April 2007, Vol. 6, Issue 4

April 2007, Vol. 6, Issue 4

Welcome back to one of the strongest issues of the year!

1. Flight of the Stripper by Paul McGuire
Just before the flight attendants closed the airplane doors, two extremely loud women with Fendi purses rushed in and sauntered down the aisles. One was a skinny black woman wearing oversized Chanel shades carrying a pink jacket. The buxom blonde wore a pink Juicy track suit and had the biggest and worst fake boob job I had seen since the days when I lived at the Redneck Riviera... More

2. Some Times by Sean Lovelace
My friend S____ is a huffer. Gasoline, Freon, silver spray paint, etc. If you were to believe what you read, what the medical professionals say, my friend will eventually suffer marked atrophy of the brain, and has about a three in five chance of living to age twenty-five... More

3. Earning Hazzard Pay by Matt Siller
I spent the night in a restless sleep, every noise sounding like the pop pop AK47 gunfire, loud then faint. My guess is that's probably what it was. As long as there were no explosions, I'm okay with distant gunfire - that's nothing new to this area. Most of it is liquored or 'gack'ed up troops firing into the air in the wee hours of the morning... More

4. Petite by Sigge S. Amdal
These girls, they were nice and all, but they couldn't have been more than seventeen. They have this puppy quality to their skin, and their eyes reflect the streetlights. Looking seventeen, they were probably around fifteen, sixteen maybe, making it a no-no for me. Too much emotion... More

5. The Night 911 Failed to Ring by May B. Yesno
The logical individual to approach would be the Sheriff. This individual, however, is a first water Bigot and an out right Chauvinist who has been in a position of some little authority far too long... More

6. Sure, My Name is Dave by Paul D. Lane
Oh well, I thought to myself, I made it through the Gulf war; I can make it through this crap. The Marines go on these deployments for six months at a time. The mission was we go around on ship for six months and hope we don't see much action... More

7. Flush by Mike Wenner
Somewhere in the middle of dinner, John's queasy feeling subsided when he let out a huge fart. He felt it coming and tried to contain himself as best he could so not to embarrass himself since a loud fart at the wrong time isn't always funny. But as you know, a loud fart in certain circumstances can be downright hysterical... More

What a Long Strange Trip It's Been...

From the Editor's Laptop:

April 2007 is one of the strongest Truckin' issues to date. I'm fortunate that the writers this month gave me the honor of publishing their stories. Sean Lovelace wrote about trying to persuade his sister not to join the National Guard. Matt Siller was behind the lines in Darfur Sudan and shared one of the most chilling Truckin' stories to date. Paul D. Lane weaved a personal story about being on leave in Oz as a marine. Mike Wenner's bathroom tale is a hilarious read. May B. Yesno is among the returning authors with another story, this one titled The Night 911 Failed to Ring. And our favorite Norwegian writer whipped up a bit about a night out on the town in Oslo. Of course, what's a Truckin' issue without a good old fashioned story about strippers on a plane from yours truly?

I ask that if you like these stories, then please do me and the rest of the writers a huge favor: Tell your friends about your favorite stories. It takes a few seconds to pass along Truckin'. I certainly appreciate your support. Feel free to shoot me an e-mail if you know anyone who is interested in being added to the mailing list.

Thanks to the writers who exposed their souls to the world and wrote for free. I'm lucky that you were willing to take that leap of faith with me. Thanks for inspiring me.

Thanks again to you the readers for wasting your precious time with Truckin'. Until next time.

Salukis,
McG

"Short as life is, we make it still shorter by the careless waste of time." - Victor Hugo

Flight of the Stripper

By Paul McGuire © 2007

My brother and I were on the same JetBlue flight from JFK to Las Vegas. We both booked separately and ended up getting seated in 19D and 20D. He was right in front of me sharing a row with an old guy. My row was empty and just before the flight attendants closed the airplane doors, two extremely loud women with Fendi purses rushed in and sauntered down the aisles. One was a skinny black woman wearing oversized Chanel shades carrying a pink jacket. The buxom blonde wore a pink Juicy track suit and had the biggest and worst fake boob job I had seen since the days when I lived at the Redneck Riviera. Her tits look like she had two pugs stuffed in there. Her weathered face suggested that she had been living a hard life of booze, drugs, and whatever else accompanied life on the pole. Even the botox could not hide the fact that everyone on the plane knew that they were strippers. And they were seated right next to me in 20E and 20F.

"I think your brother got a better seat assignment," the WWII vet joked with Derek. "He got the broads while you got stuck with the old fart."

Despite all my bad airplane karma the last few months having to sit next to crying babies and having several canceled and delayed flights, I finally got lucky and had two NYC strippers on their way out to Vegas to work the clubs or various hooker bars for the weekend. Man, sometimes I fuckin' miss the underbelly of Las Vegas. Sometimes.

The strippers next to me looked good pre-flight, but by the time the plane flew over the Rockies, sitting next to strippers got old.

They retired to the bathroom every thirty minutes (on a five and a half hour flight) to snort lines of blow. The black chick carefully climbed over me. She was thin enough to squeeze by. The blonde was not as limber. The one time she did that, I nearly suffocated in a sea of silicon. The bitches never even offered me a bump.

They yapped incessantly and drank like AlCantHang and BigMike on a bender. The blonde guzzled Skyy vodka and Sprite while the black chick ordered double Bloody Mary's.

"Are you going to drink with us?" they'd squeal everytime they ordered another drink.

"Nope," I said. "I'm high right now. On Jesus."

