The SoapBoxers

Fiction Friday comes a bit early this week …

“All I’ve got ish quarters,” slurred the obviously patron. “Where can I stick them?”

Candy responded to his off-color remark and subsequent laughter by slapping him across the face. As the man staggered off, her fans showed their support for her actions by cheering and tipping generously. Candy finished her performance just as the music ended. She quickly gathered her clothing as the next dancer prepared to take the stage.

“That’s Miss Candy Rain, folks,” boomed the speakers. “You can catch her three times a week at the Roundup.”

Candy retreated to the silence of the dressing room, glad that another long shift was behind her. She slipped into a pair of blue jeans and a comfortable t-shirt. She smiled as she laced up her Adidas running shoes. Much more comfortable. Candy scrubbed the stage makeup from her face, pulled her long hair into a ponytail, and pull on a baseball cap. She smiled into the mirror and saw the “girl next door” looking back at her. She threw the costume clothes into a worn duffle back and prepared to make her exit.

“Have a good night, Candy.”

“Same to you, Frank,” she responded. Frank was a one of the regulars at the Roundup – always tipping well, but never making any trouble for anyone. He was definitely one of the good guys – a rare thing at a strip club.

Candy slammed back a Jack and Coke when she got home. Then she turned off the lights and crawled into bed. Two minutes later, she was dead to the world.

The next morning, Candy awoke, and immediately transformed into Ann mode. She powered up her MacBook and put the finishing touches on her article. An hour later, she had marked up the necessary changes on a printout and made the necessary edits. The article was finished. Her editor would be pleased – “My life as a stripper – a month in the midst of debauchery” would be ratings gold.

Ann thought about calling the Roundup to let them know she was quitting. With the story finished, she didn’t need to deal with that place any more – good riddance. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided against it. She didn’t owe them anything – she’d just leave them in the lurch and made them deal with her angry fans when she failed to appear.

Ann liked to celebrate when she finished a story – retail therapy was good for the soul. She grabbed her purse and pointed her car toward the nearest mall. Five hours later, she returned home with a trunk load of new clothes.

Ann had a bit of sticker shock as she totaled up the damage from the shopping trip. She had a bit of a tendency to go overboard with these trips – the money she spent on the celebratory shopping trips sometimes exceeded the amount she was actually paid for the story.

Ann made a resolution to make a budget and stick to it. She needed to be more careful with her spending if she was every going to have the cash for a down payment on a house.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ann saw the duffel bag on the couch. A few loose bills had escaped from the bag and lay on a couch cushion.

Or maybe she could do a few more shows as Candy Rain. Just a month, she promised herself. Just long enough to build a nice emergency fund …

 This story originally ran on June 8, 2009. It’s one of my favorites. We take you inside a day in hell, thanks to Satan’s Little Helper, Andy.

The alarm rang at 3 AM.  There is no such thing as a snooze button in the nether regions of Hell, so I forced myself out of my lumpy bed.  Someone had to manage the fires.  The union recently had an uprising and the result was that work weeks were capped at 120 hours.  The resulting shortage of manpower meant that even those of us in the inner circle had to take our turns keeping the home fires burning.  The Great Freeze of 2004 had occurred when the Boston Red Sox won the World Series.  Satan brought a bunch more nuclear reactors online and we managed to get through the crisis with substantial portions of the Great Fire still intact.  However, we still fear the Freeze to end all Freezes that will occur if the Chicago Cubs ever win the World Series.  That could result in the end of Hell as we know it.

I quickly ate my breakfast gruel and packed my lunch.  Braunschweiger, a bit of leftover blood sausage, somewhat moldy rye bread, broccoli, and prune juice.  Definitely one of my better lunches in a while.  I jumped in my Yugo and headed off toward the main fire pit.   The pot holes seemed a bit worse and a bit more frequent than they had been yesterday.  I quickly joined the assembly line and began to shovel molten fire into the box cars.  The train would take this load to an outlying region, where men would offload the fire in order to restart the dying fires in those regions.  The offloading was usually left to the young hellions, to get them acclimated to the heat slowly.  I’m really not sure why the union had fought for shorter work days – fire duty was a great job.  Lots of wonderful heat at the pit.

Finally, my shift was over and I jumped back into the Yugo and headed back to my studio apartment.  I had to check my email for messages from the boss.  Not surprisingly, my computer showed me the familiar Blue Screen of Death.  Satan kept promising to get us some Macs, but I wasn’t holding my breath.  I expected Windows to be the dominant operating system in Hell for many more years. After a few reboots, I managed to get into my email.  Just one message, but it was a bad one.

