Episode four of Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla...
"Southie," I heard myself murmur. I must have been dreaming. The turbulence from the warm air rising off the Blue Ridge caused the aircraft to tremor like a Manhattan debutante losing her virginity after the ball at the Waldorf-Astoria. "The ball after the ball," is what Carolyn and her girlfriend's call it. 'Southie!' After thirty years the phrase still makes my skin crawl. I left Dorchester Bay when I was 17. I never went back. Enrolling at Columbia, I spent nearly 5 years trying to lose my accent and the stench from Boston harbor. To this day there are two things I won't eat: seafood or pussy. The smell of either a reminder of the Friday mackerel dinners mother prepared. By the time I had taken my GRE's and been admitted to John Jay I was for all appearances New York born and bred. Waiting tables in Manhattan while completing my education I had looked only to the future. The idea of America is the endless opportunities it provides for those who find a need to re-invent themselves. We can no longer keep moving west when the soil gives out. The New Jerusalem is social mobility through economic gain and that is simply a combination of will and luck. I had both. 'Southie,' I thought, 'Why would I dream of that? It's been years...'
My anus clenched like it will at the urologists when he snaps that latex glove on his wrist and asks you to lean forward on the exam table. The plane jolted violently. My hands instinctively grabbed the arm rests. 'White Knuckle Club,' I thought. I have never gotten used to air travel. I had considered taking one of Carolyn's benzos before take-off but I needed to keep my edge on for when I arrived in Springfield.
I heard the flight attendant, Siobhan, somewhere behind me. Appearing next to me, her lovely put-on smile on her full, crimson Celtic lips she calmly placed a business card between my pale fingers and moved forward. Printed on the face of the cream-colored card was "Executive Conference Center, Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta GA". I turned the card over and in a women's pen was written, "Sojourners Rm.-2:30". I slipped the card into the pocket of my open collared Izod shirt.
In his second term Clinton had gutted the payrolls of both the Bureau and the Agency. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" meant new hirings went to Gays and Lesbians and minorities for what few new positions were available due to attrition. I didn't own a J.D; I was active in the fledgling American Catholic Church - there was no upward mobility available for me at the Bureau. It was time for me to get out. I had my twenty years in. I was still relatively young. I would become an independent contractor. With Lt. Sean Ryan, USMC as my liaison between the Agency and the Pentagon I could find work. There was always someone, somewhere who needed to be eliminated - "for God and Country".
Touching down in Atlanta I gathered up my Notebook and my briefcase, reached in the overhead for my bag and de-planed. Inside concourse T I boarded the shuttle and was whisked to the Atrium and the ECC. I found the Sojourners Room and knocked gently.
'No answer'. I placed my hand on the door handle and let myself in. I noticed a small 'fridge and helped myself to a LaBatt Blue. There was a knock and Siobhan entered, locking the door behind her. I moved towards her not losing my gaze into her eyes as we met, mouths open our tongues colliding. I withdrew slightly and nuzzled her neck as she gently bit my ear. "No marks, lad," she whispered. I pushed her towards the door, she allowing me to lead as if we were slow dancing. She struggled with the belt holding up my trousers and simultaneously unbuttoned them. Pushing down my zipper my trousers dropped unceremoniously to the floor. I lifted the skirt that was part of her Attendant's uniform and pushed her briefs aside. I paused and lifted my fingers to my mouth, wet them and reached down to moisten her vulva. She moaned and pulled me even closer. Standing now on her tip-toes she grabbed for my rigid cock and rubbed its head on her outer labia, guiding me into her at the same time. My instinct was to thrust immediately into her but I knowingly hesitated while she removed her hand. I moved inside her keeping my strokes short. I didn't want to interrupt the intense pleasure we both were feeling. She grabbed my exposed bottom and pulled me into her farther. I ground myself against her mons and I could feel her starting to climax as she got wetter and wetter. My cock swelled and I felt the rush of ejaculate move through my urethra and out the meatus. She came at the same time, sighing heavily as I grunted my satisfaction. We remained united for a moment breaking away after a pleasant, lingering kiss. I reached down and pulled up my trousers as she adjusted her knickers and pulled down her skirt. I stood there looking at her...
