24: A Day in the Life (Dynasty Revisited)

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Well, I finally decided to move this over from the old board. Hopefully interest will still be high for this dynasty. I'm as curious as the next person to see how this story will pan out.

Current writers: AnalBumCover, WSUCougar, ardent enthusiast

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Yet another innovative twist to dynasty writing. Written in similar format to Fox TV's "24" we witness a 24 hour period in the life of John Bravo, a fictional character created by FOFC writers. By continuing where the last person left off, several other writers and I will script John's day and lead him into the wildest adventure of his life. So sit back and enjoy!

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And now, on with the show

Under her almost transparent top was a tiny matching pink bra. It was cut extremely low and barely covered her nipples that pressed hard against the pink material. Since her top could only be closed above her breasts, it was open below them. Her very curvaceous and slender waste was exposed. The tiniest of pink triangles covered her womanhood and it was held in place by the thinnest of strings that made the most enviable trip over and around her lovely hips. Once the top was loosened, she opened her arms and said...

*Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!*

"What the...? Awe shit," I think to myself in a half sleepy state. "Only a dream." I struggle to open my eyes and reach over to shut off the alarm. Clearing out the blur in my eyes, I squint to see the time. 6:00am. I look to my left to see if my dream girl was still standing there. No one.

"Yep," I say in a half yawn. "Only a dream."

I sit up in my bed and swing my legs over the edge. Rubbing my eyes once more, I look around the room. Not much to see here. A dresser on the far end. An obsolete Dell computer sits on a desk near the bed.

I God, I hate my life. Why do I have to wake up every single morning to the same boring day? Suddenly a chill runs down my back. That’s weird. I never get morning shivers like that, unless I’m peeing. Or umm..."pleasing" myself. Something tells me this won’t be like any other day...

6:01 am

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As I rise from the bed the chill hits me again…an odd cross of the jeebies and a whisper of wind across my skin. Instinctively I pause to listen - for what I don’t know - but a slight noise draws my attention. My eyes dart to the nearby wall, where my poster of Michael Vick on the run is fluttering the slightest bit.

What the hell?

Hoping for an obvious explanation, I turn to the window, thinking that perhaps I’d left it cracked open…somehow…maybe? Of course that notion was absurd. Early December in Boston was not a time to be seeking fresh air in that fashion, a thought confirmed by the gentle cascade of snowflakes in the dim morning sky.

Maybe it was my dream girl dashing out of the room…

6:03 am

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I think I might still be dreaming as I stumble towards the bathroom. I hustle through brushing my teeth, noting that one of the teeth on my left upper side is killing me.

A jump in the red-hot shower and a quick trimming of my handlebar mustache has me ready to head out the door. Oh wait, i'm naked.

I decide to throw on my favorite pair of cargo pants (black), my steel toed boots, and a T-shirt celebrating the 1986 Mets (absolute heresy in this region, but I'm just that type of guy).

Which coat to wear? I decide to make a fashion statement, and toss on my baby blue Missy Elloit style bubble jacket. Bring on the snow mother nature, I'm ready!

6:28 am

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But where am I going?

I do this every day, but I have nowhere to go. I have no job. I have no girlfriend. I don't even have a hobby.

I get ready every morning like I'm prepared to take on the day, but what in my day requires preparation. I mostly "vej" all day, intermittently staring at the TV and my computer screen.

So here I am again at my front door, staring at the outside world and wondering why I am so anxious to meet it. And yet I never do.

I think about my last job. I was a mascot. That's right, a mascot. My temp agency set it up.

It was for a local college, with a nickname of the Mustangs. I would dress up in this ridiculous stand up horse suit, with a red vest and a bowtie and big happy eyes. And the bane of my existence--the tail. I can't tell you how many times I toppled when some hyperactive five-year-old gave it a good tug. One time, I actually fell on the kid, which was fun. He was crying and his mom was mad, but the little brat deserved it.

But one too many kids, one too many beers, and one too many hotdogs (with all the helpings) were tossed at me, so I blew up at the stadium manager after one game. He didn't take it as well as the kid, and he fired me.

I stole the suit before I left, though--it's still hanging in my closet. They had others.

So where am I going? I was about to take a shaky step outside the door when out of the corner of my eye I spied the flashing light on my answering machine. I'll bet it's from last night--I don't remember checking it when I came home. Or maybe I slept through the call.

Probably another bill collector. Or my boss calling about the suit. Or the police calling about the suit. Or Nadine--no, probably not Nadine.

I might as well check before I leave. Maybe it will give me something to do?

6:31 am

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*Beep*

"You have three messages."

Three messages?!? Dang, I was never so popular.

"John. It's Nadine."

It's Nadine!

"I swear to God, you better f*cking leave me alone, or I'm calling the cops. That f*cking stunt you pulled last week just pissed me the hell off."

Ahh, last week. Memories of Vaseline and bananas momentarily dances in my head.

"And don't let me get started on how it affected my grandmother! My f*cking grandmother is in the f*cking psycho ward because of you! You know, I didn't get a f*cking restraining order put on you for nothi-"

*Beep* I push the Next Message button. That Nadine. Always a joker. One minute she's head over heels in love with you. The next minute she sends her "boyfriend" Ozzy after you.

"Hello? John? Are you there? Pick up the phone. It's your mothe-"

*Beep* Next message.

"Hello, this message is for John Bravo. Mr. Bravo, this is Christine from Hand Job Temp Agency. We think we finally found a job that we feel is perfect for you. You'd work for a company called "Barrel O' Fun" and you'd be driving their truck while making deliveries to various retailers. If this is something you'd be interested in, please come in to see me at 8:00 in the morning. I hope to see you soon. Goodbye."

*Beep*

"You have no more messages."

Wow! I really could use a Hand Job right now. I've been pretty low of funds for quite a while now. I could also use a new ride too. And that truck might be the ticket I needed.

Anything's better than that old beat up Gremlin that I won at last year's church raffle. Don't know how I won that thing, either. I don't even go to church.

I look at my Simpsons watch and decide it's time to head out.

Just then my stomach calls out for me. Guess I should get something to eat on the way...

6:37 am

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Ignoring the pangs of hunger for the moment, I brave the elements to try and get my car ready to move. But amidst the snow and bitterly cold weather, the ridiculous Gremlin refuses to start on the first, second, or third try. My curses and beatings notwithstanding, it doesn’t cooperate on the fourth, fifth, or sixth tries either. After a miniature tantrum of flailing, kicking, and screaming, I end up panting in the driver’s seat, fogging up the windows in that worthless, P.O.S. AMC.

Son of a…

Through the encrusted ice of the windshield, I see a bus slowing to a stop at the intersection ahead of me. Given that it's either public transportation or more hand-to-hand combat with the Gremlin, I choose discretion over futility and run for the bus, skidding across patches of ice and accumulated snow…

6:47 am

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I chase down the bus, nearly killing myself on a particularly nasty patch of ice during the process. Jump inside, toss my fare into the meter-thingy and realize I am now left with exactly .96 cents. What am i going to eat with that!?

Ruminating on how laughable financial situation, i begin to wonder...
When's the last time I even put gas in the ol' Gremlin? hmmm...maybe that was the problem

Anyway, I find a seat sandwiched between a very short, very fat woman (who must be pushing 250 despite being 4 foot 10) and a creepy looking middle-aged guy. He's got a boombox resting on his lap, quietly playing "the right stuff" by New Kids on the Block and seems to be lip-synching every word. God, I hate mass transit.