Andy,

Adolf and Eva are causing trouble in A-7 again.  I’m hearing that he’s trying to take over the sector and eventually march against me.  Run over to the Hitler home and have a chat with them.  Use your own discretion regarding punishment for this latest round of misbehavior

– Satan

I Yugo’d my way over to A-7 to have a little chat with Hitler.  After a contentious discussion, I finally got fed up and banished him to sector G-14 (telemarketers) for the next six months.  Adolf and Eva were obviously glutton for punishment, as they had been sent to G-14 at least five times in the last six years.  I can’t imagine what could possibly be worth that sort of punishment.  When Hitler had arrived here in the 1940s, he had been ushered into the inner circle and had Satan’s ear.  However, his repeated insubordination had caused him to lose his privileges, and he wasn’t even invited to the good parties any more.

The Yugo stalled a few times getting out of A-7.  Probably vapor lock.  When I got back home, I sat down in front of the computer and went onto eBay.  eBay was a bit slow over dial-up, but Satan had promised to install broadband soon.  eBay had been great for Procurement Services.  While at one time it had been necessary to wager a golden fiddle against Johnny’s immortal soul, the supply of souls on eBay had really brought the price down.  I bought fourteen souls for a grand total of $12,314.  Satan would be pleased with the purchases, although he’d be upset at the shipping charges.  Hell was outside of the normal delivery zones, so the shipping charges were out of this world.

My day’s work was over.  Time for some leisure.  I settled down on the futon and flipped on the 13 inch black and white TV.  142 channels, and all of them C-Span!  Could life get any better?

Vance Barkley slammed the black Mizuno bat against the dirt. The donut dropped to the earth and landed with a thud. Barkley took a look around Grayson Stadium, his home for the past twelve years. He watched as a gust of wind blew a hot dog wrapper into a nearly empty section.

Appropriate that he should have such a send off. Barkley had always been a serviceable player – sometimes a starter, sometimes a reserve – but never a star. He was still a solid defender, but the bat that had once been slightly below average had become a liability, even for the hapless Dragons. Two years remained on his contract, but Barkley had made his mind up – he would walk away from the game at the end of the year. His retirement would free up some cash in the Dragons payroll and let the team fill his roster spot with an up and coming youngster from AAA.

Tucked away in the upper reaches of the stadium, a father and son were enjoying a momentous occasion – the first baseball game the kid had attended. They had taken turns recording plays on the scorecard and filling their bellies with hot dogs and cotton candy.

“Look at this,” the dad said. “Barkley got a triple in the third inning, then the homer in the fifth, and he doubled off the left field wall in the seventh. You know what that means?”

“Holy cow,” exclaimed the eight year old. “The bum just needs a single to hit for the cycle.”

“Indeed. The bum just needs a single to hit for the cycle.”

The kid on the mound had been called up from the minors in early September – a beneficiary for rosters being expanded for the final mound of the season. The consensus was that the kid would be a star one day – but he was getting knocked around pretty good so far during his first stint in the bigs.

Barkley dug into the batter’s box, tapped the plate, and stared down the kid. The first pitch was two feet over Barkley’s head and bounced harmlessly off the backstop. The kid snapped his glove angrily when a ball was tossed back to him. He overcompensated on the next pitch, a fifty nine footer that bounced across the plate inches off the ground.

The kid was talking to himself on the mound. The third baseman, Jansen, jogged to the mound to give the kid encouragement. Jansen slapped to kid on the rump with his glove and retreated back to the hot corner.

The third pitch nipped the corner of the plate at 97 miles per hour, down and away from Barkley. Barkley could see that the kid had a new ration of confidence. The fastball low and away was the pitcher’s second best friend, and Barkley knew the kid would try it again.

Barkley uncoiled and drove the next pitch straight toward Jansen at third base. The ball ricocheted off Jansen’s glove and continued into left center field.

As Barkley approached first base, he saw that the outfielders had gotten a late break on the ball and were loafing toward it. He never slowed, making the turn toward second base and sliding in ahead of the late throw. He popped up and clapped his hands together. He was in scoring position – a hit would tie the game.

The kid on the mound made Kershaw look foolish, striking him out on three straight pitches. Barkley remained crouched near second base for a moment, taking in the moment, before making the slow walk back to the dugout.

“What a loser,” commented the kid. “He should have stopped at first and gotten his cycle. He cost himself a spot in the history books.”

