My meeting with Gustavratzenhofer

"My name's Dyslexia. I say "and I'm here on business." No answer from him. "that's Dyslexia", I explain. That should rouse him. It does not.
"Yes, Dys, what can I do for you?"
He called me Dys. A bad start. This banker type is at least 15 years younger than I, a sleek plump blondish commercial lout with a twenty-five-dollar razorcut blowdried unisex coiffure, the dry fluffy, styled and layered look. Each hair is fixed in place with an invisible net of wax from a spray can. Even the dandruff on his shoulders wears a metal sheen. He's dressed in what might be a Bill Blass suit, I suppose, dessert tan, with a fake old-school tie (Eaton? Harrow? Tucson High? Boystown?) strapped around his fat neck. Vest buttoned up with cute wooden buttons matching the four wooden buttons on the ends of his coat sleeves. Square gold mono-grammed cuff links, immaculate white French cuffs. Soft contact lenses, on his milky eyes. Tassels on his shoes. Eyes like fisheye tapioca. And tassels on his shoes.
"What dan I do your you, Dys?" he asks again. I think of the loaded .357 Magnum in my truck. What I should have brought in here is my Master-Gun. No waiting, no fees, no paper-work, Instant recognition.
He smiles "I have my little system. My guard is watching you right this minute. You look like the nuisance type. You'd better leave now."
I left.