asked, “You good?”
Mike slowly and carefully nodded. “I think so.”
The sound of the dressing room door clicking shut made them freeze in anticipation, glaring eye to eye. The sound of foot prints walking down the hall triggered a start from them. Ron whispered, “Here he comes, get ready.”
Ron switched off the light to the room in which they stood and Mike snuggled up to the edge of the door with the needle poised to jab. The sound of the foot steps grew louder; Mike blew nervously through his lips. The doppelgänger straggled by and Mike leaped into action, bringing the needle down on the poor victims shoulder, squeezing the plunger of the syringe, and darting back into the room.
The doppelgänger fanned at his shoulder, as though trying to brush away a stinging wasp. His eyes roamed around wildly and his mouth dropped into an oh, as though he some word was coming forth, but never came. He staggered from left to right, still stepping in line with the elevator, looking back down the hallway from where the sting had taken place. There was nothing there, and his check twitched in bewilderment. Bumping into the elevator door, he turned and leaned heavily against it, pressing the down button. The doors slid open, and he fell forward, flat on the floor. His left leg jumped sporadically as the door closed.
Ron and Mike stepped into the hallway, Mike still with needle in hand and poised for a jab. Ron softly spoke, “Well. That’s that.”
Mike gulped, “Yeah. That’s that.”
Ron took Mike’s shoulder but never diverted his gaze from the elevator door, “Okay, I’m going down the stair well. I’m going to make a couple of calls. One to the fake hearse, and on to the cops a little afterward. Prince should be someplace around the recording studio downstairs. You go find him, and get him out of here.”
Mike licked his lips, “Yeah, I can do that.” His gaze, too, was locked on the elevator.
Ron took Mike’s wrist that was still poised to jab the needle and slowly lowered it, gently taking the needle from him and placing it back in his pocket. “Okay. It’s in motion. Let’s finish this up.”

Twelve blocks away from the events transpired in Paisley Park stood an abandoned warehouse that once produced shirts for various stores in various malls around the United States. Now, it was nothing more than a den of villainy, belonging only to the gang or gangs who claim conquest over it at any given period of time. Inside the dimly lit warehouse was a white hearse with the title of ‘Monroe’s Mortuary’ in gold leaf on the upper corners of both rear quarter panels. Two long haired young men sat by the hearse in lawn chairs, silently. A ring tone gabbled away and one of the young men answered his lit cell phone.
The young man spoke, “What? Yeah we still here.” His voice became high pitched, “Chill man. This warehouse don’t get good reception sometimes. We on the way.”
The young man clicked off the phone and spoke to the other young man, “Okay, off your ass. It’s time to roll. We already late.”
The other dragged himself to his feet asking, “How are we already late?”
“Ron said he been trying to call. Reception must have been bad. It’s not far to Paisley, but we will have to hurry.”
“Got to be careful man,” said the other. “I’m sure this hearse has been reported missing.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s like two in the morning. Won’t be any cops around here this late.”

Exactly three blocks from Paisley Park, the white hearse with the two men from the warehouse had been pulled over for speeding. An officer was standing over the driver’s window in the glare of the blue lights. “I need to see your license and registration.” The officer then cupped his hand over the blue tooth in his ear. His eyes pierced beneath his straightened brows and he said, “Copy that dispatch.”
The officer pulled his gun out of the holster and aimed on the driver. “Okay, both of you out of the car.”
The driver raised his hands and asked, “Is there a problem officer?”
“This hearse was reported stolen earlier today,” said the officer.
The passenger muttered sharply to the driver, “I told your dumb ass not to speed.”

Inside Paisley Park, the doppelgänger’s body laid strapped to a gurney as two men loaded it into the rear of a hearse. One of the men gave the rear of the hearse a pat after closing the door.
Ron stood by an officer inside the lobby close to the elevator. The officer exclaimed, “Jesus. Prince. Dead. Fuck shit.”
Ron said slowly and softly, “Yeah, I know.”
The hearse pulled away, “So there he goes,” said the officer. “What’s next, he want to be buried or what?”
“Cremated,” Ron said.
“Cremated,” the officer repeated. “Yeah, that’s pretty popular these days.”
The officer closed his note pad and jammed it in his shirt pocket, then said, “Oh, and you might be interested in this. A hearse to the same mortuary was stolen earlier today, and we caught the guys and have them locked up. Actually looks like the might have been heading this way. Weird. Don’t know how all that fits in. I took the liberty to call the mortuary and order you another hearse. I know you have a lot going on.”
Ron did not blink, “You ordered that hearse?”
“You didn’t mind?”
Ron said flatly, “No. No, why would I mind that? Of course not.”
The officer smiled, “Okay, good then. I will get out of your hair. We have a lot of paper work on this one.”
As the officer walked out of the lobby, Ron called after him, “Yes, good day, officer. Thanks for everything.”
The lobby door closed and the officer was gone. Ron suddenly ran frantically in circles calling out for Mike. Mike appeared from one of the rooms adjacent to the lobby. Mike asked, “What’s wrong.”
“Sam is in the wrong hearse. He is in an actual hearse, going to be cremated.”
Mike shrugged, “So?”
“So?” Mike shouted, “That’s murder. Sam is going to be cremated.”
Mike said, “Okay, so I’m really tired. I know it’s bad and all. But who was he, really? We still have the same effect in the end, right?”
Ron took a deep breath, “Yeah. You’re right. I mean I feel bad about it, but there isn’t much we can do about it now.”
Ron asked, “Is Prince ready to roll? We have to get out of here.”
Mike said, “I never had a chance to look for him. The cops showed up and I had to hide in that little room over there while they were here.”
Ron said, “Alright, no big deal. We just go find him now and get him to the plane.”
Mike smiled and pointed at the stairwell, “Speak of the devil, there he is.”
Prince walked down the stairs and towards the two men. Ron said, “Great news, Prince. Jimmy Fallon called and wants you to come on over and play some table tennis with him.”
Prince smiled and laughed, only the laugh was harsh and shrill, not too unlike a mule. He then howled in high nasal tone, “Come on guys, you know I don’t know how to play table tennis.”
Ron’s eyes were so wide his eyes could have fallen out, “Sam?”
The Prince looks alike nodded, “Yeah, who else. You know, Prince came by and spoke to me way earlier tonight, and accidentally locked me in the dressing room.”
Beads of sweat began to break out on Ron’s forehead.
Sam snorkeled, “Then I took a nap. When I woke up I remembered the door locked from the inside.” He hawed loudly. “Isn’t that crazy?”
Ron and Mike whipped their necks around and stared at one another, simultaneously shouting, “Fuck.”
They bolted out of the door and into the parking lot. Sam’s eyes followed them out and he said after they had exited, “Gee, guys. Where’s the fire?”