I lied. I wasn't high on Christ, just generic Vicodin. But I discovered that when you mention the Lord's name in vain, annoying strippers tend to leave you alone.

"By the way, where you girls working this weekend?" I asked somewhere over Ohio.

They were not happy that I called them out on living the total cliche of a life of a stripper and one muttered, "I'm retired."

They constantly rang the flight attendant light which drew the ire of the crew who did not like to be bossed around by wasted strippers. On our descent into McCarran, one flight attendant got snippy with the strippers because they wouldn't stash their purses underneath the seat. The other fussed around with her Blackberry and wouldn't shut it off.

"So strippers don't have to follow FAA rules?" I muttered. Their act was old and I couldn't wait to get off the plane.

When we finally arrived in Las Vegas, the buxom blonde shouted, "Time to double down!"

"If you're working at the Rhino, tell Brandi Hawbacker that Pauly says what's up," I mentioned as I gathered my bags and rushed off the plane. I hope that I didn't contract hepatitis C or some other venereal disease.

Paul McGuire is a writer from New York City.

Earning the Hazard Pay

By Matt Siller © 2007

5-Dec 6:00pm

So I didn't want to post this until after the fact because to those close, it has the possibility of being alarming. But it has been a year since I've been in Sudan, and up to this point, I really haven't been exposed to much danger, despite the fact that I live in a so-called genocidal war zone.

As outsiders, we kind of take this for granted...

'oh that village got attacked'

'wow... look at those pictures of the inhumanity'

'ouch... one of our camps had gunfire screaming nearby'

'ewww... that Sudanese chopper went down from an RPG and look at the pics of those charred bodies'.

We were removed from the violence and it meant about as much to us in headquarters El Fasher, Darfur as it did to those reading the NY Times or watching the nightly news in the states.

Until now.

Yesterday afternoon the Janjaweed came into El Fasher and attacked our local market, looting the shops and claiming the "Capitol of Northern Darfur" theirs. This of course has upset many an outside rebel. As a background, El Fasher is home to primarily SLA (Sudan Liberation Army) members, or Tora Bora as they call them (those that come down to fight from the mountains... as named from the mountain ranges in Afghanistan). The GOS (Sudanese Army) protects the town in a strange symbiotic relationship by running the airport and government facilities... but the SLA owns the town.

The Janjaweed have decided El Fasher is a strategic point they want and a day ago decided to take matters into their own hands and attack the market and say, El Fasher is ours... ignoring all sorts of peace agreements (UN resolution 1706 and the DPA) that the SLA and GOS have agreed upon.

In retaliation, the SLA has been generous, building up thousands of troops outside of El Fasher, saying... ok JJWeed, you have 24 hours to exit our town... otherwise we level it, you included.

Oddly enough, the GOS (who according to most sources, sides with the JJWeed) has claimed neutrality and not chosen a side in this skirmish.

Even more oddly, the leader of the SLA, and the mayor (wadi) of El Fasher, has skipped town, saying they will not have this disorder, but they choose not to be involved.

So a deadline has been set of noon tomorrow (the 6th) for a full withdrawal of JJWeed soldiers from the town. Otherwise... they come in droves and will not be selective in their targets.

The UN has pulled out of the city entirely, all AU (African Union) woman soldiers are out, and all International Org folks as well.

At 4 PM today, we evacuated all non-essential personnel into southern regions, moving all of our aircraft away from the airport (considered a prime battleground).

Unfortunately for me, I am considered key personnel. Let's forget the irony – Key Personnel Stay in the Danger in the War Zone.

So I helped execute the evacuation of the majority of personnel from this city to a safe zone. A select group of us stayed at the airport, on the sidelines watching the airplane props spin up and helicopter rotors initiate emergency evacuations, one hand in our pocket and another waving goodbye, while distant empty thoughts ran through our heads.

'Stay safe guys. We'll hold up the fort.'

Now most of the guys who stayed behind are former war vets and vigilantes, special ops, adrenaline junkies, smooth operators, the kind of guys who clap their hands together and rub, saying 'lets bring it on.'

Then there are the guys like me... heart beating with bittersweet feelings of 'so this is what it's like...'

The work stopped and we bade farewell at the airport and gathered up back at our headquarters, standing outside, cracking loose jokes, some acting macho, some standing quiet.

Our curfews had been set and the night is said to unfold uneventfully, waiting for our noon deadline tomorrow. We retired to our housing compound, waving hello to our comforted local security guards. It's impossible not to think... my safety is in the hands of these guys... who are probably Tora Bora or JJWeed, depending on the price?

We headed back to our rooms after mess and strangely conglomerate together. It's a bonding experience, I tell you that. The feeling of huddling outside together, in mixed emotions of what is to come in the next 24 hours, is pretty intense.

Will they resort to fighting? Will they stay in their own boundaries? Will they loot the western amenities? It's a lonely feeling, knowing the UN and US Embassy reps and International Orgs have all flown out earlier in the day, taking absolute precaution.

There's a sense of brotherhood forming with the group. Stick with me... we'll keep you safe... keep your head down...

There's a lot of speculation on whether or not the attacks will occur and to what extent. How do you think like an African? What do they have to gain? Are we a strategic target at all? Do they value life enough to respect us? Who is the GOS going to side with if at all? Perhaps the most troubling thing of the whole build up is that the GOS (who's been flying in troops by the thousands over the last 2 months) is no where to be found? Will they side with their traditional unspoken partners, the JJWeed, or will they side with their peace signatories, the SLA? How will that impact us?

It's a nerve racking and adrenaline filled thought, and I can't say I don't enjoy it because it's a feeling of eternal destiny taking shape and to think a crossroads is so near, it's powerful.