“He put the team first, son. He put the team first.”

His own image stared up at him from the front page of the tabloid. “Security guards at the Red Triangle Gallery were forced to remove Pat Killpatrick from the premises on Sunday. Killpatrick, the brother of actor Matt Killpatrick, was attending a gala event honoring the works of Maria Rubio when he became verbally abusive toward the artist …”

Same song, different day. Pat had always been the black sheep of the family. While Matt had been a struggling actor who auditioned during the day and washed dishes at night, his brother had been flunking out of community college and mooching of their parents. He slept in until noon, hung out with a bad crowd, and couldn’t even be bothered to help out around the house.

When Matt finally got his big break, Pat was still living at home – a decade after finishing high school. Nearly overnight, Pat changed from being a lazy bum to being a guy who worked very hard. Worked very hard at being a jerk. With a famous brother, he now felt entitled to the trappings of the rich and famous.

At first, Pat’s transgressions were largely limited to pulling out the “Do you know who I am?” card when he found himself in awkward situations. He attempted to impress the state trooper who pulled him over for speeding and bully the restaurant employee who caught him trying to dine and dash.

Before long, Pat realized that he could make easy money from his very own image. Matt’s publicist nearly had a heart attack when she saw Matt’s face on a billboard promoting a strip club claiming to have “the youngest girls in town.” Matt was frustrated to find out that there was little he could do to stop Pat. Technically, Pat wasn’t selling the rights to Matt’s image, but rather the rights to his own image. The fact that Matt and Pat were identical twins was problematic for Matt, but was not a reason to bar Pat from appearing on billboards. Matt’s lawyer pointed out that the billboard had Pat’s name prominently displayed. It was obviously a ploy to ward off a lawsuit – but an effective ploy.

Pat then embarked upon his own acting career. He starred in two low budget porn films before it became apparent that his acting skills weren’t up to the level required by the industry.

Still after an easy buck, Pat was soon appearing on billboards once again. Not just strip clubs this time – be branched out into pawn shops and payday loans. His face was on dozens of billboards in the tri-sate area. As if this didn’t create enough embarrassment for Matt, he also began popping up in public at events such as the gallery gala – generally making an ass of himself and bringing shame down on the family.

A friend had once asked Matt why he didn’t “just kill that worthless bastard of a brother.”

“Ah,” he had replied, “but where would I hide the body?” The comment got the laugh that Matt had been hoping for.

Matt set down the newspaper and gazed out at his flower garden. For many years, it had been the envy of the neighborhood – the garden’s nutrient-rich soil produced a bountiful harvest of flowers that displayed incredibly vibrant colors.

Note: My fantasy baseball draft is under way, so I’m in a baseball mood.  I’m choosing to re-run an older baseball-themed story.  Release Point originally ran on March 27, 2010.  What makes it special?  It was the first ever Fiction Friday story.  Many of the regular readers may not have seen it before.  If it seems a bit rough compared to the newer stories, bear in mind that I was just picking up fiction writing after a ten year layoff when I wrote this story.

Jerome Franklin’s mind was a thousand miles away as the bus persevered over the rough roads, jolting the occupants seemingly every five seconds. Jerome was thinking about how he ended last year, giving up home runs at an alarming rate and allowing hits with such frequency that the manager was routinely sending him to the showers in the third inning. Coach Brunner had worked with him on his release point, but would he still be tipping his pitches? For a former seventh round draft pick in his fourth year in the farm system, this was a make or break year. A repeat of last year’s performance would probably mean his outright release and a job shoveling cow dung on the family farm.

Franklin sighed loudly and shifted in his seat. Max Cook pulled his headphones off, turned in his seat and gave Jerome his characteristically broad smile.

“Hey, J. No worries, man. We’ll be there soon.”

Franklin gave a faint smile to his friend and they began some small talk and the bus clattered through the city toward the ballpark. The off-season had been a long one, and he had not had much contact with many of his friends.

Jerome ate his typical pregame meal of two hot dogs, washed down with a bottle of Gatorade. Perhaps he should switch to a different pregame meal in order to change his luck. No, he decided, he wasn’t going to fall into the trap of becoming the stereotypically superstitious ballplayer. Besides, he really liked hot dogs, regardless of what they packed inside the wieners. He burped, grabbed his glove, and headed onto the field for practice.

A short while later, Jerome was honoring his country during the national anthem, watching the flag wave slightly in the breeze. Adrenaline was flowing through his body at full speed, and he was ready to take the field and assert his dominance. They were the road team tonight, however, and Jerome would have to cool his heels for a half inning.