Back to daydreaming... We're cruising along snowy streets with the wind occasionally whipping against the windows and producing an audible 'thump'. Man, I could really go for some pancakes. Did I pay my rent this month? I wonder if Nadine wants to go out later today... Which stop do i need to get off at for my meeting at Hand Job Inc? Lets think...it's located at...ummm...uhhh..

Shit! i don't have the address. I've only dealt with them on the phone, and never been there in person! Some sense of near-panic overwhelms me as I realize I don't have enough money to even ride the bus back home.

What the hell am I doing?

7:00 am

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The more I think about it, the more I believe the temp agency is near the local shopping mall, and this bus does go in that general direction.

Still, I will never get back home with only 96 cents. I root out my pockets some more, but I only come with bits of lint. The creepy boombox guy apparently gets sick of my fumbling around and moves to a seat on the other side of the bus.

Meanwhile, I am peering anxiously at the change in my hand. I have counted it three times already, hoping that a dime or a quarter or ten-dollar coin would magically show up that I had somehow missed.

"You're cute."

"Nuuuuuuhhhh?"

That was the best I could come up with. Hey, I was concentrating on the coins.

"I said you're cute."

It was Short and Fat. She was giving me a hint of a smile. From what I could see, she had perfect teeth--I guess no one is all bad.

"Umm...thanks."

Well, that was awkward. I look back down at my palm and the coins. The pennies on the bottom are getting slick from palm sweat.

"Do you need money?" asked S&F. She had kind of a nasally voice, but it was not without its pleasantness. I figured it might take as long as three minutes before it started to grate on my nerves. Still, she said the magic word.

"Yeah, I'm a bit short for bus fare home", I said, cringing when I said short. She didn't notice.

"How much more do you need?" she asked.

I considered the question carefully. I would need to catch another short bus to get over to the mall, but I could use a transfer ticket both ways. It was just the bus fare home. But maybe I could even get some food...

"Two or three dollars?" I said hopefully.

"Hmmm...kind of a lot for bus fare," she responded. "You must be going far."

I didn't say anything. For awhile neither did she. My bus stop never seemed so far away.

"Okay...," she started. "I can give you three dollars, but for that kinda cash, I need something in return."

I was confused, not that that wasn't a normal state of affairs.

"Unh?"

"How about I pull out this dollar?" she said, slipping a flat, perfect dollar bill out of her purse, and holding it up for me to see. "And then you put your strong hand...here."

She said that last "here" almost breathlessly, as she laid her free hand on the center of the meaty thigh nearest me. She was wearing some kind of thin-fabric pants that was a size or two too small for her girth.

I stared at her hand for a second--a long second--before I looked her in the face. She batted her heavy mascara lined eyes at me. I considered her. Not too old, maybe mid-thirties. And not too ugly, although the makeup hid a lot of that. But all that extra...I mean, there was a lot of her.

Biting back some revulsion, I placed my hand on her thigh. It seemed to pulse and roil under my fingers. With her free hand, she readjusted me so that my fingers were a little further down the far side. Her breath was coming in short.

"That's the ticket...", she said breathily. She settled back a little bit.

"There you go, cutie," she said, tossing over the dollar. It wasn't enough for food, but it got me bus fare. I should stop while I was ahead.

I started to lift my hand from her thigh when she made a quick grab--quicker than I would have thought she could move--for my wrist.

"Now, now, we don't have to stop the party just yet," she said, pulling out another dollar with her free hand. "Why don't you, uh, move that hand up an inch or two?"

Five minutes later, I got off at my transfer point four bucks richer than when I sat down on that bus, but with a memory that would scar me forever.

7:20 am

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Eagerly, I get off the bus, hoping to get as far away from S&F as possible. But my senses detect she is following closely behind. A hint of fright begins to consume my emotions and my thoughts.

My God. She's right behind me! What does she want with me? Is she going to take me someplace hidden and turn me into her personal man-whore? What did she say right before the bus stopped? Something about her wearing an asshat?

I didn't take two steps from the bus when something distracts my ever-wandering thoughts. Crumpled at my feet partially hidden beneath snow and ice is a small green unit of currency. Five Bucks! Just my luck! Forgetting for a brief moment S&F behind me, I bend down to pick up my newly found treasure.

*BANG* off in the distance before me.

*THUD* close by.

I turn around to witness the early stages of commotion behind me. On the ground, S&F is lying sprawled on her back, arms and legs spread open as if she were wanting to make a snow angel. Almost expecting her to start flapping, I immediately realize it wasn't going to happen. Just between the eyes of the caricature of Tweety Bird on her sweatshirt is a growing red blotch.

Blood?

Activity around me is starting to increase. Mister Boombox runs past me, crouching under his stereo (playing "Karma Chameleon" by Culture Club). Yuppy Busines-Man squats behind the bus stop bench, comically flapping his tie around while fumbling with his cellular phone. Dirty Homeless Man sits against a nearby wall, making a feeble attempt at attracting the running passers-by asking if they can "spare a quarter?"

I scan the horizon. Must be the Beltway sniper on the prowl again. But wait. Wasn't he captured? Must be a clever copycat then.

Once again, I look at my watch. Once again, my stomach beckons, more painfully this time. I neatly fold my cash and place it in my wallet. Stuffed between a receipt for "Toys Exotica" and my picture of Nadine is a business card.

"Hand Job Temp Services: We Make Your Staff Bigger"

And an address: 1270 East 7th Street.

Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

I take one quick glance at S&F, just to see if she did make that snow angel. No. Nevermind.

So when's that connecting bus coming?

7:26 am

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Away. Away from HERE. Go!

Instinct. God. Insanity. Luck. My little friggin’ guardian angel, or maybe even The Great Gazoo. Whatever the voice was, it was offering sound advice. Time to beat feet and get the hell outta Dodge.

As I maneuvered away in a crab-like sidewise scuffle from S&F’s prone body, my brain chewed on the notion that I’d never been under fire before. Wasn’t that what this was? Didn’t I qualify? Jesus, what a stupid thought. Help me, Jebus! Homer Simpson! Donuts!

Call it Fate or whatever, but there was a donut shop - Illici’s Donuts, or some Italian name like that - right at hand. Cover, and breakfast all in one. Bueno. In I go, straightening up a bit so I don’t look like PeeWee Herman in a theater seat when I enter the establishment.

Despite the gunfire and death outside, no one seems aware here in the donut place. There's an old geezer reading the paper and eating a powdered donut right in front of me. What looks to be a cheap whore is smoking a cigarette and chugging coffee at the end of the counter. Hmmm. Maybe I should call Nadine a “cheap whore” in the next argument we get in…never mind.

There’s a big guy behind the counter, reminiscent of Mel from that old TV show Alice. He’s even got the little white skullcap on, with a dirty dish towel flung over his shoulder. “Coffee?” he grunts, hardly even looking at me.

“Erm…no. Milk and an apple fritter,” I reply, trying to be nonchalant after my brush with death under fire just outside.

And then the damn vision interposes itself in my head again. It’s the game, overlaid upon reality. Ratings, stats, red and green bars invade my thoughts. A flurry of numbers skitter across my mind’s eye. He’s decent against the run (and it’s all red, mostly), but he has only the slightest sliver of green for pass rush, and a goddamn ZERO for endurance!!! Another tub of a nose tackle, the Gilbert Brown of Illici’s in Boston.

