'Brangelina' in New Orleans Just a brush was all, with fame, or a shave more reality than that, was what I’d reached for— merely an urge to run the tip of my finger along the wry lettering in bronze embossed above the doorbell at the entrance to their house in the French Quarter: Do not disturb the animals, it said. So closely guarded were their bodies, how the truth rises from the surface. For then came the voice, booming: Don't you dare touch that! to which I answered: Who says so? my defiance ignorant of the hulking menace leaning forward elbow on one knee atop the hood of an old Buick parked across the street. The bodyguard is right: think, don’t touch. For who am I to disturb creatures living in cages of their own design? They need to pace like tigers in peace—free to decide on their own the time and means of their liberation.
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Who was that hulking menace on the hood of the Buick?