Max Cook scorched a line drive to right field, and the speedy center fielder motored around to third base to start the game. Unfortunately, Cook would remain at third. The next batter struck out swinging at a pitch over his head. Then came a lazy pop fly to the pitcher. Finally, a towering fly ball that would have served as a great sacrifice fly if it had come one batter sooner. The smile was gone from Cook’s face when he returned to the dugout, replaced by a frustrated grimace.

“Let’s get ‘em, J.,” Cook shouted. “1-2-3”

Jerome’s first pitch was a curveball. The hitter jumped on it and hammered the ball to the deepest part of centerfield for a homerun. He turned to heckle Jerome as be broke into an exaggerated trot.

“You’re still tipping the pitches, Meat!”

Jerome was steamed as he stood waiting for the jerk to finish his leisurely stroll around the bases. He considering hitting the next batter, but the last thing he needed was another base runner. He started off the next batter with a fastball, and it was also hit hard. Max Cook chased down the ball in centerfield and hurried the ball back to second base, but the runner slid in safely.

Catcher Johnny Morris jogged out to the mound.

“These guys think they have you rattled, J. Just remember everything the Brew taught you. You’re not tipping your pitches any more. Let’s get em.” Morris slapped him on the rear end and head back to the plate.”

The next pitch was a fastball and Morris was quickly out of his crouch and gunning the ball to third base, nailing a would-be base stealer trying take advantage of Franklin’s state of mind to be aggressive.

The next pitch was a changeup, and the batter was fooled badly, popping the ball foul to third base, where it was caught. Jerome began to focus on the task at hand and worried less and less about tipping his pitches. He moved the ball in, out, up, and down and complemented his high 90s fastball with a healthy dose of changeups and curveballs. He was throwing all his pitches from the same release point, making it impossible to the batters to determine which pitch was coming. Jerome was in control of the game, and pitched seven strong innings, allowing just three hits and walking two batters. The offense was never able to muster a rally, however, and Jerome found himself on the wrong end of a 1-0 score. Franklin may have lost the battle, but he was beginning to win the war. Today’s shower was going to feel really good.

Tiffany Butler took a moment to consider how lucky she was to be in this situation. At mid-season, her record had stood at a mere 5-10. She had wrestled better in the second half of the season, but had also been the recipient of some good luck. An upset had knocked the top wrestler out during the regional tournament, and she picked up another win when her opponent was forced to forfeit due to injury.

Tiffany’s record for the season was unspectacular 15-16, but she found herself on the mat, getting ready for a state tournament match. She was blazing a new trail for girls everywhere. As the lowest seeded wrestler in the tournament, she had drawn the state’s top 112 pound wrestler as her first round opponent.

Garrett McCormick relished the opportunity to defeat Tiffany. Some guys were reluctant to wrestle a girl. All Garrett saw was an easy victory that would put him one step closer to his third consecutive state championship.

Thirty seconds into the match, Garrett had affirmed his initial thought – he would have no problems controlling Tiffany. He saw opportunities to pin her, but decided to draw things out in order to make the loss more humiliating for her. Garrett toyed with Tiffany for the entire first period before scoring a takedown at the end up the period.

He took the down position in the second period and quickly escaped, running the score to 3-0. They danced around the mat before he scored another takedown. Garrett allowed her to escape a moment later. He could have easily pinned her again, but played catch and release with Tiffany, taking her down four times and allowing her to escape each time.

A quick escape from her down position at the beginning of the third period allowed Tiffany to close the gap to 11-5. Garrett decided to put on a show for the folks in the crowd. He scored seven takedowns in rapid succession, each time allowing his prey to escape – running the score to 25-12. He had to give the girl credit – she had a lot of fight in her. The match would be over in a moment – he needed just one more takedown to force a technical fall.

Garrett glanced up at the crowd and saw his girlfriend in the midst of the mass of humanity. Alycia was zooming her camera in for a shot. Garrett smiled broadly and struck a pose that he knew would look great in the school newspaper.

As he saw the camera flash, he felt himself lose control of his opponent. Before he could fully focus his attention back on the match, Tiffany had complete control of him and he felt his shoulders touching the mat. He struggled in vain to free himself. His dreams of another state title were over – he had been pinned by a girl.

Becky did a double take when she saw the flowers.

As she slid into her chair, she turned to her co-worker in an effort to quench her curiosity.  “Someone sent flowers … to Ken?”

