Kirk just got done with a rigorous workout, and while he usually isn't big on smoothies, he was dying for something with peanut butter in it.  When an attractive tight-bodied woman came up to the counter, he asked her "Can you make me something with peanut butter in it?"  She laughed and asked if there was anything else he might like in there.  He just sat down and said "I don't know.  Maybe a banana?  Surprise me." 

After paying for his drink and having a few sips, the girl at the counter came by to ask him "Aren't you a little curious what else I put in there?"

"Not really," he said.  "I trust you."

It was at that moment that another employee of the gym came by to ask if he had any phone messages.  He was a Black man with enormous muscles everywhere and long dreadlocks. "No," she said "but I did get another call from you here late last night." 

"That wasn't me," said dread locked man incredulously.  "I don't have time to be making phone calls like that."

"I know it was you.  Just stop it."  She was growing more angry the more he he was denying it.

"What is this caller saying?"

She paused before talking about the phone call because it was a little embarrassing for her, very embarrassing for him, and a little awkward for Kirk who was still at the counter sipping his mystery banana concoction.  But hey, dreadlocks wanted to go down this road . . .

"You asked if I worked out at the gym as well as working here.  And then you asked if my feet stunk at the end of my workouts.  And I know it was you, so just stop it and we won't have to talk about this weird ass shit ever again."

"Haha.  That's funny, but it wasn't me.  See you around."  And with that, dreadlocked guy headed off towards the free weights.

Coming up from a slurp off his straw and without looking up, Kirk said to her "Oh, that was totally him."

"Right!  I'm positive it is, but how do you know?"

"First off, he just said that he doesn't have time to make those calls.  If he didn't do it, he would just say no.  He wouldn't be making excuses."

"Very true," she said.  "What else?"

"Well," Kirk elaborated, "he then said that the call was funny.  Even if he didn't make the call, it was really sick and gross, like an obscene phone call type of thing.  That isn't funny, especially if you were there late and working alone.  I mean, if the dude is into feat, fine.  But you don't have to be all creepy about it.  Feet aren't my thing, and actually, I'm kind of surprised they are his.  Given his amazing physique, I had him pegged as an ass or leg man - some body part that can be accentuated through hard work and building lots of muscle."

"You're a wise man," she said.

"I'm not usually this intuitive" he said.  "It must be something in your amazing smoothie recipe.  Thanks."

Kirk tossed his empty cup into the waste basket, said goodbye, and headed out the door knowing he was now on the case of the rastafarian obscene feet phone caller.  He knew he had his man.  It was just a matter of proving it. 

"Herpes Simplex 2: Part 1."

(The title doesn't mean there will be more parts to this story.  I just thought it was a funny title, like "Rambo: First Blood Part 2.  Let me know what you think, readers.)

Joanie and Jon are enjoying steaks fresh off the grill, seated at the dining room table in their modest two bedroom ranch style house that they rent, with their one-year-old daughter sound asleep in the next room.

"So, how was work, babe?" Asks Joanie, smiling lovingly, as she refills Jon's wine glass."

"Thanks.  It was okay.  The doctor visit wasn't as good though.  Got some kind of bad news, I guess."

"Oh no!  What is it?" Asks Joanie, setting her fork down, wiping her mouth and turning to give him her full attention.

"He dropped the H-Bomb on my ass."

Joanie furrows her brow trying to figure out just what in the hell that meant.

"I got the herpes, babe."

Joanie abruptly stands up, puts her hands on both sides of her head, makes a face of hers that Jon knows all too well as pure anguish and begins to pace the around their narrow dining room.

"Hey, relax, it's not a big deal" says Jon, trying to calm her down, but it wasn't working.

"But it is.  It's completely my fault.  I know the exact time where I gave it to you.  I sort of felt an outbreak coming on but thought maybe I was just itchy down there because I didn't wear undies that day and my jeans were rubbing me funny."

Jon starts to laugh, "It's totally fine" he said, continuing to cut and take bites of his steak.