“Your eating too many of your product, dude, I won’t draft guys like you…”

DID I JUST SAY THAT OUT LOUD?!?

7:31 am

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Oh Christ...what was i thinking?

"What was that bud?" bellowed the tubby cook

My mind was racing and words came out before I even knew what I was doing...

"Excuse me, i'm on the phone"

I quickly lifted my wallet to my ear and pretended I was on a cell phone. I knew I'd look like a total nut, but that was better than being a hungry nut who was missing a few teeth.

The cook and Cheap Whore both give me a quizzical look before going back to their respective, depressing activities.

Whew... I'm cool for the moment. I've got my fritter and milk, dropped 3.12 on the counter, and got the hell out of there.

Directly across the street, two 60-something white ladies were now gawking at the scene of S&F. I could hear in their 'way-too-loud old lady voices' that the police had been called, and then they rambled on and on about todays kids, the mailman being late, and the price of a loaf of bread. "Whatever." I certainly didn't want to be stuck around this scene. I still don't know if that apparent gunshot was meant for me.

I estimated I was about 15 blocks from the temp agency, quite a haul in this lousy weather, but began to press on. I took a left around the corner from Ilici's and chowed down on a surprisingly good fritter. My stomach buckled and churned at the recpetion of some actual food, before comfortably accepting the offering. I felt 100% better and actually felt completely awake for the first time this morning.

I was slipping and sliding my way through the snow, stumbling over unshoveled sidewalks and slowly feeling water seep into my feet when snow slipped inbetween my boots and my pant leg. I added to my mental list of the worst things in life:

Item 78. Wet Feet.

As I crossed St. Swinton Street i nearly lost my life. An oddly shaped van (maybe a Chevy Astro?) came flying by me, and nearly right over me. I literally had to dive for a plow-created snow embankment, as it looked like they might have been aiming for me. I quickly lifted my face from the dirty snow to get another glimpse of my would be killer. The van was filthy, looking like it hadn't been washed in years. The license plate stuck in my mind like a knife, it was a vanity plate: NKOTB.

The van blew another stop sign, took a right turn a few blocks away, and disappeared.

Why did i get out of bed today?

7:49 am

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The remaining trek to the temp agency is uneventful, except for an occasional transient begging for some change. A welcome juncture, considering everything that has happened to me since waking up this morning.

Having found my destination, I look at my watch. Just made it in time.

I stand at the front door, reflecting on the events that had transpired in the last two hours.

Is there some sort of plot to kill me? Was the driver of that van the sniper that killed the short and fat lady? Did I overpay for that milk and donut? Did Jared really lose 245lbs on a Subway diet? Come to think of it, I've never made a snow angel.

Snapping out of yet another daydream, I take big sigh. I see my breath float away in a white cloud.

Heh, shape of a hand.

Just then, my tooth on the upper left side begins to throb again. I ignore it for the moment, grab the door handle and pull it open.

Stepping inside I am met with a wall of intense heat, and I immediately begin to perspire under my thick bubble jacket as the thermometer seems to be set two notches too high.

Sitting in a small waiting area is a nervous-looking freckled teenager, probably just out of high school. His bright red hair held to one side by pomade with a noticeable cowlick in the back.

Two seats down is an older Jamaican lady, ardently filling in bubbles of some sort of scantron on a clipboard. Once in a while she'll flip the pencil around and erase whatever mistake she had just made.

Of course, there are only three seats in this room. I'll stand.

I walk toward the receptionist, a woman in her 50s. She bends her head down and raises her eyes so she can see me over her oversized reading glasses. She looks at me as if I'm the one who disturbed her morning nail-filing ritual.

As I suspected, her voice comes out like she had been smoking all her life.

"Can I help you?"

Yep. All her life.

"Uh, yeah. Uhmm. My name is John Bravo, and I'm here for the Barrel O' Fun job. Christine called me and..."

"Take a seat and fill this out." She forces a clipboard and pencil into my hands.

Reluctantly, I take the only seat sandwiched between Freckles and the Jamaican and look over the forms.

Damn. My tooth hurts.

8:01 am

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The chairs are uncomfortable enough, even without the close neighbors. They’re those plastic, brightly-colored, industrial-strength suckers… no arms, no padding…real ball-busters. So my ass is a minute or two ahead of me in the ready-to-leave department.

But then I barely get my eyes onto the first form when Freckles starts banging away with his leg, like a dog getting scratched in a sweet spot. Bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a! Then he pauses for a moment. And then…bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a!

Great.

“Barrel o’ fun? What’s’at?” says Jamaican, from the other side. “It’s not foldin’ ‘lopes, is it? That’s my job, foldin’ ‘lopes.”

Green bars. They’re ALL green, and very short…

Bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a-bounce-a!

“No,” I reply, wishing maybe I was back in the icy street, under fire even. “No, that’s not it. Delivery.”

“Ah,” nods Jamaican, as she begins erasing again. But the leg-bouncing has suddenly stopped on the other side.

“Delivery?!?” squeaks Freckles, with a voice like a hung-over Leo DiCaprio. He is not pleased. “Oh, mannnnnn!”

8:05 am

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"So, you doin' da delivery, mon?" asks Jamaican.

With what little space lies between us, she leans in close to look over my clipboard. Her eyes dart back and forth between mine and her forms, as if to compare exam answers. I couldn't help but take in a quick whiff of Jamaican. Potpourri and body sweat... and something else I just can't seem to place.

"Hey mon," she continues. "I got lotsa job y'know. I be a waitress, a hostess, a priestess, a mistress, a telephone operatah, a 911 operatah, a jackhammah operatah. I be a teachah, singah, an actah, a writah, a directah, I dance, I prance, finance (when I get da chance). I lift heavy load, I pave down da road, I scan da bar code, I cook da horned toad. I be tyin' da ropes, I be foldin' da 'lopes, I be prayin' wid popes, I be watchin' my soaps..."

She pauses, and takes one last look at the form in my hand. "But I nevah done no delivery, mon."

Another pause.

Potpourri, body sweat... and God, what IS that odor? Peanut oil? No.

"Whatcha say you an' me, we swap da work now? You gimme da delivery job, an' I give ya dis my job?"

Before I could even respond, she takes my clipboard out of my hand and replaces it with hers. She looks over her new assignment, then licks her lips as if she struck gold.

Dumbfounded, I turn and look over to Freckles. He's simply sitting with his arms crossed, nervously rocking back and forth in his seat.

Dude, you're no help.

I sit here defeated. And what else is new in my life? With nothing more to do or say, I try to read the job assignment handed to me. With all the pencil and eraser marks Jamaican applied on this sheet, it's difficult to make out.

I turn to da Jamaican, mon. (Damn, I can't get dat accent outta my head now, mon!)

"Excuse me ma'am, but what is this job you gave me?"

"Dont'cha know, mon? It's written in da plain English. It say da Air Traffic Controllah!"

"Air Traffic Controller???" chimes in Freckles. Again, he is not pleased. "Ohhhh... Monnnnnnnnn....."

8:13 am

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Just when I thought my day was going bad it has suddenly received some life. Actually, this could very well end up being the greatest day of my life.