Cheryl giggled before responding.  “Well, sort of.  A bunch of us chipped in to pay for the flowers.”

Becky furrowed her brow in an attempt to make sense of this.

“It’s a prank,” Cheryl explained.  “They’re from a secret admirer.”

Becky thought that the joke was a bit sophomoric, but faked a convincing laugh in an attempt to fit in.  Ken – the socially awkward computer geek – was probably the only person who felt less at ease in the group than Becky.  The girls on her team struck her as a bit mean spirited, but Becky knew very few people in this new town, so she tried to stay on their good side.  Maybe they were good people once you got to know them.

When Ken returned to his desk, it was easy to read the confusion in his face – a look that only intensified when he read the card.  After a moment, he appeared to shake off the confusion and return to work.  As Becky glanced around, she could see a few of the girls stifling giggles.

A half hour later, Becky found herself in need of Ken’s assistance.  She was tempted to simply ignore the flowers, but quickly realize that this would look suspicious.

“Nice flowers, Ken.  Who sent them?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.  “The card says they are from a secret admirer.  Me, an admirer?  Yeah, right.”  He chuckled and then turned his focus back to work.  “What can I help you with?”

“I’m not getting the output I expected,” she explained, as she spread some printouts on his desk.  “See, I would expect this to be -”

“Yes, yes, I see the problem.”  A few minutes later, he had fixed the problem, and Becky was able to continue with her work.  Such a nice guy.  It was too bad he wasn’t her type.

When Becky came into the office on Friday morning, she knew that something was being planned.  Cheryl, Lindsey, and Jessica were gathered at Cheryl’s desk, whispering conspiratorially.

“We’re going to out tonight.  You want to come along?”

“Sure,” Becky replied.  A night out with the girls was surely better than staring at the four walls in her apartment.  “What’s going on?”

“We’re going to spy on Ken and his secret admirer,” said Jessica.

“But I thought the secret admirer isn’t real?”

“She isn’t,” replied Lindsey, “but Ken doesn’t know that.”

“He got a second note yesterday,” added Cheryl.  “His admirer made dinner reservations and asked him to join her.  We reserved a table with a good view of his – so that we can have a good laugh watching him wait for his admirer to appear.”

“But how do you know he’ll show up?”

“Becky, girl, this is Ken we’re talking about.  He doesn’t exactly have the girls beating down his door.  If he thinks a girl is interested in him, he’ll be there.”

Ken showed up at 6:45 – a full fifteen minutes before the scheduled meeting time.  From their perch on the upper level of the restaurant, the girls had a great view of Ken’s table on the lower level.  By 7:10, he began to fidget a bit, and by 7:20 the face that had been so hopeful when he entered the restaurant now showed signs of disappointment.

Becky decided that she had seen enough.  She grabbed her purse and excused herself, saying that she needed to freshen up.  The other three girls panicked when she made a beeline for Ken’s table – knowing that she was going to rat them out.

Ken looked up as she approached.  “Hi, Becky.  What are you doing here?”

Becky started to tell Ken that he was the victim of a cruel prank, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.  Instead, she took a seat across the table from him.

“Sorry I’m late.  I hope I didn’t keep you waiting – I’m your secret admirer.”

In today’s fiction story, our hero Dylan finds himself falling for a beautiful stranger … and one thing leads to another …

“Oh, there you are!”

Dylan glanced up from his martini as the woman slid into the opposite side of the booth. He immediately knew that he had never seen this woman before. It was apparent that her heritage was mostly Hawaiian, with a touch of something else. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the end result was a strikingly beautiful young woman. Dylan definitely would have remembered her.

He was about to tell her that he was not the man she was looking for. Then he thought the better of it. Why not spend a night in her company? There were certainly worse ways to kill time on a business trip. He kept his mouth shut and returned her smile.

The waiter noticed the new arrival and dropped by the table.

“I’ll have what my friend is having,” she said. “A martini. Shaken, not stirred.”

Dylan had to laugh at the fairly decent Bond impression. The waiter returned in a flash with the drink before disappearing again – hopefully for good.

As she sipped the drink, the woman spoke softly under her breath. “We can’t talk shop,” she explained. “There may be people watching. Just act natural – like we’re a real couple.”

As her hand stroked his, he heard her pump drop to the floor a moment before her foot began an ascent up his leg. Dylan wasn’t sure what her game was … and wasn’t sure he cared.

“Check, please,” he said with a grin.

She gulped down the last of her martini and began to leave, pulling him behind. Dylan quickly threw some bills on the table as they exited the hotel bar.