"Are you kidding!?  It's a huge deal.  I've infected you.  Yuck.  I'm so gross.  And now you have it for life too!  Why aren't you mad at me!"

"Why would I be mad?" Jon asks, slugging back the rest of his wine.

Joanie is now even more visibly upset "Because not only did I give it to you, but I did so recklessly, taking a chance like that only to give you the "h-bomb," as you so grossly put it.

"Hey," Jon says, "I'm allowed to make jokes like that with you now.  We're herp buddies.  For life."

Joanie, "Stop messing around!  You always make jokes instead of say how you feel, but if you're mad, I wish you'd just tell me.  Because I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself.  I know I was a wreck when I got it.  You maybe just haven't allowed it all to sink in quite yet."

"Listen, babe" as Jon grabs her by the hand, "I knew one day you would likely give me this thing.  I was going to get it sooner or later.  Who really cares?  I don't plan on going anywhere or being with anyone else."

Joanie persisted,"But you don't know that!  Would if you found yourself single and stuck with a lifelong STD?  You would curse my name for the remainder of your days."

"Nah, I'd just sign up for herpdate.com and meet some insane, horny herpes chicks.  Hahaha.  I'm sorry.  But seriously, to be honest, I freaked out for a minute in the doctor's office, but by the time I got to the car, I was like: I got herpes for life.  And I got Joanie for life.  And I have our beautiful daughter for life.  And it's okay.  It's more than okay.  It's perfect.  I love you, Joanie."

Joanie cried and threw her arms around him, and after the crying had subsided and he had kissed away the last of her tears, they made completely risk free love on the floor, as to not wake their daughter because their crappy bed always creaked loudly.

Old Friends

Steve parked his car on Chicago's northwest side and went into a neighborhood coffee shop with only one customer inside.  He greeted his friend, Roman, the lone customer who has many ties to the Polish mob, and the two sat at a table by the window to discuss the business at hand.

Steve: I appreciate you meeting me at short notice.  I know it's been a long time, but I remember when we worked together way back when, you said you knew a lot of . . . people who could . . . get things done.  

Roman: Oh yes.  (he replied in a thick Polish accent as he sipped from his espresso).  I can get a boot off of your car in less than two minutes.  I can get you a new identity in a couple days time.  And Mr. Roman could get you a very good-looking and convincing transsexual.  

Steve: Yeah, those three I don't need right now, especially that last one, but (looks around the empty room), illegal stuff is kind of the way I need to go with this one.  

Roman: No problem.  Anything for an old friend.  Anything within reason, that is.    

Steve: Well, here it is: I know a kid who got molested, and I just worry that with the way the investigation is going . . . The kid changed his story, and he didn't come forward for a long time, so there really isn't a lot of physical evidence.  And this guy might walk.

Roman: Oh no.  He won't walk.  (now angry) We can have both this guy's legs broken in no time.  I can do this one myself if you want.  Would be my pleasure.  I hate the perverts.  

Steve: No, by "walk," I mean that he might not do any jail time.  

Roman: I see.  And you want to make this guy dead, is that it?  

Steve: No.  Just that he doesn't get away scot-free.  What are you thinking?

Roman: (Softly whispering) What do you say we have this man raped real good.  

Steve: Oh God, no!  . . . Wait, you can do  that?

Roman: No, not me, but I have people raped all the time.  Well, not all the time, but I can get this done for you.  Yes.  No problem.   

Steve: Maybe I don't want to know this, but how do you know rapists, and how can you work with people like that, if you don't mind me asking?

Roman: You must understand, I know a lot of men who have done time, and for them raping isn't as big of a deal as it is to you and I.  And what we do in a case like this is simply tell our rapist that this man, this pervert, we simply tell Ulises that he raped a Latin Kings' son, and that's pretty standard practice amongst the Kings to have a man like that raped.

Steve: Whoah.  Stop right there.  I don't want to know anybody's names.  Hell, I'm not even sure I can go through with this.  

Roman: Sure you can.  This pervert will have the raping of a lifetime (now angry.  but a long pause).  Then again, he might be into rape.  You think?