I sit here staring at my clipboard trying my best to hide my excitement from that poem pumping, parrot loving… Princess! Yes, she is a princess in every sense of the word and suddenly she smells terrific. Almost as good as those scratch in sniff ads for perfume that I rubbed to shreds in my October 1987 issue of Penthouse magazine.

Is this real? Me, John Bravo, an Air Traffic Controller does have a nice ring to it now that I think about it. Wait a minute, John, you are dreaming. You have no skills that qualify you to be an air traffic controller. Sure I do, but I need a little help. I need a resume or at least a resemblance of one anyway.

I need to find someone who is very skilled in playing flight simulation computer games. If I can find a guy like that I know his insight would be helpful.

Wasn’t there a thread posted about a new flight simulator game at FOFC not long ago? Yes, there was, I am certain of it. Damn, I must have that thread before I go into this interview.

God, I have to get out of here to print that thread, but how do I get it in the twenty minutes I may have before they call my name? If I am not back before then they will certainly give my dream job to Freckles and he is an idiot and not worthy of a job of this magnitude. What a shame it would be for him to get the job out of default, because I was not back yet with my resume, or resemblance of one.

Quick, John, there is no time to waste. Go now, but make it fast!

After jumping out of my chair I look over at the Princess with my best smile.

"Sugar, if they call my name tell them I will be right back. I just remembered I forgot my medicine and without it I could have a seizure and possibly die. I promise I will be right back once I take my pill, so please let them know for me."

Without waiting for her response I dart out the door.

Damn, did I just call her Sugar? Oh well, maybe it will make her day and maybe she will tell them to wait for me.

As I am running out the door I say a quick prayer.

Lord, please tell me today is not the day Kodos presents the Golden Scribe Awards and also promise me HornsManiac is not trying to get me laid when I get there. I must get that thread and get back here in record time.

8:18 am

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As I slip and slide out the door, the cold outside air takes a blast at me, and along with it a dose of reality jumps up and slaps me in the side of the head.

Air traffic controller?!?

At a TEMP agency? What the hell am I doing?

I slow to a halt, shoulders drooping. A massive cloud of frustrated, exhaled steam billows out of my mouth. There’s no way in hell such a job would be open at a temp agency. Maybe Jamaican just misunderstood. Or maybe she was conning me. Or maybe I’m just the biggest freakin’ loser this side of a 10-10-220 ad.

A queasy feeling starts to creep its way out of my lower intestine, working its way up the chain into my belly. Revenge of the Apple Fritter. It’s that same feeling I get when I lose, like, the 3rd or 4th defensive lineman in a season…“this looks like a serious injury”…over and over and over again. Damn, I wish they’d fix that, it really pisses me off. Difficulty level my ass.

So, what do I do now? My options? Return inside, and take my chances with Jamaican’s “air traffic controller” job (and here I chuckle at my own ecstatic lunacy). Return inside and try and reclaim my Barrel o’ Fun position. Keep on walking. Stand here in the Boston cold like a dork.

*sigh*

Life sucks.

8:22 am

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And so I stand here.

Dare I take one step in either direction, my life would make a drastic change. For the better or worse? I never know. It seems every moment of my life - every move I make - is controlled by some unseen force.

And so I stand here.

If, for once, there's one decision I can make on my own, it would be to do nothing. That way, I can't hurt anybody, and they can't hurt me.

And so I stand here.

As I see the world pass around me, I finally enjoy this moment of serenity. I think about...

Nadine.

Yes, Nadine. Maybe she's right. Maybe I have been a little too forward with her. I realize now that I shouldn't have given her that wedgie in front of her brothers on her birthday. How was I supposed to know she was wearing granny panties with a menstrual pad with wings?

I realize now that it might have been a mistake to secretly videotape her through her bedroom window...on her birthday. How was I supposed to know her father was looking out his own window while calling the police?

Maybe if I call Nadine, she'll accept my apologies for everything I've done wrong. Maybe she'll take me back. Who knows, maybe she'll even ask the judge to give me back the videotape.

Yeah, I'll call her. Finally, a decision I made on my own. No unseen force controlling my fate. No hidden writer scripting my every move. No top secret society conspiring to...

I feel a tug on my sleeve.

"Excuse me, mister."

I look down at a little boy, probably aged eight to ten. He's holding a leash, but with nothing on the opposite end.

"Could you help me find my dog?" Little Boy asks.

I really don't need this.

8:30 am

[WSUCougar]

Thought of this thread and thought I'd bump it for the hell of it. Kind of fun.

[AnalBumCover]

Wow Coug... you were reading my mind.
Continue if you'd like... maybe it's time I recruit more writers.

[WSUCougar]

Life is a funny thing. Here I am, standing in frigid Boston, mulling my future, mending my love life, and not long ago I was UNDER FIRE, for the love of God…and here’s Little Johnny looking for his frikkin’ dog.

And did he just call me Mister?!?

Still, my heart-strings twinge for a moment. Every lad has a pup, right? I’m cold, but I’m not THAT cold. My eyes quickly scan the street scene, looking for a missing dog. But there’s nothing of the sort - only exhaust fumes, dirty snow, and wretched humanity plodding through it. Maybe I am that cold after all. Like a wave, the devil inside rises up, and I say as I sneer at the boy,

“Maybe someone shot him, like Old Yeller.”

The kid’s eyes flutter for a moment, and then he tries to avert his eyes as his face crinkles into a mask of tears. His body sags with defeat, yet he still holds the leash out like an olive branch. He says nothing.

8:32 a.m.

[Poli]

Finally, in what takes like a minute, the kid says,

"You suck, mister. How can you say someone shot my dog??"

I stumble through an apology that I really don't mean. I mention to the kid maybe he went in the alley over there across the street.

The boy runs off; nearly tripping over a manhole cover in the middle of the street. Like most kids, he caught his balance and kept on running to the alley. I took the opportunity to run off myself; like I said, I don't need this right now.

Down at the corner I smell what I think might be breakfast. I turn around and notice a small diner.

Man, I'm hungry.

8:35 a.m.

[AnalBumCover]

Milly's Diner says the sign. Sounds welcoming. I guess I'll give it a try. Seems as if every place I step foot in, there's a crazy person inside, whose sole mission in life is to torment me.

As I start towards Milly's Diner, my eyes spot a lone payphone. They say it's one of the last few remaining payphones in the area, what with the world going mobile and all.

Oh yeah... I gotta call Nadine. But what's her number again?

Something is definitely wrong with my memory. Too much MaryJane back in the day, I suppose. After what seemed like an eternity, a light in my head suddenly illuminates. I roll up my left sleeve and read the black font on my forearm. It's Nadine's home number.

Eureka.

Some people tattoo themselves with celebrity caricatures, bible verses, and ancient dragons. Me, I have all my past girlfriends' phone numbers tatooed all over my body. On my right butt cheek is Sarah's digits, but that's a whole 'nother story.

I pick up the phone, drop in a quarter and dial.

After ten rings I prepare to hang up the phone, until I hear someone pick up.

"Hello?" a deep husky male voice inquires.

WTF?

8:39 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

Flabbergasted. As far as I can recall, that’s the first time I’ve ever applied the word to myself, but I am flat-out flab-ber-gas-ted.

“Uhhh…” I reply. Yep, wow ‘em with your vocabulary, John-boy. My brain raced for other possible sources of the voice, but all I could envision was some naked dude with a hairy back. It certainly wasn’t the UPS man. Or then again, maybe it was. What can Brown do for you?