Now I've written about it as if attack on us is eminent, which in reality is a very low percentage. But when your in the zone, you think about this stuff. And understanding what it's like is, truthfully, one of the reasons I'm here.

But we will not speculate any further. We'll just keep our head down and stay secluded, aside from the wild video footage that may arise from my freshly charged camera.

I'm not a reporter, and I will be low key. But there's more to this story to come... stay tuned...

* * * * *
6-Dec 9:00am

I spent the night in a restless sleep, every noise sounding like the pop pop AK47 gunfire, loud then faint. My guess is that's probably what it was. As long as there were no explosions, I'm okay with distant gunfire - that's nothing new to this area. Most of it is liquored or 'gack'ed up troops firing into the air in the wee hours of the morning.

So I awoke and got dressed, checked the people outside my room to make sure I didn't miss anything while asleep. The morning was eerily quiet, cliché to say the calm before the storm, but that's what it felt like. I drove to work about 8am and saw a few children walking to school, herders moving their flocks to eat. I was scanning the panorama for any mass movement of people or vehicles and didn't see much. I passed the GOS military compound and they had stocked up on vehicles and people, but there wasn't much movement.

At the office, everyone was gathered outside for their morning smoke, shooting the shit about this and that in relation to what may or may not happen. Our locals came in to work and didn't have much news. The GOS has flooded the markets and the JJWeed are gathering on the outskirts of town. They didn't know about the SLA, but it was said mass vehicles were in tow last night from Millit, a town 1 hour north, gathering on the outside.

Three hours count down to the deadline and the butterflies are growing in the stomach. All of the employees are making final precautions getting ready for bunkering down and/or evacuation. We've packed Meals Ready to Eat (MRE's) and boxes of water in our bunkers (at the office and at our residence). We've all made our to-go bags (of which you have a change of clothes, some water, a little food, flashlights, basic survival stuff if you have it. Mine's basically my passport and all my per diem.) We're adding sandbags to the exteriors of the bunkers. We've lined the perimeter of our compound with another layer of protection, our cargo trucks. We're getting all of our 'Go Vehicles' gassed and packed with water. Our comm's team is installing portable internet to two of the vehicles (RBGAN, satellite internet service) and the vehicle maintenance team is changing filters and oil.

Mind you our last resort is to get into the vehicles and drive off into the desert, but it must be a secondary option. Our first resort is to get extracted by chopper at a specified rendezvous point, but if things are too hot, then this also works.

Two hours to countdown and we hear there are mass demonstrations taking place downtown by the locals. Then a hundred or so military vehicles drive in and locals throw rocks at them and scatter. Downtown's now been abandoned, shops closed, people hiding.

11:30am

30 minutes to decision point. There hasn't been much heard about any negotiations for the JJWeed pull out, and military strategy would think a daylight attack isn't advantageous... so maybe if nothing occurs they'd wait until evening. But it's hard to tell.

I'm at my desk, having been told to carry on as normal and follow up with various outstanding issues. I tell you now that's not the easiest thing to do when all sorts of life saving preparations are taking place outside and I'm in working daily business... my stomach is in knots. So I write this instead and let it go.

1:00pm

The deadline has come and gone, nothing major on any movements or occurrences troopwise. There's no smoke in town or flashes of lights or booms or anything relating to battles in our line of sight. We still are standing by. There's actually an excellent morale right now – and we're all prepared. I think it's more excitement than anything... and 90% says in historical context, nothing will happen and all this will be moot preparation.

1:15pm

A mass of protesting people have been moving toward our second camp in the area, Zam Zam, about 5km away from us. We're getting radio updates from our manager there. "There is a large group of civilians heading toward the camp." Security asks for more details which follow. Finally, "They are out front, are carrying sticks, and have stones in their hands." Security replies "Well don't get hit with a rock, stay indoors!"

Our staff has bunkered down there and the AU protection force (Rwandan soldiers – the best soldiers here in theater) have lined up in their fighting positions inside the camp. The protestors have looted the store in front of the camp and it's now burning. They haven't tried to overtake the camp, but we're fairly confident the Rwandans are the best we have to keep that from occurring. As opposed to other troops here, who, when queried as to what they were doing this morning, told us, "hiding under their mattresses."

2:00pm

In one of Sudan's great many ironies, we hear a funny update over the radio from Zam Zam. The very protestors who were upset with the AU, threatening to overtake the camp, have done an amazing 180. Shortly after the mayhem began, GOS police came rolling up (who are notorious for having itchy trigger fingers in controlling protests). The crowd shifted from angry to scared and, if you can imagine the nerve, has asked the AU to protect them from the GOS with an escort back to Fasher.

3:00pm

Nothing seems to be occurring at this point. The staff is scheduled to have a War BBQ at our residence this afternoon (conveniently enough, our social area also seconds as our security bunker), so we're all breaking early from work to cook, sit outside in the sun, and veg. Will there be a fireworks display tonight? At this point, it's looking like the once tense environment is all bark and no bite, which is a good thing.

8:30pm

It's the waiting that kills you, it's the waiting and what-if's that makes your heart beat. We've gotten through the day and nothing significant has occurred. Our BBQ fell through because we couldn't go downtown to get any meat. The guys conglomerated around each other, having a drink and a smoke, watching something light, "Blue Collar Comedy Tour" to detensify the situation.

There really are low odds that any harm would come our way. But the uncertainty is what makes your heart beat. As dusk and darkness set, the true tension rebuilds. If attacks are going to occur, it's in the night-time that they should be expected. Rumors are flying... thousands are troops are building outside the city limits... was that an explosion in town... I hear some gunfire nearby...