Steve: I doubt it.  

Roman: Yes, but you never know with these pervert types.  So maybe we work in a little beating and torture into the mix, what do you think?

Steve: Okay, so if I'm understanding you fully, just in case the rape is somewhat pleasurable for him, you throw in a little torture?  Like what?

Roman: Well, I would let Ulis- (Stops himself) or whoever would be doing the rape, use his own discretion to make it particularly torturous and painful, like maybe cram a chair leg into his ass (demonstrates with a nearby chair, stabbing the leg into the air) or whatever's handy, you know (calmly sits back down and takes another sip of espresso).

Steve: (starts to get up) Jeez, that could kill the guy, couldn't it?  Like, he could bleed to death if he were stabbed right with a chair like that.  Okay, yeah, I really can't go through with this.  I'll just trust that the authorities will reach the right verdict and then he will get a raping in prison that wasn't authorized by you or I, or Ulises, who I hope I never meet by the way.  Can we just forget I ever came in here?

Roman: Sure.  It's your choice.  But stay a while.  We should catch up.  Talk about stuff that isn't illegal.  Roman doesn't only do illegal stuff.  For instance, these cuff links, I made them (Roman rolls up the left sleeve of his sport coat to reveal a dragon fly cuff link).  You see?  Dragon fly.  

Steve: That's no bad. (Steve puts his head in his hands and takes some deep breaths).

Roman: Hey.  What's wrong?  (puts his hand on Steve's arm) Don't worry about it, Steve.  The revenge and that sort of thing is not for everyone, after all.  You're a good guy.  Finish your coffee.  

Steve and Roman enjoyed another half hour of conversation free of any talk of illegal activities, and no contract of any kind was made - just old friends catching up.  And Ulises was never contacted as a result of their meeting.  

Hey, everyone.  I woke up from a nap today and decided I needed to write this.  Hope you enjoy it.  Oh, and to answer the questions from the last post:

1. Yup.  Golf carts are everywhere.  Locals own them, but mostly it is the tourists driving minimal distances.  I would say there were more golf carts than actual cars out there.

2. The pigs were causing too many problems and were all killed off years ago.

3. The buffalo are still there, but you have to get way inland to see them.  They were brought there to film a movie a long time ago, but the movie's budget ran out, so they just left them there, where they have grown in numbers ever since.

4. Yeah, we said that a few times.  We also learned that Marilyn Monroe lived on Catalina for a while before World War Two, Natalie Wood drowned near there, and at one time most of the island was owned by William Wrigley Jr., also the owner of the gum company and the Chicago Cubs.  As a result, the Cubs used to play their spring training games there.

Okay, anyway.  Here's that story that I just wrote that I was telling you about.  Hope you like it:

My mood was that of a sour funk as I walked through the snow past the grades school I went to as a kid, when I slipped on something and had to catch myself with my bare hand, which landed directly into an inch or two of cold snow and concrete.  But there was something in my hand too, it was plastic, horseshoe shaped, and as I looked around, there must have been ten or twelve of them.  It took a second or two for it to dawn on me that they were plastic mouthguards for football and then another few seconds before I put it together that they were there because that class of 5th and 6th graders on the football team had thrown them on the roof at the end of their season, just as I had 20-something years ago.  Dropping that mouthguard into the hot water and popping that hot plastic into your mouth, you felt like a knight preparing his sword for battle, and whipping it up on the roof at the end of a hard fought seasons was an important ceremonial right of passage.  

Our coach back then was a little off his rocker.  He had a crazed look in his eye when he would yell at you where you would not be the least bit surprised if he suddenly wrapped his hands around a scrawny 11-year-old neck.  His rants were often tangental, and looking back, I'm not even sure if he remembered what it was he was mad about by the end of one his motivational browbeatings.  He would get so flustered and outraged at our lack of discipline and athletic ability, that he would get speechless; just angry stairs, looking around at each and every one of us for what seemed like thirty minutes at a stretch, but was probably closer to one or two.  