“Yeah?” says the voice, apparently annoyed. And then finally, to break the ensuing silence: “Who is this?!?”

“This is the United Parcel Service,” I say, with a straight face. And I’m pretty pleased with myself, given the circumstance. “And I have a parcel to be delivered to a Miss Nadia…Nadina…Gaffers? Is she Romanian?”

Now Nadine’s last name is Jeffers, and she sure as hell ain’t Romanian, but at this point I was just going with the flow.

“Jesus-H…” says the voice, pissed, and the phone rustles as he puts it down. “Hey, it’s for you, it’s UPS with a package or some shit.”

In a muted tone I hear Nadine’s voice, saying that she didn’t order “nuthin,” and then the phone rustles rather violently as it’s picked up…

8:40

[Poli]

"Hello, who is this, and why do I have a package?" says Nadine. She sounds rather ticked off. Maybe I interrupted something that didn't want to be interrupted, if you know what I mean.

I'm a bit embarrassed to hear her talk like that to me...like I'm a complete stranger and all. It's not like I have her number tattooed on my body or anything.

"Nadine, it's me, play it cool." I say. I hope she knows which "me" she's talking to.

"What the hell?? Jeez, ok, ok, give me 15 minutes and I'll be down to the front door. No, I don't want you to come up here. I don't have packages delivered to my apartment. Quit hassling me, ok? God, I hate you delivery people."

She hangs up the phone rather hastily. I can only wonder what story she has to tell Mr. Hairy Back.

8:42

[AnalBumCover]

"Nadine, wait..."

The familiar tone of a disconnected line fills the receiver. I wonder if she knew it was me, or if she really believed that UPS had a package for her?

Whatever. At least I have a chance to meet up with her right now. Give her 15 minutes, she said. I just have to head out to her apartment which is... clear across town!? Shit. I look at my watch. I have no car and the next bus going in her direction probably will not stop here for another 10 minutes.

Luck must be finally on my side, because just across the street a courier on a gawd-awful baby blue Vespa scooter drives up and parks in front of an office building to make his early morning deliveries.

I'll just "borrow" this scooter for a minute, stop by Nadine's and tell her what I need to say. I'll return the Vespa in no time.

The short buzz buzz buzz tone of the phone receiver alerts me that I still have the phone in my hand. I promptly hang up and reach out to the phone booth door.

It won't budge...

8:44 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

My brain processes this bit of news in typical fashion. For starters, I chuckle to myself like a caged lunatic. Surely it’s just momentarily jammed, I think merrily, ha-ha, ho-ho!

But the sucker does not move a millimeter, nor does it give any indication of doing so at any time in the near future. So I pause for a moment to chill, to think, to plot and plan.

And then I throw myself like the Tazmanian Devil at the glass.

One can only marvel at how this must appear to the people of Boston, strutting calmly by in the snow-covered urban wonderland. With primal grunts, curses, and screams I flail, kicking, punching, shouldering, and otherwise assaulting the interior of the phone booth. My foul language begins with the typical favorites but quickly proceeds into the mysterious, bizarre, and inexplicable realms. If the phone booth had a gypsy slut of a mother, hideous things were forthcoming on her and countless generations of her cursed spawn!

In the midst of this spiteful cacophony, I realize it just ain’t working. I’m also gassed. So I collapse against the glass, sagging with my head down, eyes closed. This is unbelievable.

When I open my eyes, I see a pair of fur-lined female boots through the glass. They are close, and edging closer. I lift my gaze upward as the sound of gentle tapping reaches my ears…


8:48 a.m.

[Poli]

"Excuse me, are you ok?", asks an attractive young lady, with a little boy and dog in tow.

I realize I have been breathing a little too hard next to the scratched up glass of the booth and that I can't see the faces of those here to rescue me. I start to wipe the fog away with my left sleeve; recalling the times when my mom would tell me not to do such a thing.

"That's him, mom, he's the one"

Crapt. I've picked on one too many little boys. I can only wonder what I've done to this one.

"Here, sir, let me help you" she says, "Back up."

I lean against the phone as the young lady pushes into the center of the phone booth door. Simply, the door collapses. I failed to notice the small handle to the left that would have allowed my escape, but who am I fooling? Who would want to escape this?

"You know, mister, a phone booth door ain't all that hard to figure out" pipes the little boy.

I know that voice. I look at the boy, with the fog of the glass gone, and notice this is the kid I sent off to the alley in search of his dog. Looks like he found his pup.

"Yeah, looks like I figured that out a second too late."

"I appreciate you helping my boy find Rufus, is there a way I can help you, other than out of a phone booth?" she laughs...actually I look around red faced to see a lot of people laughing.

"Yeah, I could use a lift"


8:52

[AnalBumCover]

"Umm, sure... Where do you need to go?" she asks hesitantly.

My God. I think I recognize this woman. But where have I seen her before? My eyes begin their path from her blue eyes to her boot-covered feet, mentally removing each item of her clothing. From the heavy overcoat down to her transparent top and pink bra. My thoughts go back to the dream I had when I woke this morning.

Back to your place Baby, where you can ride my...

"Sir? Hello, you there?" she interrupts, waving her hand before my face.

Nah. Can't be her. My brain snaps back to reality.

"Huh? Oh yeah. Well, I uhh, need a ride across town to my girlfriend's house. She's expecting me at 9:00."

At her side Little Johnny begins frantically tugging at her sleeve. "But maaaaa..." he whispers. She bends down to hear what her son has to say.

Temporarily ignoring their private discussion, I direct my attention to their dog. Rufus, as she had called it, is a full grown pit bull. Not exactly your average family pet. Nice puppy. I sure hope he's eaten already.

Attractive Lady straightens up and looks at me. "Listen, we don't have much time until 9:00. But I can take you wherever you need to go. Hopefully your girlfriend doesn't mind you a little late. My van is just around the corner."

With a quick step she turns in the direction of her vehicle, whipping Little Johnny and Rufus behind. I follow closely behind, wondering how late I would be when I arrive at Nadine's.

"There it is." the lady says as she points to her van. A white Chevy Astro. As we walk a little closer to the vehicle, I squint my eyes and begin to make out the lettering on the license plate: NKOTB

[Cue dramatic music] Dun dun DUUNNN

8:55 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

I’m torn.

Pretty as she is…and as much as I need that ride to Nadine’s apartment…two of the things I hate in life are Chevy Astro mini-vans, and News Kids on the Block.

Mini-vans are a blight upon the land. They are the bearer of bratty kids and pathetic drivers, soccer moms wearing pink ski caps with dingles on the top, delivery guys bearing fruit baskets or iced-over body parts. Astros are the epitome of the mini-van. Damn them.

And as for the whole New Kids thing. MIND-NUMBING.

My pace slows, and she notices my obvious hesitation.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

8:57 a.m.

[tucker342]

Great stuff guys

[Poli]

"Umm, yeah" I say as I try to recall what had happened hours ago. This friggin' lady nearly ran me over! I knew I had seen this van somewhere. I froze, which was kind of noticeable considering we were walking to the van.

"You sure?" she asks.

"Yeah, it's just, well, the license plate, it, uh, well, reminds me of a band I hate."

"I get that all the time", remarked Attractive Lady, "I meant for it to stand for Not Known on the Beach, but I didn't realize the acronym would be so confusing."