It really is the uncertainty, the anticipation, which drives the hammer into the nail of fear. It's a full moon tonight in Darfur, not the best time to move troops and capture the element of surprise. But an ultimatum was set and no one knows if it was met with resistance or acceptance by the JJWeed.

Folks here are under the impression that between midnight and 8 am we'll know whether or not the rebels mean business. How can you sleep when this thought process overwhelms you? Do you turn your comms radio up loud? Do you sit on the rooftops and watch?

Everything about this situation leaves the senses heightened. Adrenaline is surely a non-stabilizer.

* * * * *
7-Dec 8:00am

Well after a little small arms fire, a few far away mortars, and an aircraft bomber circling briefly, nothing to report. All seems quiet on the Eastern front. Our security status is still red, but it looks like this whole exercise was just that... good practice.

Part of me wanted the story to end in dramatic movie-like fashion, being whisked away in a helicopter while being chased by rebel-filled pickup trucks, flicking them off as we fly into the sunset. But I'll accept the fact that in this situation, less is much, much more, and the ending to a hard story doesn't have to be dramatic.

The groups that are fighting are fickle in their wants and I believe in this place there will be big threats and small battles until major intervention forces peace agreements that concede some sort of regional/government power to them.

There's an accepted risk we take by living in this place and I finally know what that risk feels like when the fire heats up. It's not so much being scared, it's more the intensity of uncertainty. There are people who live for this kind of feeling, professional soldiers, police officers, etc. I suppose you learn to control it to a point that it's almost a normal feeling. I don't think I want to get to that point.

Some may have said, why haven't all of you been evacuated? If the UN and other aid agencies jump ship at the possibility of danger, why not you guys as well? The fact is we have an obligation to support the AU mission and if we all leave it shuts down. So we will keep a minimum staff around until things really get hot. My company's been working in African hot zones for a long time and they're very good at ensuring the safety of their personnel. So I stand by that comfort, accept my decision to continue working here, and at the end of the day can say, "Well, today I earned my hazard pay!"

Matt Siller is a 20 something traveler and adventurist who's found a love working internationally. Aside from working in Texas and Washington DC, he's worked in Europe and Africa outside of his travels. He currently works in Darfur Sudan where he keeps a blog about his experiences.

Some Times

By Sean A. Lovelace © 2007

My friend S____ is a huffer. Gasoline, Freon, silver spray paint, etc. If you were to believe what you read, what the medical professionals say, my friend will eventually suffer marked atrophy of the brain, and has about a three in five chance of living to age twenty-five. My other friend, K____, is a United States Marine. Next week he boards a jetliner for Iraq, to Fallujah, where he has—under fire, with his specialty—approximately the same chance of making it.

I'm just trying to get you to think here.

"I'm thinking," my sister says. My sister is barefoot and with vertical hair—extremely vertical, a colorful epoxy involved, very impressive—and is one of the top classical pianists in the southeast United States. She says she now believes this to be meaningless, says she's realized a lot is meaningless, now that we're "at war."

She plans on dropping it all and joining the National Guard.

Defender of the hills and dells. The rivers and lakes and billboards. The homeland.
You cannot kill terror, I tell her.

She shrugs.

I order: a bottle of German beer, a glass of merlot.

She orders: Irish coffee.

Doer. Doer. Doer of...

If there is a collective force, a collective unconscious of evil arrayed against us, then who collected it?

I'm just trying to get you to think here.

"I said I was thinking." She is disappointed with her drink, a glass of coffee and whiskey. She expected something with a caramel color and topped with whipped cream. This is my sister.

I pour the beer into the merlot and mix the murky results with my index finger. I destroy two perfectly good drinks in her honor, to show her something.

"I don't get it," she says.

I say, "What do you think about Mozart?"

"I don't," she says.

I say, "'I studied politics and war that my sons will study mathematics and philosophy, so that their children will study art.' That's John Adams, father, founder, of the very country you long to defend."

My sister doesn't go for quotations and I can respect that. Still.

On the way out the door my sister is bitten by a baby raccoon. The little ball of fur scurries from beneath a newspaper stand and locks onto her ankle. I kick the raccoon, launch it into the busy street, where an SUV crushes it to a pulp, but the damage is done. I've never seen my sister bitten before, and it does nothing for her features: she seems to shrink and stumble; she blanches white, and clutches my shoulder.

"A raccoon in daylight," she stammers. "It means rabies. It means shots in the stomach."

We lean against the newspaper stand. USA TODAY. The headline: President to Authorize Additional 15,000 Troops.

I say, "Why? Tell me why! Why don't you wear shoes?"

She doesn't answer; doesn't know. She just starts shivering, and I pull her close.

I don't know, either. I really don't. And so.

Sean Lovelace is on a river right now. He has a book and a beer. Other times he teaches at Ball State University. His work recently appeared in CrazyHorse, Willow Springs, and so on.

The Night 911 Failed to Ring

By May B. Yesno © 2007

NOTE: After receiving notification that my last piece was published in the Truckin' I reply returned the eNotification with a note attached. In that note to the editor, I indicated that I would probably skip the next months issue. However, as I am noted for being concerned of other people - at best in my own mind; I added to the note that if the publisher felt anxiety, to eMail me and challenge me with a subject, and I would respond with a story (or at least that is what I led them to believe).

After the eMail disappeared into never, never, wherever, it occurred to me that the editor/publisher might, as seems to be their wont, panic and cease publication for the month with inferior materials to fill the edition. Inferior not in quality of penmanship, but quantity from uninterested persons, unspecified; and in their panic fail to realize that true genius awaited their very beckoning of distress.