“I need to visit the little girl’s room,” she explained. “Could you hold my purse?” Under her breath, she said “It’s good cover.”

Dylan smiled at the comment as he watched her disappear into the rest room. Cover, indeed. As if they were spies on some sort of secret mission. He wondered if her elevator didn’t go all the way to the top floor, or if she was just toying with him in some sort of perverse fantasy. This would have been a great opportunity to escape. He could just toss the handbag on the floor and flee to his room.

Or he could hang around a bit longer to see what developed. Why not play the game a bit longer?

When she emerged from the ladies room, the doorman spotted her and smiled.

“Ah, Miss Amy. Big plans for the evening?”

“A romantic evening with my beau, Charles. Would you mind calling me a cab?”

“Of course, Miss Amy. You lovebirds have a good time. Good to finally see you, master Gerald.”

As Charles waived down a taxi, Dylan felt butterflies in his stomach. Beau? Romantic evening? He was fairly sure this was going to be the end of the game – she would jump in the cab and leave him behind.

“Alfred’s on 18th,” she told the cabbie. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Amy leaned in close and kissed him on the lips. Dylan was a bit surprised by the passion she exuded, but found himself responding with great fervor.

“Oh Gerald,” she whispered into his ear, “I can’t wait to get you back to the hotel and have my way with you.”

Dylan felt himself flush with embarrassment, and noticed that the cabbie’s attention was split between the road in front of him and the passengers in the back seat. He wondered if it would be poor form to suggest simply skipping dinner entirely. He also wondered who this Gerald chap was. Gerald was certainly missing out on a good time.

The taxi arrived at their destination far too soon, and Dylan had to disentangle himself from Amy in order to get out of the cab.

Alfred’s was a classy joint, and Dylan knew that he had spotted the scam. A bit of playing around with him was going to net Amy a very nice meal. Dylan knew that he was being conned, but decided to play along. He was being entertained by the charade, and it was a pleasant way to spend an evening in a new city. His bank account could handle one extravagant meal.

Dylan sipped his wine and waited for Amy to take the lead in the conversation – not willing to admit that he had absolutely no idea what topics might be of interest to her. Amy turned the conversation toward the entertainment, and they discussed the latest Hollywood movies while they ate their salads.

The waiter brought the check when Dylan had finished his generous slab of prime rib. To his surprise, Amy quickly grabbed it and paid with her credit card. As they left the restaurant, Amy suggested that they stroll back to the hotel. As they walked past the storefronts hand in hand, Dylan once again tried to solve the puzzle – what was Amy up to?

“Let’s just go back to the room and watch some TV, hon. You must be tired from your trip.”

Dylan nodded his agreement, and they entered the elevator. As the elevator rose toward the ninth floor, Amy wrapped her arms around him and gazed lovingly into his eyes. Dylan was completely oblivious to the people who got on the elevator on the fourth floor – he was completely lost in her kisses … and she smelled so nice!

Dylan followed Amy as she walked down the hallway toward her room. The suite wasn’t opulent, but was quite nice – definitely a step above his own room. Amy disappeared into the bathroom for a moment. When she reappeared, she was wearing a black nightgown that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. She slid under the covers and invited Dylan to join her. He stripped down to his boxers and slid into bed next to her.

This was all a bit strange, but very nice. What’s the worst that could happen? Well, maybe he’d wake up with missing kidneys … but that didn’t really happen, did it?

After a moment of channel surfing, they found a decent comedy and settled in for the show. Toward the end of the movie, Dylan notice that Amy was no longer laughing. She was sound asleep in the bed. Again, this was a golden opportunity to escape back to normalcy. Dylan turned off the bedside lamp … and then climbed back into bed, gave the sleeping woman a goodnight kiss, and settled in for a good night’s sleep.

“Gerald, Gerald. You need to get up or you’ll be late for your meeting.”

Dylan glanced at the clock. It was 6:13 AM on Sunday. The pre-conference meet-and-greet didn’t begin until 5 PM. He didn’t need to be up for hours. Maybe it was a mistake to hand over a day of his life to this beautiful stranger.

Then Amy beckoned him toward the shower and the doubts disappeared. He could feel his excitement growing.

“Not now, honey. Tonight, when the meeting is over.”

As the water heated their bodies, she began to speak softly.

