“Grasshoppers,” Salvador Dali whispered, shrinking back as I opened the door. He didn’t say “grasshoppers” exactly, it was more like “grah-zoppairs,” but I understood the word as he repeated it, his eyes open wide, his long, dark waxed mustaches curled upward at the end like sharp-pointed black surgical needles.
“A giant monk with an ax is coming through that door behind you in about ten seconds,” I said.
The door I was pointing to shuddered.
“Make that five, Sal. What’ll it be, a couple of grasshoppers outside or a split personality?”
Dali, dressed in a white rabbit suit, removed the deerstalker hat perched on his head and pointed at the splintering door with one hand. Then he did a little dance from foot to foot as if he had to find a toilet.