My hand and the rest of me wasn't even cold anymore, and after all that reminiscing about mouth guards, my coach, and wearing football pads for the first time with my girdle pad slipping off my ass as I tried to keep up during wind sprints, that just like that ranting and pausing coach so long ago, I wasn't even sure what I was mad about to begin with.  

the bike lock story

I was biking home from the gym today, holding my bike lock in my had, when I saw what I thought might be some sort of domestic dispute between a young couple.  As it turns out, they were just play fighting but for a moment there I thought I might have had to go upside this dude's head with a u-lock. 

Here is the little scene in my stupid head that I wrote in that fleeting moment:

Dr. Ken: Hey, buddy.  Why don't you leave the little lady alone
(little lady is kind of demeaning and sexist, but that's just how old fashioned chivalrous types talk)

Man: Just stay out of this, Lance Armstrong.  This doesn't concern you.  Or your one nut.

Dr. Ken: It certainly doesn't involve Lance's testicle, so yeah, we'll leave that out, but it does concern me now because there is no way I'm leaving without . . . doing something.  Are you okay, miss?

Woman: No.  I'm not.  He's an asshole and he's drunk and mean. 

Man: You shut your stupid mouth, woman!  And let me and Armstrong finish our conversation.
(This is kind of how stereotypical wife beating types talk, I think)

Dr. Ken: Listen, why don't we just put you two in a cab and call it a night.

Man: Sure.  We could do that.  Or I could whip the ever-loving tar out of your stupid hipster ass.

the man begins to roll up his sleeves and walk towards Dr. Ken in a threatening manner

Dr. Ken: (stepping off his bike and wielding his bike lock) Think this through.  I don't want to clock you with this bike lock, and you don't want to get hit with one. 

------------------------------------------------------------

The truth of the matter is that I would probably just pull around the corner and call the police.  If I did opt for the U-Lock beating, I would likely miss with a piss-poor flailing attempt and get beat up.  Probably the girl would even get a few licks in, and they would resolve their differences by agreeing that I'm a giant pussy.

Rehearsals

As you may know, I post some short stories on the blog from time to time, and I think this is my best. I'd like to know what you think, Seven Readers.

Rehearsals

The only thing that got me out of my California King this morning was the excitement of driving into the West Side to buy heroin. I’ve been out of the smack game for quite some time now, but I’m sure the protocol is roughly the same – just find a guy in a long white t-shirt standing around with no other conceivable purpose. I do a number of drugs, and they all serve their own purpose. Heroin seemed to have that life-ruining purpose years ago, but now I need it in a stop-caring-about-stuff capacity because it’s the first day to record the new inevitably shitty record for my band’s all important nobody cares about us anymore period. Some say that it’s not a good idea to start dabbling again with a drug with such chemically addictive capabilities, but I’m not the guy I was five years ago – I can control my shit, so I should be fine, and like I said, it’s the only way I’ll be able to just play and not care that I’m nothing more than the guitar player for another one of Alistair’s “artistic visions.”

When we started Lehmi County Airport, it was the most exciting time of my life – all of our lives. I can honestly say that the moment we knew we could make great songs together, even though we were living together in a dump in Logan Square, those were better times than when we got “the money.” When I met Alistair Radcliff, he was playing and singing a Syd Barrett song in a Potbelly, up in the scaffolding, or whatever, and it was like when you fall for a chick. He was captivating all those nimrods in the joint, waiting for their God damned sour dough, and I actually said out loud, “This motherfucker is going to make me rich.”

The drummer, Lester Clayton, was a black guy I had met a week or two earlier when he came by to install my cable. I had a beat up drum kit in the apartment, and when he was done, he asked if he could play for a second. I said, “Yeah, go nuts,” and he did. Holy crap. I got out my guitar, and we fucked around for hours, rolling doobs, playing, and things just clicked. I think he blew off the rest of his calls for the day, which was probably for the best because when that guy gets going on the pot, he’s incapacitated except for his playing, in which case he’s an animal, really pushing the guys he plays with to new heights.