I think about what she has just told me, as we start to walk to the van again. Could I trust her? I think I will, but if I hear that Right Stuff garbage I'm jumping out, moving or not. After all, who'd believe that terms like FOFC, QotM, and HT would mean much to me? Who knows, maybe she really doesn't want to be known at the beach.

As I get in, I get just what I expected: a trashed out minivan. Attractive lady and the kid get in, obviously ignorant to the mess as is. Life is like that, I guess. You get used to the messes in your life, and you don't realize you have a problem until someone notices it.

"Sorry, I haven't cleaned the van out in a bit" mentions Attractive Lady, "but don't worry, I can get you to your girlfriend's house in no time at all. I like to drive fast.

I think about how she nearly ran me over earlier. She's not kidding.

8:59 a.m.

[AnalBumCover]

As I give her directions to Nadine's apartment, Attractive Lady tries to pass the time with some small-talk.

"...and so I beat him up... With his own shoe!"

I didn't really listen to her rambling. Occassionally throwing a polite smile and nodding my head.

I turn to look towards the back seat, where Little Johnny focuses his attention on his Game Boy Advance. Next to him is Rufus the Pit Bull. He licks his chops as his hungry eyes meet with mine. Nervously, I face forward.

Don't worry John-Boy, I think to myself. We're almost there.

As Attractive Lady pulls to a stop light at an intersection, she asks, "So, Mister John Bravo. What is it you do for a living?"

A barely audible gasp escapes my lips. Normally such a question wouldn't bother me as it just did. But it came to me that I never once told her my name!

Who is this lady, how does she know me? I know I recognize her, but from where? I make a desparate attempt to throw her off.

"Uh...sorry, you must mistake me for someone else. My name's not John. It's uhhh... Ronald."

Think fast, John. My eyes catch a fast food joint situated on the corner of the intersection.

"Ronald... McDonald." I feel an immediate sense of relief as my mental adroitness once again gets me out of a tight situation.

"But your name tag," interjects Attractive Lady. "It says John Bravo."

As she points, I look down at my jacket. A sticker labled Hello, my name is... is pasted on the left front chest.

D'Oh! I knew I should have removed that thing after leaving the Comic Convention two months ago. Nevertheless, I don't want to be in this van any longer. Time for more quick action. I wait for the opportune moment right before the stoplight turns green. Pointing to the left side I yell in feigned fright, "Look! A bear!"

Once Attractive Lady turns away, I reach for the door handle to make my escape.

9:08 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

To my great & immediate frustration, the door handle doesn't give at all as I wrench it back. All that occurs is the full torque I am exerting transfers to my wrist, while the handle slaps back to its normal position with a loud CA-CHUNK! Pain lances up my arm as a wave of panic sweeps over the rest of me. Amidst my alarm, a short cry escapes my lips - I must sound like a freakin' toddler who's locked in, but it matters not. I flail at the door fixtures, seeking the unlock button.

"What're you doing?!? shrieks Little Johnny from behind me.

"STOP THAT!" shrieks Attractive Lady. She then tromps on the accelerator pedal, hurtling me back against my seat.

Triggered by the concerned tone of these two loons, the dog suddenly begins to bark with fierce urgency. This sounds like a series of large explosions going off in my ear. My head reels...

9:10 a.m.

[Poli]

BARK, BARK, BARK!!

I have to get out of here.

BARK, BARK, BARK!!

I have to get out of here now.

BARK, BARK, BARK!!

I have to get our of here right friggin' now!

I try to scramble against what feels like a G force from the acceleration of the Astro mini van and stop Attractive Lady from taking me wherever she thinks she's taking me.

"Stop, what the hell are you doing???"

"You're not getting out, I said I'd get you there, I'm sorry we're late!!" Attractive Lady screamed. Apparently, Attractive Lady has a lot of issues. I don't want to know what they are.

I look out the window and we're about to pass Nadine's apartment building. I think I even seen Nadine waiting outside.

If she doesn't stop, I swear I'll crash this mini van into the row of cars outside.

9:12 a.m.

[KevinNU7]

edit: request by ABC

[AnalBumCover]

"Here! Stop here!" I yell, pointing to the apartment to which I need to go.

The van's wheels lock up when the Attractive Lady stomps both her feet on the brakes. But the vehicle begins a sideward spin to the right as it drives over a slippery patch of ice. Attractive Lady's attempts at countering the rotation prove fruitless when the vehicle continues its 180, 270, 360 degree spin.

Holy crap, I'm gonna die!

A mad rush of fear overwhelmes my senses and the only thing that's able to come out of my mouth is a high pitched "EEeeeeeeeee!"

I close my eyes as I lose my bearings of the world outside. I feel nauseous. If this thing doesn't stop, something is going to come up from my stomach real soon. After what seems like forever, I hear the tires finally grab hold of solid asphault and I jerk to one side and back as the Astro comes to a halt.

Am I dead?

I don't think so. A quick mental inventory of my extremities confirms that I survived this wild ride. I finally open my eyes to see where we ended up, half expecting the van to be teetering over the edge of a sheer cliff.

I realize we're perfectly parallel parked inbetween a beat-up old station wagon in front and a moving truck behind. With only inches to spare. Granted, we're facing the wrong way, but we're alive.

I look over to Attractive Lady to see if she's okay. Her eyes wide in unbelievable shock, she looks forward then back. A tiny smirk appears on her lips as she faces in my direction. In her best Ace Ventura impersonation, she proclaims:

"Liiike a gl-ove!"

9:13 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

My queasy smirk in reply may have passed for a smile to her, but my attention is promptly drawn back behind me, where the dog is making a combination of gurgling/snuffling/munching noises. There’s no sound from Little Johnny…perhaps the dog is dining on his face?

The tell-tale popping off the automatic door-locks is music to my ears. With a triumphant whoop I grab the door handle - eject! - and tumble out of the Astro. Whirling like a drunken dervish, I get my footing on the icy pavement, cast one final glance backward at the mini-van of death, and…

…run smack into a 7-foot tall Native American with coins stuck up his nose.

This has the overall effect of hitting a thick tree trunk, and as I rebound backward my brain tries to process the data my eyes have just relayed.

7-foot tall? Check. This is what I imagine hitting Shaq would feel like.

Native American? Check. He looks a bit like Jack Nicholson’s compadre in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, although I know this is a rather stereotypical thought. But it is true.

Coins? Yup. There they are, jammed up his nostrils flat-ways like they belong there. Pennies, no less. Two copper Abe Lincolns roosting in his snoot. When he puts his two cents in I know just where it comes from. Or maybe there’s more. Perhaps he’s got a whole brood buried.

Only when this burly giant reaches his thick, meaty hand down toward me do I realize that I’m resting with my ass on the icy pavement. And I'm dizzy.

And somewhere, distantly, despite a series of sharp honks from the Astro mini-van blaring persistently in my ear, I can hear Nadine screeching out: “…you worthless bastard!”

9:15 a.m.

[Poli]

The horn blaring is getting on my nerves, and now Rufus is barking at Shaqtacqua. This lasts but just a moment as Attractive Lady peels out of her parking spot, but the horn and the barking still ring in my ear.

Shaq picks me up off the pavement, and I do mean "off". If you've never been lifted up off the ground by a 7 foot Native American with pennies in his nose...well, I wouldn't recommend it, that's all.

