“I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. For the half of a century, no mortal has disturbed them. In Pace Requiescat.”

In other words, “Rest in Peace,” said Edgar Allan Poe in his great dark tale, Cask of Amontillado, as Montressor plastered his friend, Fortunato, into a spare catacomb.

The notice from L.A. Building and Safety set the inspection for 10:00am Friday. Some old bitch up the street filed a complaint against everyone on the block, including this Buzzine Magazine editor, owner of a neat guest apartment converted from our hillside basement. Without permits. Bluto the Contractor said the kitchen’ll have to go–that’s what defines an illegal unit. A killer little kitchen, too. “They’ll make you rip out the gas, the sink, the venting,” he says, “and all the plumbing connected to it, so it can’t ever be a kitchen again. A real pain in the ass!”

At that point, Miss Lauren, my hot blond fiancee, notices the case of fine Spanish sherry sitting on my table, awaiting its journey to the wine locker. “Hey,” she says, “why don’t we just wall the kitchen over? The inspector would probably walk right by and never notice. Like the Cask of Amontillado!”

“Yeah,” says Bluto. “The hillside layout is goony enough, the guy’d never know a kitchen was in the wall. We could put a wall up Thursday and take it down Friday.”

“Does that mean we’d keep the kitchen?” I query.

“And save about ten grand!” says the brawny builder. It is at this point that inspiration strikes.

“Okay.” I say. “But I want you to wall me up inside.”

“Huh?” says Bluto.

“With my case of Amontillado sherry, of course.”

“Of course,” says Lauren. I need a fresh and extreme subject for my Monday column and I’ve run out of ideas. This is the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone.

“Well,” says Bluto, “I guess if we put a little air duct in back, with the draw of the kitchen fan…”

“You’re crazy!” says Lauren.

“True,” says I, “but you know that already. Will you join me? We’re not spending enough time together lately.”

“Sure!” she says.

“You’re both crazy!” says Bluto.

I glance lovingly upon Miss Lauren’s sexy, athletic physique with such luscious bosoms and strikingly proud derriere. (”Well, not totally crazy.”) Bluto nods to me respectfully, one man to another.

With books, candles, incense, enough gourmet delicacies to feed an army, a soft futon…and a discreet camper’s port-a-potty, we watch the last sheet of dry wall go up, as workmen entomb us in our little kitchen, now our entire universe. It’s a bit eerie, but romantic, nonetheless. We toast Edgar Allen’s Montressor and the ironically named Fortunato with some fine, sixty-year old Gonzales Amontillado sherry. Bang, bang, tap, tap, bang! The wall is now complete. Our fate is sealed. And the wine is taking its delirious effect. I kiss Lauren passionately and turn out the lights, not even waiting for the painters to finish outside.

Hours later, we snack on fine Spanish ham, baguettes, cheese and various tasty olives, and–of course, another bottle of Amantillado. My, oh my! Who needs a lot of space when in love? …Which overpowers us once again.

By the time we fall asleep, it is morning outside, although we can’t hear any birds chirping–only the low hum of the kitchen fan. The inspection is due in 30 minutes, and my brother [composer Danny Elfman] has agreed to meet the inspector and show him through the kitchenless and thus “”legal”" room additions. How exciting! Does fate have time for a little more love? If done quietly, we decide. And slowly…deliciously…and, as passion reaches it’s fervid peak…

HEY RICK!!! RICK!!! ARE YOU GUYS IN THERE?!!! It’s my brother calling through the little air tunnel behind the refrigerator.

“Yeah!” I reply. “Did the inspector go through yet?”

“No.” cries my brother. “He cancelled.”

“Cancelled!?” I gasp.

“Yeah.” says Danny. “He’s coming Monday instead.”

“Shit,” I think. I had brought picks, hammers, and various standard prison escape tools to break out. But getting the crew back over the weekend to patch it all up again was impossible. We’d be totally screwed on the inspection Monday!

“What do want me to?” shouts Danny. I look at Lauren. She looks at me. This had been maybe the most romantic experience of my entire life.

“Come back Monday!” shout Lauren and I in unison, laughing like lunatics until tears pour from our eyes.

“You’re crazy!!” replies my younger sibling. But he has known that for many years.

We not only have plenty of food and wine, but Lauren had brought the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe to read, and I my trusty laptop to write this chronicle. So we snuggle in each other’s arms and go back to sleep…

…Until nature calls. The chemical port-a-potty has been hid discreetly under many layers of furniture blankets. It’s Lauren’s turn first, but she can’t pee while I am looking, so I must turn away. And hold my ears, please. A minute later it’s my turn. But nature’s message to me is of a far more serious nature.

“Can’t you wait?” she implores.

“Until Monday?!! God, I wish I could…” I require Miss Lauren to not only turn around and hold her ears, but sing as loud as she can. An embarrasing five minutes, later I cover the scene of my crime in copious layers of thick padding. Not thick enough, as she lights stick after stick of incense.

DAY TWO…

…is not as good as day one. The air is getting really stuffy. The physical aspect of our passion is long spent, and we have major hangovers from all that damned sherry. “Do you want me to read you some Poe, honey?” she offers.

“Sure…we’ve only forty-eight hours. Why not start at page one?” “Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’”

DAY THREE…

…begins as I am falling asleep after a fit-full, claustrophobic night of bad writing. My eyes burn and my head aches. Utterly exhausted, I am finally sliding deeper and deeper into sleep…oh blessed sleep…as Lauren closes her Poe book with a THWAP…and turns to me intently…

“If ‘Life is but a dream within a dream,’ and reality is only close to definable by what one sees as life, then wouldn’t perception, one’s dream, be reality?”

“Huh?” says Elfman.

“Well, if life is reality, and life is a dream, and a dream is only real to one while he is perceiving it, or dreaming, then reality is perception and reality is a dream, so what then, is reality?”

Am I dreaming? I don’t think so. Is this “reality?” I’m not sure anymore. “And why oh why do women always want to talk the most when men are totally and utterly exhausted?” I blindly and stupidly ask her.

“That’s a dumb and rude question!” she says.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean you especially.”

“Yes you did!”

“No I didn’t!”

“Bullshit!”

“No. I didn’t really mean it.”

“Yes you did!”

“Fine! You’re right! Anything you say! Just lemme fucking go to sleep for a while!!”

“You never want to talk about anything serious anyway, so you might as well fucking go to sleep!”

“Go to hell!”

“Screw you!” Silence.

“Lauren? Honey?”

“What?!”

“We’ve just had our first fight…I apologize, baby. I really apologize. It’s this damned closet we’re in.”

“I’m sorry baby…I should have let you sleep.” We kiss tenderly…and passion rears itself slowly, once again.

Our profound sleep is broken by banging and yelling. “HEY RICK!!! RICK!!! ARE YOU OK? RICK!!! RICK!!!” It’s Danny. Apparently it is now Monday. “Hey Rick! The inspector’s not coming!”

“Not coming?”

“My lawyer fixed it! We’re getting a permit for the kitchen! No inspection!”

Miss Lauren and I break into hysterical laughter. We can see Danny’s bespectacled eye squinting through the little hole, trying to make out what’s happening.

And quoth the Raven after this most extreme weekend: ‘NEVERMORE!’

A note to our young and impressionable male readers: We do not recommend that you have yourself entombed with a case of 60-year-old sherry and a hot 25-year-old blond.

(Not unless you want to squeeze and savour the very essence of life, my friends.)