"What is it, love?" she asked in her oh-so-sensuous Irish brogue.
"Its just...I...erm," I stammered looking for the words...
"What? You gonna tell me you love me like some school boy might?" she laughed.
"Erm...ah...nooooo," I chuckled back.
"What is it, lad?"
"Um...Cath or Prot," I blurted out.
Laughing again she replied, "Da is Church of England. Mum is Catholic. They make it work. I am a Protalic. Any other questions?" all the while smiling broadly.
"A what?" I asked. Needing her to repeat what she had said as if I hadn't heard her.
"A Protalic, love. You never heard that word?"
"No." I said. The noun now embeded in my consciousness.
"Love, its been grand. You were grand but although the bank appreciates the deposit I'm afraid if I don't clean miself up there's gonna be a run on it and I'll catch a rash."
"I need to catch my connection," I said unemotionally.
"Goodbye and good luck, O'Tyme," she smiled. "Take care."
"You too, hon," I grinned as I grabbed my luggage and headed to the door.
As I closed the door over I said to myself, 'Protalic. I will never forget that word for as long as I live.'
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Joyce Harwood
In installment three of the series, Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla...
Mustafa Khan Trol looked at the dial on his Rolex. With the precision of an obsessive compulsive who has washed his hands for the 60th time in an hour he and his 11 comrades had commandeered the entire Bass Pro Shop complex in Springfield, MO without a shot being fired. The only resistance they had encountered was the fat rent-a-cop guard at the main entrance who succumbed without fanfare to Ali's pilfered fillet knife across his jugular. They watched mesmerised as the 'pig' in his death throes, legs spasming, heart still beating, spewed blood a metre into the air from the gaping wound to his throat. The terrorists had corralled the employees and guests into the food court separating the men from the women. There were no windows for the enemy to come through. The entrances and exits had been wired with explosives. The complex secure, they were safe - for the moment.
By striking at the heart of America's heritage of fresh water sport angling the goal was simple: Create chaos, panic and terror amongst the greater Midwest population. If America knows she is vulnerable in a small city nestled in the Ozarks she will know she is vulnerable anywhere. Hit "The Great Satan" where its festering, filthy, foul-mouthed father's of whores spend their dollars - on fishing supplies, was the plan. If 9/11 was a wake-up call for America, Springfield they hoped would be its nightmare morning commute through mid-town traffic. "Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he spends all of his time in the cellar working on his hobby and neglecting his hygiene" or so the witticism goes. The plan was flawless. Before they were dead, all of the world would know about Abu Garcia and its St. Patrick's Day attack in Springfield, Missourah, USA. "Allahu Akbar!"
Arriving at Ronald Reagan Airport, Nick O'Tyme showed his ID to the chief officer of Homeland Security. The officer instantly recognized O'Tyme's clearance level and ushered him personally to the boarding gate. While the masses stood on queue with their belts and shoes in hand Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla, was hustled past the metal detectors and x-ray booth to the awaiting American Airlines flight to Springfield, MO on a Boeing 777.
The buxom flight attendant leaned towards O'Tyme's lap and clicked his safety belt for him lingering a bit too long with her ample cleavage inches from his weathered, chisled broad cheekbones.
"Excuse me," he flirted, "I see your name is Siobhan, do have you a little Irish in you?"
"On March 17th, sir, everyone is Irish," her lilting, patented Belfast-raised brogue evident.
"Let me rephrase that," he smiled, "Would you like a little Irish in you?," he stared, looking into the emerald portals to her soul.