Mike and Ron ran so fast they bounced into Ron’s parked SUV. Ron juggled his keys from this pocket and tossed them to Mike. Mike spanned his palms out and side stepped the keys which jangled on the parking lot. Mike shrieked, “The fuck you doing? I don’t drive.”
Ron shouted, “You have to, I can’t drive with this broken hand!”
Mike placed his fists on his hips, “You mean to tell me you can’t drive with one hand? I see people do it all the time.”
“This is a stick shift fucker.”
“Oh, see. That’s definitely out of my category.”
Ron scooped the keys up and crammed them in Mike’s hands. “Drive you mother fucker. If we don’t get to that mortuary soon Prince, the REAL PRINCE, will be cremated alive.”
Ron opened the passenger door and climbed inside the SUV. Mike open his hands and jingled the keys, “If you put it that way.”

Ron drove a white Cadillac SUV. It stayed immaculate. He pampered the ride more than he pampered his pets, and that was a lot. The SUV wasn’t so immaculate anymore. It was stalled off the side of the road, down an embankment, leaning to one side while tangled in a tall chain link fence. Steam hissed from under the hood where the front of the SUV had chipped away at part of a telephone poll, which was up the embankment and back a ways. On the road, between the telephone pole and where the Cadillac hissed, were swirly circles and waves etched in black mark indicating a vehicle had most definitely lost control.
Inside the cab of the SUV, Mike laid on top of Ron because neither of them had buckled up. Mike stated, “I told you I couldn’t drive.”
Ron shouted, “Get off me. Climb out of this, we can still make it. The mortuary is only a couple of blocks away.”
Mike frantically scampered out of the Cadillac and Ron followed. Mike limped around in a circle, “I think I broke my hip.”
Ron jogged northward on the road, “Come on. We have to hurry.”
Mike began to jog behind him, limping to the left. “Damn,” he cried out. “I told you Murphy’s law was a bitch.”

Monroe’s Mortuary had a back parking lot where the hearses would unload. The hearse Prince had been in was empty. Inside, the crematorium was hot and ready and Prince laid only feet away. The mortician clinched his hands a couple of times and rolled Prince’s covered body to the furnace.
Gasping loudly, Prince sat straight up on the gurney, the shroud flying off of him. The pitch of a siren shrieked from the mortician. The entrance to the crematorium bursted open and Ron blotted inside, and the mortician shrieked again. Ron clutched a heavy urn from the shelf by the door and brought it down sharply on the mortician’s head, laying him out cold. Mike limped into the room and saw Prince sitting up on the gurney. Prince raised his right brow so high it appeared ready to jump from his head. He gasped hoarsely between each syllable, “What…. The ….. fuck….”
Mike pointed at the unconscious mortician. “What we going to do about him?”
Ron rolled his eyes upward, “We are going to need some asked for the urn…”
Mike reached under the mortician’s armpits and dragged him in the direction of the furnace. “Just don’t stand there. I’m going to need help stuffing him in there. He’s heavy.”

Somewhere in the South Pacific there is an island with beautiful white sand beaches and glorious palm trees. On this island is also a house facing he beach, and in front of the house is a round table with four chairs. Only two of the chairs were occupied, and Prince sat in one of those two chairs. He spoke to the person across from him, “And now, since the world thinks I am dead, the revenue is flooding in. I have to say, at first I was upset at the guys, but now… well look around you. Who can find fault in this?”
Prince looked over to his left and motioned hitherto with his arm, “There they are. The heroes of the day. Come join us guys.”
Ron, wearing a cast on his right arm down to his hand, and Mike, on crutches with a cast on his left leg, walked to the table. Prince raised his glass to them, “Cheers boys.”
The two men sat in the vacant chairs, and across from Prince a woman spoke.
Vanity raised her glass also, “Yes, cheers boys.”
Ron nudged Mike and whispered, “I told you I knew someone else who pulled it off.”