Thud. I land again on the pavement, fortunate for me this time it's on my feet. I begin to brush myself off. Needlessly, but perhaps it's just a nervous response to getting tossed around like a rag doll.

Shaq may be able to toss me around, but I won't be intimidated.

Smack.

What?

SMACK!

Who the...?

I dodge yet another lunge by Nadine...and now she appears finished with smacking me.

"Nadine, can we talk?"

"You're supposed to be the UPS man, aren't you? YOU tricked me, you jerk!"

Shaqtacqua steps between us.

9:19 a.m.

[AnalBumCover]

"Only mad dogs and Englishmen share equally in shaping our destiny," proclaims Shaqtacua.

Huh?

"Don't bargain for fish until you have walked two moons in his moccasins."

What the...?

The 7-foot Native American's eyes appear to look through mine as he spits out Indian proverbs that don't make much sense. He seems not affected by the bitter Boston climate while wearing jeans that are two inches too short and a black t-shirt bearing only the words Bang Bus in orange lettering.

"Life is a bridge whether you call it cobra or Mr. Cobra."

I peer around the giant while he continues his incomprehensible speak. Nadine, still fuming at my presence, appears somewhat more calm than she did a few minutes ago.

"Uhhh, excuse me Nadine? Who is this beast?" I point to Shaqtacua standing before me, whose shoulders clear the top of my head by an easy 5 inches.

"That 'Beast' as you so lovingly call him, is my new boyfriend and bodyguard, Steve Redknob. Piss him off, and you'll be dead in one swipe."

I believe her. I think back to the whack he laid on me when I first ran into him. Jeez, he must've gone easy on me that time.

Redknob continues, directed at no-one in particular, "The earth does not belong to man..."

Just as he utters the word "man," the coin in his right nostril shoots out, nearly taking out my left foot, and falls harmlessly onto the icy pavement. Without hesitation, he swiftly bends to pick up the penny and re-inserts it into his nose.

"...only then can you be a true man."

I look back over at Nadine. She eyes lustfully at Redknob's rear as he bent down to pick up the coin. I begin to wonder how he earned the name Redknob.

"Nadine, can I have five minutes with you," I beg. "Just five minutes...without He-Man the Quotarian here."

After a while, she concedes with a sigh. "If it'll get rid of you that much faster... Okay then. Five minutes!"

"Don't just cross a river..."

In unison, Nadine and I cry out to Redknob, "Shut the hell up, will you?!?"

9:25 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

For a split second Nadine looks at me like she used to, and for a heartbeat’s time I think she might even say something cute & silly like, “Jinxed ya!”

But no. And brother, that hurts. Despite the rough water that has been our relationship recently, I sometimes still feel that way about her. It’s a power she holds over me like a spiked war-club, and she knows it. I think that’s what keeps her around, at least “around” in the sense that she still talks to me. Native American seven-footers notwithstanding.

“Well?!?” she blurts out, with the familiar widening of her eyes and jerking of her head that I long ago dubbed the “Well, DUH” look.

“Well…” I began, my eyes drifting to the massive form of Shaqtacua towering a few yards behind her. “So a freakishly-large fetish, eh?”

“Shut up, you little prick,” she replies venomously, her jade eye-brow piercing wriggling with the quiver of her head. “At least he’s a freakishly-large step up from you. And don’t make me state the obvious size-does-matter comparison.”

Ouch.

Tongue like an adder, eyes like a pit-fiend from hell, Nadine is clearly annoyed with me. And then, “Who’s the chippy in the mini-van?”

Ah! Jealousy? Could it be? She’s standing there with a man-and-a-half looming like a lighthouse overhead (and obviously riding him like Tonto rides his horse, and probably even right before I called her), and she’s jealous of me having the Astro ride-from-hell with a psychotic soccer mom and her dog Cujo. The bitch.

“She’s my personal assistant…and dog-walker,” I declare haughtily.

Nadine hauls off and kicks me in the shin, which hurts.

“Bitch!” I reflexively yell. Creative, no – but of the moment and right on target. Like the TV-guided bombs from Desert Storm, the word tracks forward and lands on her like a slap to the face. As her face crinkles with rage, I see the hulking form of her tectonic new boy friend shambling towards us. He’s gaining speed, like a supertanker heading out to sea. My god, he’s going to pulverize me like a malted milk ball.

In the foreground, Nadine rears back to strike a retaliatory blow…and her hand is halted at its apex, grabbed in mid-swing by none other than Shaqtacua himself!

9:30 a.m.

[Poli]

"If you take the bus, you'll get there" the almighty Shaqtacua recites to Nadine.

"I'm going to give you a bus in a minute!" screams Nadine. Try as she might she can't wiggle her hand out of his mighty grip.

"Dreams can not be seen without your eyes closed."

"Would you shut up!!" cries Nadine.

"There are two types of posters in FOFC..."

"Enough!" I shout, "Let her go. She doesn't hit that hard anyway."

Shaq lets go of Nadine and she kicks Shaq in the shin. This dislodges a penny and the penny rolls down the road. Shaqtacua lumbers after it.

"Will that penny ever stop rolling?" I ask as we admire the distance it has gained.

"Lord, I hope not" replies Nadine.

9:35 a.m.

[AnalBumCover]

No sooner than Shaqtacua catches up to grab the penny does it disappear through a grating and to the sewage below. Shaqtacua, aghast with dismay, lets out a short high-pitched "Eeep!" As if he had just lost his puppy, his legs collapse and he stumbles over to sit alone on the street curb, his face covered by his monstrous meathooks. In this position, his already too-short jeans ride up to the middle of his shins. A welt is already forming from the kick to the shin that Nadine had applied previously. Then he begins to sob, slowly rubbing the welt.

"What do you SEE in that guy?" I ask Nadine. But without waiting for an answer, I change the subject.

"Nadine, I just want to say I'm sorry for the mistakes I've made in the past. I know I shouldn't have done all those things, and I am deeply sorry."

I look at her. She's beautiful. Dirty blond hair cut just below her shoulder. Nice pale complexion. Sure, she's slightly wall-eyed, and sometimes I wonder if she's actually looking at me. But that's an imperfection that I was willing to look past, pun intended.

She stands there with her arms crossed, all bundled in her beige overcoat and red scarf to protect her from the cold. I caught her speechless. Silence usually means things are good.

"Okay, so maybe later we can have make-up sex and..."

"Make-up sex? Make-up sex?!? You stuck a friggin' trout..." Nadine pauses for a second as tears begin to swell her eyes. "...in my grandmother's rectum! And you want make-up sex? You are such a bastard!"

As the word "bastard" stings my ear, Nadine rears her leg in an attempt to kick me in the shin. Prepared for such an attack, I step to the side as her leg swings past mine, causing her to spin a full 360 degree rotation.

She looks at me angrily for a moment and makes an about-face as she lets out a frustration-filled "Grrrrrrr!"

As she heads back towards her apartment building, Steve Redknob aka Shaqtacua sees her and stands up to follow. Shaq turns his head in my direction with a somber look. The same look one would give you as if to say, "I lost my penny."

As the door to the apartment building closes behind the two of them I say to myself, but directed at Nadine:

"So I guess there's no make-up sex?"

9:39 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

Passing by is a well-dressed gentleman who’d look right at home as a maitre-d’ at some snazzy Italian place. For that matter, maybe his IS the maitre-d’ at some snazzy Italian place.