Just thinking about those days makes me pumped to play, but not with these guys. For the last few years, after the success of “. . . And Sometimes Why,” it has really become like work. And the saddest part is that I don’t even see these guys in between tours and recording. Before “Sometimes,” we would get shit-assed drunk together every few nights, but now these guys have families. That’s really the problem, I think; Allistair has this whole new worldview and writes songs about his fucking kids. Don’t get me wrong, that stuff’s important, but nobody wants to hear songs about it. Tell me a good song about someone’s damn kid, besides “Isn’t She Lovely.” And Les isn’t much fun either these days. Yeah, he’s still banging lots of chicks, something I don’t think he’ll ever stop doing, but I just hate that he doesn’t care what we’re doing musically. An artist like that guy should give a shit, and I think he did at one time, but now he just goes along with whatever the fuck Allistair wants to do.

I’ve been trying to find other musical outlets ever since my role diminished in this band, and I’m pretty pleased with how the first album for my side project metal band, Bruticus, came out. Those guys are fun to play with, but lately it has dawned on me that I shouldn’t have to find other people to play with – I play with the perfect guys, and we’re in a pretty successful band, only I want them how they were before they got so fucking gay. And even more than missing the days when I loved the music we made, I miss hanging out with those guys. Allistair always invites me to his kids’ fricking Christenings or circumcisions, or whatever it is they’re doing, but I’m always too damned hung over to make an appearance, and even if I did, seeing the domesticated, watered-down version of such a talent would just depress the shit out of me.

So, yeah, it’s a perfect day for some good old heroin. Just enough to make me not care and to make the guitar sound better, and not so much where I’m just drooling all over it. Just enough where I don’t care that Allistair, a guy I loved like a brother and respected as far as musicians go more than just about anyone, is now kind of, and I hate to say this, a dork. And just enough where it doesn’t bother me that Les, a guy who at one time was more passionate than any of us about the band, now allows himself to be a tool and goes along with everything Al wants. Fuck it. Maybe so much God damned heroin to the point where I pass out and have an excuse not to record another awful record with those guys ever again.

Her Birthday Session

Sara: It's my birthday.

Doctor Fauser: Happy birthday! We're almost done with the session. I'm curious why you didn't mention this before?

S: Probably because I don't like thinking about what a shitty birthday this is.

DF: Yes? And why is that?

S: Well, let's see. The first thing I did when I woke up was cry. Birthdays totally suck, especially because it commemorates the day I was born.

DF: And why is that so bad.

S: Because I wish I was never born.

DF: What do you mean by that?

S: Don't worry. I don't want to kill myself. It's just . . . Life really sucks sometimes. And it's 6:00, and still no one has said happy birthday to me, besides you, but you're my analyst so that doesn't count.

DF: People didn't even say happy birthday on Facebook?

S: (Laughs)

DF: What's so funny?

S: I just don't picture you on Facebook. With pictures tagged of you drinking out of funnels. In one of your nice suits.

DF: Don't look for me on there. You will find no such pictures. I never drink like that with a good suit on.

S: (Laughs again)

DF: But surely someone said happy birthday on Facebook?

S: Yes, but that doesn't count. Nobody cares enough to go beyond that, and those people are hardly friends anyways. And, did you know that I told my friend that this is exactly how my birthday would go? That I'd wake up and cry and no one would give a shit that it's my birthday?

DF: That's what we call a self-fulfill . . .

S: (cutting him off) Self-fulfilling prophecy, I know.

DF: I'm impressed. Do you think you do that often?

S: What's that?

DF: Set the stage for your own disappointment and eventual sadness?

S: Maybe. Probably. What do you think?

DF: I think that's something we'll have to explore next week. Our time is up.

S: Okay. Thanks. See you again next week.

As Sara and Doctor Fauser stand up, she checks her phone.

DF: I'm willing to bet you missed some calls. Or texts?

S: Yeah. A few, actually.

DF: You see!

S: Yeah. See you next week.

Sara smiles, turns away and opens the door.