Smiling professionally, she glanced at the holstered Glock hanging freely from its cowhide shoulder harness. 'Loaded and ready to go,' she thought to herself. 'If he were to discharge that weapon prematurely all would be lost.'
The captain's voice over the plane's intercom interrupted their verbal foreplay..."Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm your captain, Jack 'the Hook' McLeod. Happy St. Paddy's day to all and welcome to American Airlines flight 6 - oh - 9 to Atlanta's Hartsfield airport. Our trip will be approximately 90 minutes door-to-door. Enjoy your flight and Erin Go Braugh!"
'What a tool,' O'Tyme thought. A meaningless phrase in any language let alone Gaelic. Opening his lap top he went to his personal addy and clicked the attachment with the Abu Garcia file. His focus now was on studying the non-enemy, paraphrasing the President's malaprop. Somewhere in the file was a clue to what makes a man a terrorist.
Mustafa Khan Trol was born in Dearborn, Michigan on Mawlid, or the day of birth of the Prophet, in 1980. His father, a Twelver Shi'a entrepeneur traveled extensively throughout the Middle East on business. Mustafa's mother also Shi'a, remained in the family's modest home in Dearborn raising his sister and keeping house. Mustafa accompanied his father regularly on trips overseas as a youth. He had learned Arabic as well as Farsi. His fluency allowed him to read and speak extensively about fundamentalist Islamic causes. His sympathies leaned towards al Qaeda and at Uni he had made acquaintance with similar thinking Semetic young men. Although on the international watch lists he moved freely within the States, communicating with his comrades via stolen mobiles and email. In an age of instant access communication there was no need to travel abroad even if he were able. Mustafa's contempt for the West, especially Americans was palatable. For him, Satan was not a literary metaphor for the ills of Mankind. Satan for him was as real as the early spring Sun rising higher each day across heaven and Allah's abobe.
O'Tyme closed his Notebook and stared straight ahead. His job was clear: he was hired to kill Mustafa Khan Trol by any means at his disposal. If innocent people were injured or killed in the process it would be an unfortunate necessity. 'This was not Waco and that dyke Janet Reno was not giving the orders,' he knew from Ryan's briefing. O'Tyme closed his eyes and concentrated on the face of his opponent. Like a mongoose stalking a cobra he would strike so quickly Mustafa wouldn't have time to react.
To be continued...
Mustafa Khan Trol looked at the dial on his Rolex. With the precision of an obsessive compulsive who has washed his hands for the 60th time in an hour he and his 11 comrades had commandeered the entire Bass Pro Shop complex in Springfield, MO without a shot being fired. The only resistance they had encountered was the fat rent-a-cop guard at the main entrance who succumbed without fanfare to Ali's pilfered fillet knife across his jugular. They watched mesmerised as the 'pig' in his death throes, legs spasming, heart still beating, spewed blood a metre into the air from the gaping wound to his throat. The terrorists had corralled the employees and guests into the food court separating the men from the women. There were no windows for the enemy to come through. The entrances and exits had been wired with explosives. The complex secure, they were safe - for the moment.
By striking at the heart of America's heritage of fresh water sport angling the goal was simple: Create chaos, panic and terror amongst the greater Midwest population. If America knows she is vulnerable in a small city nestled in the Ozarks she will know she is vulnerable anywhere. Hit "The Great Satan" where its festering, filthy, foul-mouthed father's of whores spend their dollars - on fishing supplies, was the plan. If 9/11 was a wake-up call for America, Springfield they hoped would be its nightmare morning commute through mid-town traffic. "Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he spends all of his time in the cellar working on his hobby and neglecting his hygiene" or so the witticism goes. The plan was flawless. Before they were dead, all of the world would know about Abu Garcia and its St. Patrick's Day attack in Springfield, Missourah, USA. "Allahu Akbar!"