“The sound of the shower should make it impossible for the bugs to pick up what we’re saying. I got a green light on the operation. The keys on the desk are to a black Lincoln in the parking lot. There’s a duffel bag in the trunk that has everything you need. When you’re finished, meet me at gate 54 at the airport at 5 PM. I have been instructed to accompanying you on the flight and stay with you in the safe house until the heat is off. Do you have any questions?”

“Sounds like a plan,” he found himself saying. Plan? What plan?

“Good. Now, wash my back. And start singing something.”

Dylan sang a mediocre version of “I love a rainy night,” while he worked slowly at the job of washing Amy’s back. Regretfully, he finally finished the job and stepped out of the shower and toweled off.

Forty minutes later, he was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt and khakis. They weren’t his clothes, but they were a perfect fit. Amy stood before him in a frilly, low-cut white blouse and a very short skirt. Absolutely stunning.

“How do I look?” she asked.

Dylan blushed, fearing that she had caught him staring.

“Uh, good. Fine.”

“Good?”

“Beautiful, actually.”

“That’s more like it.”

When they arrived at the lobby, Amy had the doorman call her a cab.

“Have fun at your meeting, honey. I know I’m going to have a great time shopping.”

Dylan feigned dismay. Amy gave him a quick kiss and ran out to the taxi. As it disappeared, Dylan looked at the keys in his hand.

A black Lincoln with a duffel bag. Was it time to finally walk away? In for a penny, in for a pound, he decided. Besides, he was curious.

Dylan sat in the front seat of the car and pawed through the contents of the bag. The top page detailed the Sunday routine of a “subject”. A half dozen photographs pictured a man in a variety of poses. Dylan thought that he recognized the man.

There was also some money in the bag. A great deal of it, actually. At least couple hundred thousand dollars. Then, finally, the gun. The pieces quickly clicked into place.

Dylan was in over his head. It was definitely time to walk away. Time to walk away from the gun, away from the money, away from Amy. He would check into a different hotel, attend his boring conference, and fly back to Omaha at the end of the week. This was a type of excitement he didn’t need.

Dylan left the duffel bag on the seat, opened the door, and quickly walked away from the honey trap that had been set for him. He breathed a sigh of relief as he strolled down the street.
  
  
  
 
Dylan checked his watch again. Then he saw her out of the corner of his eye, clutching plane tickets in her hand. As a plane roared overhead, he felt himself captivated by her beauty once again.

[Editor’s note: although Crunchy’s article about her attempt to save the barn in West Des Moines was the inspiration for the story, this is a completely fictional history. It should not be interpreted as a history of that particular barn, but an example of the legacy of all old buildings]

I’m an old barn, and they want to tear me down. I’m impeding development, they say. There’s no historical value in keeping me around, they say. Nothing special ever happened here, they say.

While I hate to be disagreeable, I must beg to differ. This old barn has seen a great many things is the years that have passed since I was built in 1932.

My history goes back further than that. I’m the second barn to be built on this land. In 1893, Paul Wright erected a wooden barn in the very spot where I stand today. It was in that barn that Paul milked his Herefords and laid the foundation for generations of Wright farmers.

Paul was joined by his son William, and the two managed the farm together for a quarter of a century. By the time that Paul was ready to retire, William’s own son John was ready to join the business.

In the fall of 1931, tragedy struck the Wright farm. Near midnight one October evening, the barn caught fire and burned to the ground. Most of the cattle were in the pasture – only a newborn calf and his mother perished in the blaze.

In the spring of 1932, construction began on a new barn – me. John Wright convinced his father that it made more sense to build the barn with bricks, rather than rebuilding with wood and risking yet another fire.

Convincing his father was the easy part – convincing the bank in the midst of the Great Depression was yet another. In the end, Frank Jacoby at Prairie National bank agreed to lend the Wrights the extra money to build a barn of brick.

I can still remember the first birth that occurred within my walls. The heifer was having difficulties with the delivery. William Wright was out of town, so John called upon his neighbor for help. After William was finally able to tie a rope around the calf’s leg, he and Magnus Jorgensen pulled the calf to safety. A short while later, the calf was taking a few tentative steps and nuzzling with its mother.

Young Carl Wright loved to play in the barn. When he was younger, he and his friends would make a fort from the hay bales in the loft. When he was a bit older, he shared his first kiss with Betsy Hill in a dark corner of the loft – undisturbed by the world outside.

A year after Carl and Betsy were married, Henry was born. I clearly remember a day in 1955 when the five-year-old boy brought fresh cookies from the kitchen to his father. One of the dogs – the little terrier – startled Henry and caused him to drop the plate of cookies on the ground. Little Henry burst into tears at the great tragedy. When Carl saw his boy crying, he held Henry in his arms and told him that everything would be all right. I could feel the love between father and son that day.