In either case, he looks at me with a smarmy smirk and says, “Tough luck, pal. Just you and the Jackson Five tonight.” He keeps trudging, never missing a step.

“Go to hell!” I retort fiercely, with a bitter glare at the back of his dark trench-coat. This stops him in his tracks, and with a tilt to his head he pivots around to meet my gaze.

Amidst that dramatic pause, I have the opportunity to study him more fully. Shortish, probably trim beneath the layers of his winter wear, leather gloves, perhaps 45, jet black hair and eyebrows. Those eyebrows are angled downward. He is pissed. He looks a little like DeNiro…it’s the head-tilt thing. And the bunched up lower lip. Perhaps I have erred.

“Wrong word choice, shit-head,” he replies, his voice cool and calm.

But he’s not cool and calm. He’s advancing toward me, across the space of a few yards. Shit, maybe he’s a mafioso…maybe he’s a hit-man and “DeNiro the Maitre-d’” is his made name. He’s gonna off me. DeNiro the maitre-d’ is gonna whack me right there in the street.

And I’d pay Shaqtacua a whole damn roll of new pennies if he was looming nearby just now.

9:41

[Poli]

"Nadine, let me in, this is important!" I scream as I press the intercom switch.

"Go to hell, you've got nothing important" is the reply.

"Nadine, I'm about to get a complete beating if you don't open this door immediately" I say quickly, because time is not on my side.

DeNiro the Maitre-d' is closing on me. In fact, I bet five seconds from now I'm dead.

I spin around, pressed to the door.

"Listen, jerk, you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

I realize now is not a good time to insult him, but if I'm going to be beaten or offed, I might as well get the words in there. I try and make my eyes go green, but to no avail.

DeNiro the Maitre-d' isn't amused, at least not on the outside. In fact, he doesn't break stride. He's coming to give me what I deserve.

His hand rears back; I say a silent prayer. BAM!

I hit the floor on the inside of the door.

"Shaq is back now you're gonna be in trouble", I want to chime, but I'm still hurting from my skull hitting the floor.

DeNiro the Maitre-d' threw his fist right into Shaqtacua's body, and it wasn't effective in the slightest.

"I will not accept a banning" quoteth Shaqtacua.

"You'll accept this" responds DeNiro the Maitre-d', and he throws another punch, this time at the nose of Shaqtacua.

"Now you're in trouble" I say as I see where DeNiro is aiming.

The pennies hit the floor, and the next thing to hit the floor will be DeNiro's body, in about 3 microseconds.

That's all it took for Shaqtacua to let out a yelp and then hit DeNiro with I can only describe as that thing Ryu does in Street Fighter 3.

DeNiro flies across the street and lands against a car. Remarkably, he's ok and coming back for more.

Shaqtacua looks me over, picks me up like he did when we first met, and drops me on my feet.

"Got pennies?" asks Shaqtacua.

9:43 a.m.

[AnalBumCover]

My hands shake as I struggle for the coins in my pocket. There is no way I am going to deny Shaqtacua Redknob his pennies.

In one motion Shaq reaches out and lifts oncoming DeNiro by his bow-tied collar. Being only 5'4" DeNiro the Maitre-d' looks like a midget compared to the behemoth. His legs are comically swinging back and forth like a cartoon character readying himself for a quick dash.

With his free hand Shaq begins a series of bitchslaps on DeNiro.

*slap!*

"I..."

*slap!*

"want..."

*slap!*

"my..."

*slap!*

"two..."

*slap!*

"PENNIES!"

*slap! slap!*

And with that, he releases the Maitre-d' who collapses to the ground. On his hands and knees DeNiro crawls away from the apartment building, defeated. But not before he turns his head to me and whispers through bleeding lips: "You're gonna get it, John Bravo..."

Again with the name? Why am I so popular today? How does he know... Oh right. The name tag. I rip the Hello my name is sticker from my jacket and toss it to the ground.

I fumble in my pocket again and produce two dirty pennies for Shaq. A running mental count of my funds: $6.57

He gratefully takes the pennies from my hand and inserts them into his nose, one in each nostril. He smiles to me and through his yellowing teeth spits out another random quote:

"I have the breasts of a llama and the nipples of a billygoat."

Blink.

I look up at Shaqtacua. "So how do you do it? What does Nadine see in you?"

Three simple words are his reply:

"Cocky and Funny."

9:46 a.m.

[WSUCougar]

My head swims and my eyelids begin flicker. It cannot be. Not now. Not here in Boston. No, no, no, no, no.

“You’re, uh…you’re not a Longhorns’ fan, are you?” It just came out. I couldn’t have stopped it if I’d wanted to.

The big guy looks puzzled for a moment, and adjusts one of his nasal pennies as one might scratch his head in thought. It is a gesture he has surely done countless times in his coin-injecting life. And then,

“Read my lips, said Santa Anna…NO…NEW…TEXAS,” he finally says, with profound solemnity.

“Guess not,” I reply, more to myself than to Shaqtacua; the big man’s on the move again already, heading back up to Nadine’s. I am both relieved and a little anxious. Having a 7-foot tree trunk for a bodyguard has its advantages. I feel naked beyond his shadow.

And is Deniro the Maitre’d lurking out in the street, waiting to break my knees? Maybe there’s a back exit.

Brushing myself off, I walk beyond the entryway and staircase toward the rear part of the first floor. The space is narrow, as the building is a typical old city apartment, wedged in amongst the pizza places, pawn shops, and cheap shoe dealers.

The hall is very dark, with the light fixture probably having lost whatever bulb it had around, oh, 1967. The carpet – or what’s left of it – has a musty, dusty odor to it, like a garage full of rusty nails and the ancient remnants of grass clippings and old planting soil and fertilizer bags.

Somewhere in the gloom, I hear a door creak…

9:50 a.m.

[Poli]

"You, yes, you, over there" says an old man voice, "come over here. I was hoping you could help me with something."

I mysteriously drawn to the voice. I can only wonder what he wants me to help him with. I heard stories of terror and happiness out of things like this. People walk through mysterious doors into whole other dimensions, I hear. Maybe that's just what I need, as I'm drawn to this door like a bug to that really cool purple lighting.

The door widens a bit to allow me in...

Whack!

(muffled voice) I told you he'd come over...(/muffled voice)

9:52 a.m.

[AnalBumCover]

I stare at the shut door in front of me and then begin to throw a tantrum that resembles that of Curly from the Three Stooges, complete with the self face slapping and the falsetto voiced "Oh, wise guy, eh?" And right when I'm about to poke my two fingers at the eyehole, Shaqtacua sticks his verticle hand at the door, stopping my fingers from serious damage.

"The Colossal Squid shall not wait," he said while turning back up toward the second flight of stairs. I follow closely, unsure of what might come out of the next corner. The clomping of Shaq's heavy feet against the wooden stairs echo throughout the apartment.

Suddenly a brown mouse, probably the length of my hand, pops out of a hole in the corner and scurries toward my feet. I leap in fright, accompanied by a barely audible "yeep!" and clamp on to the 7-footer's right arm.

He stops mid-stride, turns his head at mine, and notices the look on my face of "save me" desparation.

"Pansy," he mutters, as he shakes me off his arm. Unfortunately for me, that's the most sense he's made all day.

Finally reaching Nadine's apartment, Shaqtacua opens the door and steps back.

"After you," he offers.

9:54 a.m.