Arriving at Ronald Reagan Airport, Nick O'Tyme showed his ID to the chief officer of Homeland Security. The officer instantly recognized O'Tyme's clearance level and ushered him personally to the boarding gate. While the masses stood on queue with their belts and shoes in hand Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla, was hustled past the metal detectors and x-ray booth to the awaiting American Airlines flight to Springfield, MO on a Boeing 777.
The buxom flight attendant leaned towards O'Tyme's lap and clicked his safety belt for him lingering a bit too long with her ample cleavage inches from his weathered, chisled broad cheekbones.
"Excuse me," he flirted, "I see your name is Siobhan, do have you a little Irish in you?"
"On March 17th, sir, everyone is Irish," her lilting, patented Belfast-raised brogue evident.
"Let me rephrase that," he smiled, "Would you like a little Irish in you?," he stared, looking into the emerald portals to her soul.
Smiling professionally, she glanced at the holstered Glock hanging freely from its cowhide shoulder harness. 'Loaded and ready to go,' she thought to herself. 'If he were to discharge that weapon prematurely all would be lost.'
The captain's voice over the plane's intercom interrupted their verbal foreplay..."Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm your captain, Jack 'the Hook' McLeod. Happy St. Paddy's day to all and welcome to American Airlines flight 6 - oh - 9 to Atlanta's Hartsfield airport. Our trip will be approximately 90 minutes door-to-door. Enjoy your flight and Erin Go Braugh!"
'What a tool,' O'Tyme thought. A meaningless phrase in any language let alone Gaelic. Opening his lap top he went to his personal addy and clicked the attachment with the Abu Garcia file. His focus now was on studying the non-enemy, paraphrasing the President's malaprop. Somewhere in the file was a clue to what makes a man a terrorist.
Mustafa Khan Trol was born in Dearborn, Michigan on Mawlid, or the day of birth of the Prophet, in 1980. His father, a Twelver Shi'a entrepeneur traveled extensively throughout the Middle East on business. Mustafa's mother also Shi'a, remained in the family's modest home in Dearborn raising his sister and keeping house. Mustafa accompanied his father regularly on trips overseas as a youth. He had learned Arabic as well as Farsi. His fluency allowed him to read and speak extensively about fundamentalist Islamic causes. His sympathies leaned towards al Qaeda and at Uni he had made acquaintance with similar thinking Semetic young men. Although on the international watch lists he moved freely within the States, communicating with his comrades via stolen mobiles and email. In an age of instant access communication there was no need to travel abroad even if he were able. Mustafa's contempt for the West, especially Americans was palatable. For him, Satan was not a literary metaphor for the ills of Mankind. Satan for him was as real as the early spring Sun rising higher each day across heaven and Allah's abobe.
O'Tyme closed his Notebook and stared straight ahead. His job was clear: he was hired to kill Mustafa Khan Trol by any means at his disposal. If innocent people were injured or killed in the process it would be an unfortunate necessity. 'This was not Waco and that dyke Janet Reno was not giving the orders,' he knew from Ryan's briefing. O'Tyme closed his eyes and concentrated on the face of his opponent. Like a mongoose stalking a cobra he would strike so quickly Mustafa wouldn't have time to react.
To be continued...
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Velma Valento/Helen Grayle
In part two we find Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla, in his offices in Georgetown...
I had a hunch the size of the fleshy appendage between Julia Child's withers that Ryan wasn't being frank. You don't drink, chase skirt, or torture the son's of Allah with a man for 25 years without knowing something about him. Ryan is a Company man and for him lying is as instinctual as an afternoon wank. Picking up the remote I surfed over to MSNBC for a different perspective. An ad for male enhancement was on. My Celtic DNA means I'm short but thick. The only time I ever hit bottom is with the bar girls in Bangkok. These ads play to the average man's deepest insecurity. If a broad wants big let her find a John Shaft. Otherwise, shut yo mawf.
Abu Garcia! - the most dangerous cell operating outside Mosul today. These bastards make Bin Laden's pawns look like frat boys at a Homecoming toga party. I pressed "talk" on the desk's land line and asked Takiyah to step inside my office.