DF: Yes you will. Oh, and Sara?

S: Yes?

DF: I'm glad you were born.

"Allowance:" Another Short Story

Here is the short story I just submitted for publishing, and I hope you all enjoy it.

Allowance

“This is so nice,” said Lilly, reaching across the table for David’s hand. “I can’t believe you were able to get us in here.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad” was the most enthused that David could muster in response.
He was trying to live in the moment and simply enjoy himself, but this was not the table the guy on the phone had promised him. Securing the God damn secluded romantic booth shouldn’t have been a problem on a Wednesday, especially since he had booked it weeks ago, but they likely screwed him over for a b-list celebrity.

He would be sure to see whom they seated in the damn thing. No bother. David would still attempt to make the best of this evening out with Lilly, something they were so rarely able to do with their hectic work schedules, both being in their forties and entrenched in the rat race of their respective successful careers.

A young blond waitress in a long black dress approached them saying, quite charmingly, “If there’s one thing I hate about this job, it’s that I have to interrupt romantic moments such as this one. How cute are the two of you?”

David laughed, “Oh don’t worry about that at all, miss. You wouldn’t think we were too cute if we got all starving and crabby on you, so you had to interrupt at some point” said David, who found himself toning down his flirtation midway through his response.

“I suppose you’re right, sir. And if you’re anything like me, sobriety makes you equally crabby, so what can I get the two of you to drink?”

Now David was perked up, but still keeping the full flirtation he would like to have employed at bay, “We’ll make it easy on you: two dirty Goose martinis.”

“Okay, two dirty geese for these fine folks? I can do that. Back in a bit. Get back to canoodling,” said the waitress, as she tapped the table delicately with her open palm and sauntered past Lilly towards the kitchen, flashing a knowing smile at David over her shoulder.

This time David was the one to reach for Lilly’s hand, his mood much improved after that happy interruption, and he did a good job at maintaining eye contact while at the same time soaking in a solid notion of how sexy the young waitress looked from behind in that long black dress.

“Maybe you’re right, Lil’. Perhaps we don’t need that booth all tucked away when we can let the whole joint know just how in love we are.”

“Yeah, and maybe you have a thing for that waitress,” she said with an innocent smile, but in David’s experience with women, nothing was innocent – she picked up on something.

“Yes, and I was thinking we take her home with us, yes?”

“Really?

God, he only wished.

“No! Of course not! We’re not cut out for that sort of thing. Besides, I don’t want to share you,” he said, effectively diffusing a situation, flashing his charm that he knew he still had, because despite being a touch older than he used to be, a good smile, a few bucks, and lots of tanning could keep him charming for at least another five or six years.

The waitress approached the table, saying, “Here are the dirty-geesies, but I have some bad news: We got swamped by the piano bar, a fricking gin-swilling office party of some kind, and they’re moving me over there to catch the newbies up because I’m the best. So, I guess this is goodbye,” she said, with a cute little frowny face, and this time David was positive she was digging him.

Calmly, David took out his wallet and handed her a large sum of cash and said, “Okay, well here’s the money for the drinks, and you have yourself a lovely evening.”

“Thanks! You two do the same,” she said, not looking at the amount, which David found endearing. Was it possible he was falling in love with his waitress after only this brief amount of time with her? One thing he knew for sure was that he was picking up on some seriously amazing vibes, and he was sure she felt the same.

Waiting it out, after getting a new dull waitress and having a few bites of his meal, he would make his move. He excused himself and walked towards the nearest bathrooms, which thankfully were in the piano bar section – her section.

Walking in, he spotted her instantly – her long legs, perky breasts, long flowing blond hair, and that incredible disarming smile of hers. Casually, he approached her, and reaching for one of his leather business card holder, he touched the fuzzy engagement ring box he was actually going to give Lilly tonight; He was about to make a huge mistake, and this beautiful woman saved him.

Handing her a card, he said, “Listen, I know I’m with someone here, and this is a little embarrassing, but I took her out tonight to end it. I know what I want, and I think it’s someone exactly like you. You’re beautiful, elegant, witty, and just . . . great. Call me, will you?”