The very concept of conceiving a plot, while simple, may suffer the malaise of creative genius. That malaise is easily explained as the active mind tends to sink into a morass of creativity with subjects, plots, beginnings and endings tumbling atop one another. Selecting the best from the superior can, at times, prove difficult. To assist the editor/publisher therefore; I felt compelled to create a subject line well before the expected melt down date and save myself having to satisfy another's itch. I determined the included small, un-important, event to be sufficient to forestall a panicked notification to myself at some unspecified, ill timed, future date.


The thought of the possible necessity of "Pulling Another's Chestnuts From The Fire" is rather unappealing in view of the impending graduation of ones off spring from both the highly selective private school he has been attending for the past ten years, and from the advanced courses he, himself, selected many months past.

I confess the impending graduation is a bright event in what could be construed a dullards life. My off spring has displayed little spark and sparkle in his pursuits, and has proven somewhat of a disappointment, if one considers the careful planning embedded in the union of my spouse and myself. I carefully examined the intellectual properties of his extended family, to include their relative social position before consenting to the union, believing resulting progeny would demonstrate the superiority of selective breeding. To some that rings cold and calculating; however, in actuality, it is simply fact that from the best stock come the finest. One must never lose that thread, because we each bear responsibility to improve the human race; as well as our own, immediate, condition.

The selection of elective courses by the off spring, which I consider far beneath his life's station and my expectations, did please me somewhat. I was elated when informed by him of his desire as it was among the first self created acceptable endeavors he had under taken. Except for improper pursuits most young men appear to enjoy, of course; and even then undertaken in groups, one feeding from another. Miserable lot, the male, at the best of times. However, this initiative by the off spring seemed to originate from an individual curiosity. It was only after extensive questioning and probing for logical reasoning did I indulged him.

His particular interest in communications fascinated me; though his seeming narrow focus on telephony was disturbing, in so far as it impinged on a “trade.” His station is well above standing in a mud soaked ditch or sitting on a bucket beside the road eliminating the troubles for that sort of persons, who wish nothing more of life than to share their immediate miserable lives with other ne'er do wells; or to purchase the latest mass produced, mass marketed disposable rag of pirated style.

However, the off spring countered each point introduced in the discussion with logical assumptions and clearly enunciated counter-points. A major telling point in his discourse involved the belief that knowledge of the basic of the craft would extend far in the proper management and supervision of individuals actually performing the labors, as he would have some sympathy to the extent of their short comings and tribulations. Which is always a factor with the trades.

Following that discourse, I ensured the credentials of the several courses of instruction the off spring presented me and satisfied myself his real desire to imbibe the knowledge. And supported the project.

All of which, I'm afraid, is outside the realm of the story I have undertaken to satisfy an angst attack from an editor.

That story assumes from an article in the local print media. The article reports indicate a home manufactured explosive device had been discovered in the confines of the local civic structure; housing the confinement facilities, the Sheriff's Office, the County Court House and all the other required physical properties necessary to the administration of local government.

This report, far from inciting the local populace as it well should, appeared to seep through the ether without touching minds anywhere. It is, in the realm of publishing engrained, and of more than passing interest. And as such items occur, excellent fodder for submission for publication; even if said publication were at a distance from the occurrence. Therefore, I planned follow-up; but I needed details.

The logical individual to approach would be the Sheriff. This individual, however, is a first water Bigot and an out right Chauvinist who has been in a position of some little authority far too long. I have encountered his mealy mouth and evasive character while attempting to protect my property and liberty some few times previous. I was forced to invoke my spouses status in the community a number of times to achieve my peace. But, then, there is little point of having it if one does not use it to achieve ones desires.

I determined, therefore, that a certain Sergeant of the State Department of Investigation would be the source I required for honest and forth-right answers to my inquires. I contacted him. His condensed explanation follows. I was forced to condense the conversation because I am, after all, somewhat attractive and a personality among those who know me. The Sergeant, thinking of it, is rather attractive also, and some portions of the conversation were intensely personal.

Never the less: The Sergeant reported that, indeed, a large (his emphasis) devise had been discovered in the complex and that the explosive had been placed in such a manner and was of such size, that with detonation, the cells of the confinement facility, the Sheriff dispatcher, the office of the County Attorney and several other administrative offices, including the offices of the Sheriff himself, would have been destroyed, not just damaged.

Suspecting the Sergeant was withholding some information, I pressed and he reluctantly admitted that certain information was being withheld from the public. I pressed more. He then informed me that the means of triggering the explosion were unique in design and demonstrated a very creative mind. It appeared that the outside, street corner, telephone tower for the 911 lines had been outfitted with a small FM transmission device. The device, when the number rang in the Dispatch office, would close, sending a signal. The investigating officials had discovered two other receiving/transmitting units after finding the explosives container was to be triggered by radio frequencies.

The Sergeant said that there appeared to be three fortunate gaps in an otherwise clever endeavor. The more minor gap was that the distances involved between the small transmitter and the repeater units helped in the Non-explosion. Then he stated; the placement of the units helped in the fact they were behind the metal rain guttering of the building and the explosive receiving unit itself was behind a metal door. The first he said must have been Divine Intervention; in that for the first time since the inception of the 911 system in that area there were no, repeat none, 911 calls initiated in the probable time frame considered.

Which was what prompted the Sheriff, when this happening was reported to him, to call the telephone company technician locally, who for some reason did not try the number but drove to the exchange house. On his way he happened to check the pillar box and discovered the signaling device, which he disconnected from the terminals.