Takiyah's size 44 double D breasts walked through the door with the rest of her bringing up the rear. "Sweetheart, book a business class seat on the next available commercial flight to Springfield, Missorah," I said without looking away from the plasma tv. "And please forward the 'Abu Garcia' file as an attachment to my personal email addy. I'll read it on the flight out." As she turned away I thought to myself, 'Poor broad, she'll be kicking those puppies around the shower in just a few short years'. MSNBC was confirming that it was Abu Garcia terrorists inside the Bass Pro Shop complex.
I sat there surfing between MSNBC and CNN trying to figure out those people in the Middle East. Any religion that denigrates and treats women the way Islam does needs to be brought into the 21st century. Their hypocrisy is only a symptom of a deeper, darker misogyny that permeates their patriarchy. Here in the West we worship the female form, not try to keep it covered. Islamic feminism calls for women to equally share in the Jihad. The women want explosives with nails strapped under their O Abaya's. What a fucked-up culture! However you feel about W's Crusade, you can't argue they didn't cause it. It may take twenty years but sooner or later our side will prevail.
The cell phone inside my jacket buzzed. I knew it was Carolyn calling to apologize for her behavior this morning.
"Hi, hon," I schmoozed. "Everything okay?"
"Nicky, its all over the tv! I'm scared..."
"Carolyn, you're safe where you are. Take a Xanax and turn-off the news stations."
"Nicky, about this morning..."
"Honey, its perfectly okay. We are entitled to our moods."
"I hate myself sometimes, darling, for being such a bitch."
Carolyn's insecurity has never endeared her to me. My golf trophies on the mantle require less maintenance.
"Listen, babe, Ryan's people need me in on this and I have to fly out to Springfield. I'm going to miss the St. Patrick's dance at the Knight's of Columbus. You'll have to tell Father Fumagalli I won't be able to MC tonight."
I knew what she was thinking. Yes, I had promised we'd attend the dance. She had bought a new little black dress, to hang amongst the other little black dresses in the armoire. "Shock and Awe" is Carolyn's social function plan of attack. With a figure like hers the tailored designer outfits cling to her like the hide on a cypress swamp panther. What I don't understand is how less than a square yard of material costs $500. Anticipating her reaction to my absence tonight I went on the offensive..."Carolyn, the Spring Fling at the country club is just around the corner. We'll knock 'em dead next month."
"Oh yes, Nicky, its just..." her voice trailed off. "Okay, honey, will you promise you'll call me when you get to Springfield?"
"Yes, baby, I'll ring as soon as we hit the tarmac. Bye now."
"I love you, Nicky," she whispered.
"I know you do, honey, thank you." As I closed my cell over I realized I'll have to replace her with a younger woman in another year or two.
"Nick, I arranged your flight for 1 pm out of Ronald Reagan," Takiyah called from reception. "You'll have connections in Atlanta. And Detroit. And at O'Hare. You'll arrive shortly after 6 pm in Springfield."
It's only a 90 minute flight out of D.C. fer Christ's sake," I hollered.
"Nick, I have no control over the airlines."
"I know sweetheart, thank you for reminding me," I shot back.
"You know, Nick, your passive aggressive approach to anything that doesn't go your way is not endearing to any of us," Takiyah responded indignantly.
"Yeah, right...I know, I know," I said sheepishly. She was correct of course. Sarcasm in the hands of the wrong person is never acceptable.
To be continued...
I had a hunch the size of the fleshy appendage between Julia Child's withers that Ryan wasn't being frank. You don't drink, chase skirt, or torture the son's of Allah with a man for 25 years without knowing something about him. Ryan is a Company man and for him lying is as instinctual as an afternoon wank. Picking up the remote I surfed over to MSNBC for a different perspective. An ad for male enhancement was on. My Celtic DNA means I'm short but thick. The only time I ever hit bottom is with the bar girls in Bangkok. These ads play to the average man's deepest insecurity. If a broad wants big let her find a John Shaft. Otherwise, shut yo mawf.