Appearing a little shocked and flattered, the waitress said, “I do believe I will, Mr.” (looking at the card to read the name) “Brenneman. I thought we had something going on back there. Now, go do what you have to do with your date, and be expecting a phone call tomorrow, young man.” And with that, she went right back to charming the pants off of that awfully drunk office party for a moment, but as David walked back to Lilly and his table, the waitress made her way to a staff bathroom in the back, joining her friend and coworker who was straightening up her makeup, beginning her shift.

As the waitress, David’s waitress, took out her mirror/cocaine case and lined up a bump to get her through what was to be a busy night, she said to her friend, “Guess who just found herself the perfect man to give me the allowance I’m going to need for the next few months?”

“No! But you just ended the last one. I’m beginning to think you do it because you like the old guys.”

“That’s not it at all. I mean, this new one is attractive for an older guy, but I really need the money, and it’s the only way to get it as fast as I need it. Besides, this is the last one, I promise. Just this one last sugar daddy and then I’ll have enough saved to finally make it to New York for good. Aren’t you happy for me?”

Laughing, her friend said, as she joined the other waitress for a rail of cocaine of her own, “Yes. I suppose so. Does he have a friend?”

The Woes of an AD/HD Author

This is an unfinished short story, inspired by this incident, that I'll probably never finish. I just didn't like where it was going, so I abandoned it. I thought this one, this one, and this one came out good, so I'll just go ahead and give you what I got. Enjoy!

It was New Year's Eve in Chicago again, and Gabriel was alone, again, just as he had been the previous three years. It's not that he didn't date; it's that he didn't like anyone. He had spent the evening with friends of friends rather than actual friends, and he thought he could get his mind to a happier place through dry martinis and pills that an acquaintance named Sophia, who dressed and acted like Stevie Nicks, kept popping out of her purse. It had worked for a number of hours, actually, but now he was at a point where the combination of pills and gin that was probably out of a plastic bottle created the perfect formula to make a man hate everything that moved; or maybe he would have been feeling that way completely naturally.

He decided to just go home to spin records alone, getting drunk off a bottle of Grey Goose that he had in his freezer, knowing that dropping that needle on the record, making that static noise, combined with his other favorite noise, the ice cubes clinking around the tumbler glass of Goose, were sure to make him feel comfortable. Not happy but comfortable. However, this level of comfort would not come easy, as getting a cab at this time of night in Chicago on New Year's Eve is next to impossible, and it was cold and windy as anything that night.

Just when he was ready to go back into the warm bar to knock down Irish car bombs until he didn't have to have conscious thoughts anymore, a cab approached, but just as he ducked in, someone darted in through the opposite door. It was a woman in her twenties with long red hair, big brown eyes, dressed in a stylish overcoat, and she was absolutely beautiful. But none of that mattered because this was his cab; not hers.

She just glared at him so he spoke first. "I hope to God you're going north or this is going to get really complicated," he said.

"I'm going south, as a matter of fact, but it's not at all complicated. This is my cab."

Outraged, Gabriel countered, "How do you figure? The cab pulled up on my side of the street! You can't run across the street and snake it like that. But listen, neither one of us is going to get another cab if one of us gives this one up, so I'll just ride south with you, even if you're a little evil, and then ride back solo. Where you going?"

"Pilsen."

"Oh, for the love of fuck!"

Little Help . . .

I still need someone to "tag" as an "accomplice" to write a short story about a murder. There are no length requirements or any other guidelines, just hopefully you know someone else to tag.

Email me (thegancer@yahoo.com) or contact the folks directly (anonymousboard@gmail.com) and just mention my name.

Just think of all the people you hate who you can envision killing. How fun is that?

Click here to see the site. Mine is the one two stories ago entitled, "Arnold the Awful Roommate."

Please consider helping out because I feel bad that such a cool idea for a website is crapping out because of me . . .