The investigation followed.

Even though the story will write itself, I must place it aside for the nonce.

My off spring has begun badgering me for funds to vacation in Mexico recently. After reading what I have before hand written, I believe cancellation of his credit cards is the next step since I've already closed his bank accounts and notified the Federal State Department to terminate his passport. One must remember to caution ones off spring that graduation is a highly public demonstration of milestones everyone looks forward, both to achieve and be seen achieving. I must also impress upon him that achieving graduation in Telephony is not necessarily something he would wish the public to know, as a trades item, you understand.

Control and utilization of an undiscovered talent is very important. A more noble use is required. But, first, control necessary.

May B. Yesno is a writer from Fresno, CA.

Petite

By Sigge S. Amdal © 2007

'Twas a good night out last night. A young friend of mine was with us, so we couldn't go to any of the places where they check for ID. Most of the places downtown are twenty plus, except if you're a girl. Besides, he was drawing a lot of attention, being dressed as a mobster from the thirties. All he needed was a Tommy gun and a cigar. Don't ask.

We were withdrawing some cash when this group of youngsters made a hassle outside the kiosk. I went outside for a fag. These girls, they were nice and all, but they couldn't have been more than seventeen. They have this puppy quality to their skin, and their eyes reflect the streetlights. Looking seventeen, they were probably around fifteen, sixteen maybe, making it a no-no for me. Too much emotion.

I remember being baffled at myself, since it struck me that these kids were children. What were they doing down here with the sinners? Bad shit happens downtown.

One of the rowdy guys kissed one of them, while she clearly didn't want him to. Why didn't she brush him off? She's young and inexperienced, practically inviting him to rape her.

I don't fight unless I have to, but I really wanted to give him some of my striking argu-ments. He must've been twenty, or maybe even older than me. Going out with these kids. Usually girls are rather sensible, but when you catch 'em boozing they are acting like what they really are. Children. Shit like that makes me frustrated, but stepping in wouldn't have made it any better.

We got on our way to a place near Blitz, the infamous, occupied birthplace of Edvard Munch. His 'The Scream' is the single most reproduced print in the art world. His house could use a touch of paint though. And some outer walls.

There are three kinds of people going there: radicals, criminals and old homosexuals who for some reason don't go to gay bars. Instead they sit silently in the corner staring at you. Nice.

Now, I'm a beautiful man, as frequently commented by the queer side of society, but I am heterosexual nevertheless. One time Kornelius and I had to make a pit stop, and the only place in the vicinity was a gay bar. I've been to gay bar toilets two times in my life, and both have been terrifying experiences.

The first time I was going with some girl friends, on the condition that they promised to make out with me in case some of these athlete-looking gaysians made a move. They could've taken me easily, but I felt pretty safe surrounded by comforting cleavage. Then I had to take a shit. I almost crapped my pants where I sat in my booth, when I heard someone entering the restroom. Then another one. Fuck. I was trapped. "Here we go,”" I thought to myself. But nothing happened, and eventually they left without even washing their hands. Must have been silent code. That's the longest time I've held my breath in my entire life.

The second time was that time with Kornelius. I had to do number one, and for some reason I felt I had to prove my courage, so instead of waiting for a booth I went in the pissoir. Almost wet myself when some guy got behind me, really close behind me. Ad-miral Ackbar popped up in my subconsciousnes, standing on the bridge: "IT'S A TRAP!" Again I thought I had walked straight into some unknown, homosexual cere-mony. Of which there are plenty, if you don't know about them.

But it turned out all right. The guy was only checking his hair and accidently, at least I think it was accidently, got intimately close to me. He didn't seem to notice, however, so he didn't move. At least he wasn't looking at my penis.

Kornelius, the suicidal fuck, went in the ladies' room, almost getting himself killed by militant lesbians. They were angry for some reason. Or maybe they were just angry in general. We went straight for a strip joint after that ordeal.

When I think about it, maybe those old homosexuals don't go to gay bars because those who do are either extreme and bizarre freaks, or terrified kids who took a wrong turn somewhere and got in the wrong door at some point. "I'm not homosexual I'm just look-ing for the toilet."

It's like you have to excuse yourself before saying hello. Having sepa-rate clubs for people with different sexual preferences is rather backwards anyway, and boring or terrifying for everyone else. Apartheid anyone?

Anyway. Back to the radical place.

The red-eyed bartender looked like he'd been doing smack, all tired and woozy, but it turned out he'd been kidnapped while drunk, by two busty blondes, and taken to Den-mark. He had woken up at the docks in a different country, with a half-smoked joint and a Dear John letter in his lap. He smoked the rest of it and had to rush back over the sea to get back to work in time. Sounds like a nightmare to me, with my hangovers.

I was sort of standing in line there, three people on the stools in front of me; a Rasta, a bimbo in City Combat trousers, and their twelve-year old daughter.

"All right," I thought to myself, "it's that kind of place. Peace, love and all that. No harm done."

Until the twelve-year old picked up a pint with her little hands. I actually coughed. That's where I draw the line. One thing is putting the kid in a brown pub fre-quented by everything that can crawl; another thing is putting a beer in front of the kid and wishing her good luck in life.

I got up to the bar and ordered a beer, without making eye contact. I shuffled through a newspaper from two days ago. Her little hand going for the pint got within my line of sight, and more or less instinctively I turned to face her. To my complete bafflement, again, I realized she was probably a few years older than me. And really nice too. She smiled.

Petite. That's the word. It's the first time in my entire life that that word has come to its rightful use. She and her friends went out to smoke, I sat down with the beer at my friends' table, and she flashed a grin to me through the window. She probably knew what I'd thought. Smart girl. Then the grin turned into that lovely smile again, the kind of smile that goes right through, and you smile back without even thinking.