Abu Garcia! - the most dangerous cell operating outside Mosul today. These bastards make Bin Laden's pawns look like frat boys at a Homecoming toga party. I pressed "talk" on the desk's land line and asked Takiyah to step inside my office.
Takiyah's size 44 double D breasts walked through the door with the rest of her bringing up the rear. "Sweetheart, book a business class seat on the next available commercial flight to Springfield, Missorah," I said without looking away from the plasma tv. "And please forward the 'Abu Garcia' file as an attachment to my personal email addy. I'll read it on the flight out." As she turned away I thought to myself, 'Poor broad, she'll be kicking those puppies around the shower in just a few short years'. MSNBC was confirming that it was Abu Garcia terrorists inside the Bass Pro Shop complex.
I sat there surfing between MSNBC and CNN trying to figure out those people in the Middle East. Any religion that denigrates and treats women the way Islam does needs to be brought into the 21st century. Their hypocrisy is only a symptom of a deeper, darker misogyny that permeates their patriarchy. Here in the West we worship the female form, not try to keep it covered. Islamic feminism calls for women to equally share in the Jihad. The women want explosives with nails strapped under their O Abaya's. What a fucked-up culture! However you feel about W's Crusade, you can't argue they didn't cause it. It may take twenty years but sooner or later our side will prevail.
The cell phone inside my jacket buzzed. I knew it was Carolyn calling to apologize for her behavior this morning.
"Hi, hon," I schmoozed. "Everything okay?"
"Nicky, its all over the tv! I'm scared..."
"Carolyn, you're safe where you are. Take a Xanax and turn-off the news stations."
"Nicky, about this morning..."
"Honey, its perfectly okay. We are entitled to our moods."
"I hate myself sometimes, darling, for being such a bitch."
Carolyn's insecurity has never endeared her to me. My golf trophies on the mantle require less maintenance.
"Listen, babe, Ryan's people need me in on this and I have to fly out to Springfield. I'm going to miss the St. Patrick's dance at the Knight's of Columbus. You'll have to tell Father Fumagalli I won't be able to MC tonight."
I knew what she was thinking. Yes, I had promised we'd attend the dance. She had bought a new little black dress, to hang amongst the other little black dresses in the armoire. "Shock and Awe" is Carolyn's social function plan of attack. With a figure like hers the tailored designer outfits cling to her like the hide on a cypress swamp panther. What I don't understand is how less than a square yard of material costs $500. Anticipating her reaction to my absence tonight I went on the offensive..."Carolyn, the Spring Fling at the country club is just around the corner. We'll knock 'em dead next month."
"Oh yes, Nicky, its just..." her voice trailed off. "Okay, honey, will you promise you'll call me when you get to Springfield?"
"Yes, baby, I'll ring as soon as we hit the tarmac. Bye now."
"I love you, Nicky," she whispered.
"I know you do, honey, thank you." As I closed my cell over I realized I'll have to replace her with a younger woman in another year or two.
"Nick, I arranged your flight for 1 pm out of Ronald Reagan," Takiyah called from reception. "You'll have connections in Atlanta. And Detroit. And at O'Hare. You'll arrive shortly after 6 pm in Springfield."
It's only a 90 minute flight out of D.C. fer Christ's sake," I hollered.
"Nick, I have no control over the airlines."
"I know sweetheart, thank you for reminding me," I shot back.
"You know, Nick, your passive aggressive approach to anything that doesn't go your way is not endearing to any of us," Takiyah responded indignantly.
"Yeah, right...I know, I know," I said sheepishly. She was correct of course. Sarcasm in the hands of the wrong person is never acceptable.
To be continued...