The Book Store

Stephen wasn't sure what made him stop into the "book store" on Randolph Street on his way to the train after work. Lord knows the kind of "books" they sell there aren't the type he usually reads, and certainly they were unlike the book under his arm that evening, "The Thurber Carnival." It was his second time through that collection of stories, and he was quite sure there were no acts contained within those tales like the ones depicted in the literature behind that door - If there were, Mr. Thurber certainly didn't describe them quite as explicitly. Stephen wasn't feeling particularly frisky that evening, more exhausted from a long work week, but he just wanted something to break the monotony of his work week; throw a new element in that pattern of get up, go to work, go home, work out, cook dinner, go to bed. Whether it was a good idea or not, going to a porno shop was certainly a change in that pattern.

The gal behind the counter was about what you would expect, 5'2", great body, short pink hair, covered in tattoos and piercings and reading an actual book, but she had a trusting vibe about her when she said, "Hello there, sir" as Stephen stepped through the door. He felt immediately unsure and worried that he would look like some kind of pervert, especially if someone he knew was in there. It wasn't easy for Stephen to decide what to look for because he wasn't really looking for anything, and everything he looked at made him uncomfortable. He decided that the lubes were a safe place to look, since they didn't have nearly as many naked people on the packages.

"Looking for some lube there, buddy?" She said in a thick Chicago accent, that was still somehow sexy - something he wasn't sure was possible until then. "Uh, no. Not really. I'm not even sure why I came in here" he found himself saying. "Oh . . ." she said, "Well, I wasn't sure why I came in this joint either, but before I knew it I was working here, shamelessly selling pulsating vaginas to weirdos day-after-day. I'm Angelista," she said, giving him a warm smile and extending a delicate hand with black nail polish in his direction.

"Oh. Pleased to meet you. Listen, like I said, I don't know why I came in. I'm going to leave now and let you get back to what it is you have to do."

"Did I look I was extraordinarily busy to you?"

"Uh, no, but I'm sure you have inventory and things because there's a lot of . . . stuff around here, and um, you know, I'm sure just like any other place there are things . . ."

"What are you reading there?"

"Oh, it's a collection of short stories by James Thurber. He wrote for the New Yorker a long time ago. I saw you reading on my way in. Anything good?"

"Yeah! Really good. It's by Tulliver, the leading expert in the field of reflexology. Did you know that I could access every part of your body, including all your erogenous zones, through your feet?"

"No. But I believe you. I should go."

"Sure, but first, give me that hand again."

Stephen indulged her, giving his hand over to her, somewhat embarrassed, but a little bit curious, letting a sheepish smile come out despite attempts not to.

"You have beautiful hands. I bet you have terrific feet too."

"Yeah, they're not bad I guess. I mean, they don't smell or anything."

"Now, if I apply pressure right . . . here, I bet you will feel worlds better in your back. You keep a lot of your stress there, don't you?"

The truth is, he did suddenly feel better. Maybe there was truth to the writings of Tulliver and his hands and feet magic, or maybe it was just that he felt incredibly calm and comfortable around Angelista, who he barely knew, but already he was sure she was a far better person than the sharks and schemers he had to deal with every day at his firm.

"Wow . . . I actually do feel a little better. I should get on my train."

"Sure thing, big dog. Sorry if I weirded you out with all this mumbo jumbo."

"No, that's not it. It's just that I have to run. Pleasure meeting you, Angelista. So long."

"So long," she returned in a business man type tone and face that wasn't as much mocking as it was endearing.

Stephen stepped outside, stretched out his loosened spine and walked towards his L train, feeling a renewed sense of self, and he knew that he would see her again soon because five minutes with Angelista every few days could very well be the thing he would need to get out of bed and onto that urine soaked train every awful morning of his life.

I recently wrote a short story for a project called The Killing Pandemic where you write a murder story and tag someone else to write one. A friend of mine wrote one after me, and we need someone to tag, so if any of you want to write a quick story, email me at thegancer@yahoo.com.

Let me know what you think of my story in the comments of The Killing Pandemic or the comments on this page.

Thanks, Seven Readers!