But I know what you're thinking. You're thinking she was a midget. But she wasn't.
No offence, but midgets have big heads. She was completely regular, except for her size. She was – petite. I wouldn't get it on with a midget, it just wouldn't work for me, but I could have done her. And I wanted to. She was all over me. Petite.

After a little while, as the chat got along with my friends, quite a few imposing questions began to dawn on me. Would I harm her if we went for third base? I mean, because of the size ration, I'd be like a giant to her. The monster mamba. Fee Fi Foh!

There were all kinds of safety precautions to consider... I would have to be careful kiss-ing her, so I didn't dislocate her jaw. And she would have to be on top, so she wouldn't suffocate or be crushed or anything. We wouldn't see eye to eye.

I was anxious to see what she could do with those hands, but, I nodded to myself with serious eyebrows, I wouldn't be able to bring myself to the doggy. That would be too kinky, or even perverse, if you catch my drift. Keep eyes on her face, a mature woman. A really nice one, too. And since she had to be very light, we could try all sorts of things. With her size we would be bound to end up in an awkward position. Or maybe just bound. I'm quite liberal when it comes to having fun.

My smile drew power from the thought. Petite.

All of this and more buzzed through my head with the happy bubbles of the beer. Life's too short not to give it a shot. Couldn't hurt. Unless it actually would hurt for her, of course, and then I wouldn't do it.

The obvious question arises: what happened?

Nothing. Nothing at all. I just talked and joked with my friends about everything from common aquintances to Bob Dylan's asthmatic harmonica. A blind fellow joined us there, and he knew all the Dylan lyrics, too.

You see, I was still waiting for the results of some, ah, medical tests. Since I'm such a good lad I didn't want to get involved with anyone before I knew they were in the nega-tive, hence; no mixing of bodily fluids. Going home with her would mean exactly that. If you approach the joys of sexual relations in a playful manner, a condom simply won't suffice. Fate was against me on this one, and the petite one was slipping through my fingers for every tiny tick and tack as the sand poured faster into the hourglass.

A hard motherfucking fact of life. Especially since she obviously had a keen eye to me. She tried to engage me in chatter when we were smoking outside, and we had that eye contact thing going on, accompanied by her lovely smile, throughout the evening. What a disappointment I must have been to her. But I didn't want to distribute the possible load I was carrying.

An ethical dilemma methinks, petite versus STD, and she was just found too light. Figu-ratively speaking. The grown-up thing to do.

But to my mind the show's not over till the fat lady sings. Or the tiny lady, whatever yout preference. The important part is the singing. Somewhere out there someplace, there she is; a little, light elf carrying the smile of an angel. And I'm going to find her, and make her sing. Fee Fi Foh!

Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.

Flush

By Mike Wenner © 2007

"We're going into the city for drinks and dinner with the college crew. C'mon, and get ready, it's going to be fun," she said excitedly.

"Yeah, sounds great," said John in a sarcastic tone. John was tired after a rough week and the most un-ideal end to 2006.

In the last week of the year, he managed to lose half of the information saved to his computer, lost his most valuable customer, and, well, cut himself shaving. Sure, the last one isn't that big of a deal, but who likes to roll into the holiday parties with a shaving accident. The pictures will be great!

On the way into the city, John's stomach was feeling queasy. He wasn't nervous, since he was meeting up with old friends. He wasn't starving since he just ate some pretzels. And he hasn't worked out in years, so it couldn't have been from sit-ups. Ignoring the feeling, John and his wife arrived at the Greek BYOB restaurant and the fun began.

The wine was flowing, both red and white, the hummus and pita was spread out on the table, olives all around, souvlaki was coming, those green leaf roll things were in abundance, and smiles were on everyone's faces. Hugs and kisses, hand-shakes and ass grabbing – it was the holidays! Everyone sat down at the table and kept on gabbing.

"I hear that so and so is fucking so and so," you could hear from one end.

"I heard that he's gay and hasn't come out yet," could be heard from the middle of the table.

"Hey, see any good music lately," is what was being said on my end.

All in all, good times catching up.

Somewhere in the middle of dinner, John's queasy feeling subsided when he let out a huge fart. He felt it coming and tried to contain himself as best he could so not to embarrass himself since a loud fart at the wrong time isn't always funny. But as you know, a loud fart in certain circumstances can be downright hysterical. Anyway, as John released this huge fart, he was able to keep it silent, but something didn't feel right. He wasn't sure and didn't make a fuss about it and kept on acting like nothing happened.

As everyone was getting up from the table and saying goodbye, someone said to John that he must have sat in something because his, "butt was wet."

"My butt's wet?" John questioned.

Embarrassed since he knew what happened, John scurried to the restaurant's bathroom, pulled down his pants, and noticed a big wet spot in his boxers. A wet spot - no shit, just a wet spot.

"Musta been one of them wet farts," he thought to himself. Really wet farts. Frantically, John tried to dry his boxers and pants. Unfortunately, the damage was done and he just had to pretend he sat in water or something.

John and his wife decided to head back to their friends' house to have a night-cap. When John got to the house, his friend immediately asked him how many fingers he wanted.

"How many fingers?" John asked.

"Yeah, I'm pouring a single malt. How many fingers? Two or three," he said.

"Two, I guess," said John as he rushed off to the bathroom. John closed and locked the door, fumbled with his pants, lifted up the toilet seat and BAM! An ASSPLOSION!