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Miss Ruth Wonderly/Miss LeBlanc/Bridgid O'Shaughnessy
There I was balls deep in my Administrative Assistant when I heard the phone ring. "Christ", I gasped, "Of all times for the god damn phone to..." Dropping her nail file she reached for the receiver. I marvelled at her ability to multi-task and made a mental note to give her a raise. I drove into her like a Toyota Land Cruiser through a deep ravine on the savannah. My fingers grasped her ample buttocks leaving indentations in the firm flesh. A white light flashed inside my brain, my knees began to buckle and from far away I heard Takiyah's voice...
"Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla's office, how may I help you?" Silence. "Yes, Lieutenant? Well, sir, I expect him any moment...he's just coming now, sir...yes, thank you, sir." She pressed mute and turned slightly, watching me pulling up my trousers. "Nick, its Lieutenant Ryan on line one. Nick? Nick, did you hear what I said?"
My mind wasn't on work this morning. Carolyn had awoken me with a cup of steaming hot joe and with her mouth firmly around my shame she had brought me off so suddenly I hadn't had time to warn her of the impending consequence of her warm, wet wake-up call. She was annoyed. She expects a shoulder tap and if she doesn't get it she thinks she's got a green light. For all her good-naturedness Carolyn remains reluctant to be nourished with andro-protein. Her east coast WASP roots the most likely reason for her bulimic like response to fellatio.
"Ryan? What the hell does that bastard want at 9 o'clock in morning?"
"He says its urgent, Nick," she continued, arranging her skirt at the same time.
"Takiyah, call those payroll people and tell them I have authorised a raise for you."
"A raise? Nick, didn't you just give me a raise?" she smirked.
"Hey, boundaries there girlfriend. Without boundaries we are lost as a society...oh hell, never mind. I'll take the call in my office."
"Yes sir, Boss," she smiled warmly.
I don't know what I'd do without her I thought..."Oh, send Carolyn some flowers, you know what she likes..." Walking into the office and closing the door behind me I prepared to hear my best friend's voice.
"Ryan, don't tell me you're cancelling lunch! Its St. Paddy's Day fer Christ's sake! What's up?"
"Nicky, turn on CNN. The live feed they're posting isn't pleasant."
From his inflection I knew immediately that the news was bad. Was it ever good?
I watched the aerial camera shots from the Time-Warner owned helicopter appear on the plasma screen.
"Nick...brace yourself...its Abu Garcia...they've overtaken the Bass Pro Shops operation in Missouri. Nick, they've got hostages...among them are members of the Bass Pro Tour, in town for a promotional tournament."
"Jebus! Is it ever gonna stop, Ryan? I mean, we can't let these bastards get away with this crap..."
"Nicky, it gets worse...they...they've got Roland Martin in that building."
The chill up my spine was like the feeling you get when you check online to see your 401k is worth a quarter of what it was the day before. "Martin? I thought he was at Sam Rayburn for the season? What the fuck is going on, Ryan?"
To be continued...
"Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla's office, how may I help you?" Silence. "Yes, Lieutenant? Well, sir, I expect him any moment...he's just coming now, sir...yes, thank you, sir." She pressed mute and turned slightly, watching me pulling up my trousers. "Nick, its Lieutenant Ryan on line one. Nick? Nick, did you hear what I said?"
My mind wasn't on work this morning. Carolyn had awoken me with a cup of steaming hot joe and with her mouth firmly around my shame she had brought me off so suddenly I hadn't had time to warn her of the impending consequence of her warm, wet wake-up call. She was annoyed. She expects a shoulder tap and if she doesn't get it she thinks she's got a green light. For all her good-naturedness Carolyn remains reluctant to be nourished with andro-protein. Her east coast WASP roots the most likely reason for her bulimic like response to fellatio.
"Ryan? What the hell does that bastard want at 9 o'clock in morning?"
"He says its urgent, Nick," she continued, arranging her skirt at the same time.
"Takiyah, call those payroll people and tell them I have authorised a raise for you."