The youngest Wright to call the farm home was Keith. Keith never enjoyed the fieldwork or the milking, but he spent time around the old barn. He would tune in the old radio to catch the faintest of signals from the station broadcasting his team’s games. On warm summer days, he would throw a baseball against my brick wall repeatedly – developing the fastball that would land him partial college scholarship.

All good things eventually come to an end. As the farm income decreased, the bids from developers increased, and eventually the Wrights were forced to sell. I managed to hang around for a few years, but now it seems that my time has come – unless people realize that important history happened within my walls.

The sound of Avril Lavigne’s voice was cut off suddenly when Beth Morgan pull out the earbuds and turned off her iPod.  It was time to rock and roll.

With one run remaining in the Olympics, the battle for the medals in the women’s luge was surprisingly tight.  The iconic German slider, Heidi Jager, had not been her dominant self and held a lead of just .092 seconds over fellow German Katarina Vogel.  Andrea Vogel – yet another German – was in third place, just .124 seconds back.  Beth – the great American hope – trailed by just .191 seconds, but an Austrian was just a hundredth of a second behind her.

The sliders were competing in reverse order of placement, with the best lugers waiting until the tail end for their turn.  Beth had been waiting patiently, and had now nearly reached the most important moment of her life.  She waited for the Autrian to finish her run.  It was a strong run, and Beth would need a mistake-free run to stay in fourth.

“Slide, baby, slide!” she told herself as she prepared for her run.

A moment later, Beth had launched herself down the hill.  She activated her mental map of the course and readied herself for the first turn.  She kept a low line into the corner and exited the curve with her speed still intact.  The adrenaline was coursing through her veins – racing down a sheet of ice at breakneck speed was perhaps second only to busting broncs on her uncle’s ranch in terms of pure excitement.  Beth struggled to keep the adrenaline from taking control – something that could cause her to oversteer and lose her line. 

As she zipped through the corners and straightaways, Beth realized that she was having the best run of her life.  She was perfectly in tune with the course – she was in the midst of a mistake free run, keeping a low line through every curve.  When she crossed the finish line, she glanced up at her time.  46.792!  It was the fastest time of the Olympics so far – and put her in strong contention for a medal.

Andrea Wagner was next on the course.  Beth held her breath as Wagner negotiated the course expertly.  It was a strong performance, but not quite good enough.  Wagner’s run caused her to slip behind Beth in the standings – clinching at least a bronze for the American.

Katarina Vogel had also been paying attention to Wagner’s run.  When Vogel reached the starting gate, she knew that a safe run wasn’t going to be enough to stay ahead of Beth.  She’d need a time of 46.89 or better to avoid slipping in the standings.  Vogel got off to a great start and was soon rocketing down the course.  Beth noticed that the German was taking a high risk, high reward approach.    Vogel made it nearly 2/3 of the way down the course before the risk caught up with her – her sled overturned coming out of a turn.  Vogel quickly righted herself and continued her descent, but she knew that a medal was an impossibility.

Beth Morgan could not contain her excitement!  Who would have ever expected an American to win a silver medal in these Olympics?  She watched Heidi Jager begin her run.  Jager needed a 46.982 to finish ahead of Beth – something she was certainly capable of.  Jager got off to a strong start and ran a low risk run – but, in typically Jager style, was able to get maximum speed out of it.  As the split times popped up, Beth saw that Jager was keeping pace with her time.

Three corners before the end, Jager exited the turn poorly, and it caused her to run bad lines through the final stretch of the course.  Certainly the mistake would cost her – but how much?  When Jager crossed the line, Beth looked up … and saw a time of 46.985!

Beth’s teammates mobed her before the reality sunk in – she was golden!

[Editor’s note: As many of you know, I am a huge fan of luge.  Unfortunately, for fans like myself, there are many good, independent luge sites on the internet – most of the sites are affiliated with governing bodies.  As a result, I have launched LugeFans.com, a place where luge fans can gather to discuss the sports.  I’ll be blogging on luge related topics – and seeking other writers to also write articles – but there are also discussion boards where free-form discussions can occur.  The site is still in its infancy (born yesterday), but expect it to grow considerably in the coming months.  As for Avril Lavigne?  Despite being a country fan for the most part, I’m a big fan of her music and just felt like slipping her into a story.  I always have her music on my iPod.]