John's ass ripped the biggest dump of his life! It was everything you don't want at someone else's home. This was the type of dump that should only happen in your bathroom. Absolutely disgusting. Nervous that his wife and friends would hear him, his stomach began to get queasy again. Oh no, he thought, and his ass ripped another big one. He unleashed so much crap his body had to be empty.

"What brought this on?" he thought to himself. Stress? Food? He didn't know.

John finished his business and flushed.

But wait, it didn't flush.

IT DIDN'T FLUSH!

John became frantic. The bowl didn't overflow, the popa was gone, and the water was clean. But he didn't hear that final gurgle that a toilet makes when it's finished swallowing down your junk. John decided it wasn't good enough for him and flushed again. Not only did it not flush again, but this time it overflowed on the linoleum floor. Out of his skin, John got as much toilet paper as possible to sop up the water. He had gone through an entire roll when his ordeal was completed. He tossed the wet paper in the waste basket and decided to rejoin his friends.

He figured he wouldn't tell anybody about the incident and try to enjoy his single malt scotch. He took a hefty slug, sat back letting out a huge sigh of relief, and took off his shoes. Ahh...

A friend of John's wife then decided that she had to "pee." John suggested that she didn't go in the same toilet since he had just been doing his own business in there and it didn't smell pretty.

"I live with this one," pointing to his buddy Steve, "this can't be as bad as him," she said with a laugh.

When she was done, she flushed the toilet and then yelped, similar to a dog. "It's going to overflow," she yelled.

"OH MY GOD! STEVE! STEVE! STEVE!"

As Steve ran to the door, I stood up since I knew what was about to happen.

"Steve, get some towels," she yelled. As Steve ran off to the garage to get some towels, his wife looked at John and didn't say a word. She didn't have to – John's wife took care of it.

Mike Wenner is a non-Amish cool guy from Lancaster, PA.

Sure My Name is Dave

By Paul D. Lane © 2007

It was 1992 and my ill-considered three year marriage was coming to an end, I was on a Naval amphibious assault ship the U.S.S Duluth and I only had a few short months till my four year enlistment in the Marines was up. I had gotten the news a few ports earlier. I made the usual call to the wife to see how she and the kid were doing. I knew what was coming when she said, "I don't think you love me anymore." The point had been made. I hung up when she said she wanted a divorce.

Oh well, I thought to myself, I made it through the Gulf war; I can make it through this crap. The Marines go on these deployments for six months at a time. The mission was we go around on ship for six months and hope we don't see much action. I was semi-relieved when I got the news from my soon-to-be-ex that we were over. I took that as a pass to march on with my life. The deployment had taken us to Hawaii, Guam, Philippines and several other fun stops. The next venue was Perth in Western Australia; I was really looking forward to this in that we had no operations planed, just five days of liberty.

The Fleet was met by a big party when we pulled in, the locals had setup a nice big welcome party, and we actually were in a port very near Perth called Fremantle. The Party was fun beer and sandwiches and lots of local women, at the party I met a local family, mother and daughter who agreed to take me sight-seeing the next evening.

I met up with them the next day and the ladies actually showed me a very good time taking me to several interesting sites, including a prison where the last execution had taken place there in the sixties. The day included a nice lunch at a very quaint pub. The day went on and the mom said her daughter was to drop her off at home since she was tired. I was thinking jackpot of course.

I was feeling pretty good by the time we dropped mom off, it was sunset and we pulled into a little parking lot near the beach so we could talk. I thought she was going to play hard to get but she surprised me, she went right down on it. I do not have to tell any man that if it's been a while, you sure do enjoy a good blowjob. I am always slightly put off after a lady gives me a blowjob by what to say It is a little awkward. We just kind of made small talk after that then she took me back to the pier and dropped me off at my ship. I told her I would call her and we would get together again before I left, which I did not do. I guess I was still feeling a tad bit pissed off by the whole female race.

The next morning when I woke I was in a chipper mood. I decided to go on the train into Perth. I did not know in the least I would have one of the most memorable days of my life. The train ride was very nice and clean, no crazies like in some large American cities.

I got off at my stop in Perth and was bit lost not having a clue where to go or what to see. I went up the escalator to head on out to the street to get my bearings. I noticed when I got to the top of the escalator a very hot little Asian girl was checking me out.

I decided in my best military manner that this needed further investigating. I leaned against a rail there, letting her check me out. I could tell she thought she knew me or that I looked familiar, because she just kept staring at me. I was starting to get up the courage to go say hi when she finally came over she said a little shyly, "Are you Dave?"

I held out my hand and said, "Of course I am."

I decided a little thing like a name should not stand in the way of us getting to know each other. She said it was a good thing I had the idea to wear a purple shirt so she would know me. I knew my purple shirt was lucky but this was just crazy.

I found out later Dave was another Marine who was supposed to meet her there and he would be wearing a purple shirt. I decided it must have been destiny for me to beat Dave there. We decided to go sightseeing. She showed me around the city and we had a nice day.

After a while I had to give up the charade of pretending to be Dave since she had talked with him on the phone and kept catching me in tiny little lies. I was hoping she would not be mad and she just laughed it off and started calling me by my real name, Paul.

The day was coming to an end. In the afternoon we had taken the train a short ways out of Perth to where my young lady lived. She wanted to show me this little park next to her apartment. The time we had spent together had been very easy and we both had only one thing on our minds. I sat down behind a large tree on the grass and she sat down beside me. I reached out and started to unzip her pants and she said, "Don't stop at the zipper."

I of course did not.

Paul D. Lane and I am a comlpete degenerate gambler living in Southern Arizona with his wife and daughter.