"A raise? Nick, didn't you just give me a raise?" she smirked.
"Hey, boundaries there girlfriend. Without boundaries we are lost as a society...oh hell, never mind. I'll take the call in my office."
"Yes sir, Boss," she smiled warmly.
I don't know what I'd do without her I thought..."Oh, send Carolyn some flowers, you know what she likes..." Walking into the office and closing the door behind me I prepared to hear my best friend's voice.
"Ryan, don't tell me you're cancelling lunch! Its St. Paddy's Day fer Christ's sake! What's up?"
"Nicky, turn on CNN. The live feed they're posting isn't pleasant."
From his inflection I knew immediately that the news was bad. Was it ever good?
I watched the aerial camera shots from the Time-Warner owned helicopter appear on the plasma screen.
"Nick...brace yourself...its Abu Garcia...they've overtaken the Bass Pro Shops operation in Missouri. Nick, they've got hostages...among them are members of the Bass Pro Tour, in town for a promotional tournament."
"Jebus! Is it ever gonna stop, Ryan? I mean, we can't let these bastards get away with this crap..."
"Nicky, it gets worse...they...they've got Roland Martin in that building."
The chill up my spine was like the feeling you get when you check online to see your 401k is worth a quarter of what it was the day before. "Martin? I thought he was at Sam Rayburn for the season? What the fuck is going on, Ryan?"
To be continued...
Friday, October 3, 2008
Online dating redeux
About me: I am randomly described by co-workers and acquaintances as "loathsome", "repulsive", and "reptilian". After my last relapse a co-worker used the adjective "odoriferous" because during my last "run" I neglected my hygiene for a fortnight. My most recent rehab (my sixth) is my last. I promise. No more crack, no more Jack, no going back.
My first marriage didn't last because we were much too young. My second wife came out after 7 months of what I thought was a pretty good relationship. I was just too in love to see the mullet, the flannel shirts, the fanny pack worn in front and her purchase of a pick-up truck as signs she might be gay. Don't get me wrong - I like the Rainbow people. 'Hope I'm not being politically incorrect here. I'm just being honest. My third wife wandered off the trail in the Adirondacks. She was never found. The private detective her parents hired to find her said I was involved but he just didn't like me.
I am glad the judge has garnished my salary for the back child support I owe. I am still able to put a little aside for an apartment of my own. The Men's shelter where I am staying doesn't provide any privacy. I am eligible for subsidised housing in 2009.
On our first date I would like to introduce you to my Home group, "The Sister's of Satan". I will take you to an undisclosed location where we will don black robes, light candles and stand around a Pentagram and summon our Master forth. After the vigil the goat will be lead into the circle and ... well, you'll just have to see for yourself. After the Mass I will take you to a cemetery where we can read gravestones by moonlight. If we "click" perhaps we can break into a Catholic church, have some sacramental wine and desecrate the alter by making passionate love on it.
Or, we could meet for coffee in a public place because hey, you know, you never know who you'll meet on the Internet and I have a need to feel safe when meeting a stranger.
My initital online profile did not draw many dates (see the first posting to this site from July). The women who I communicated with appeared uninterested in me. A reoccurring theme in what women on these sites are looking for in a man, a date, a partner is HONESTY and a SENSE of HUMOUR. Wow! Who knew? Honesty is so important to these women that they will colour their hair, wear contacts, use mascara and make-up, only submit head shots, post professionally taken pics, post a pic of a model and claim it is of them, not post a pic. The sites themselves carefully choose who they want to represent in the pool of available women and post those pics. These of course are extremely attractive women who, through an accident of birth, are blessed with the features we men find most attractive. Or, perhaps should I suggest what this culture tells we men we must be attracted to. And the women, who have learned to use their looks to be successful in life - to get the right jobs, land the right first husband (or so they thought), and generally benefit socially in a myriad of ways from their appearances - are looking for HONESTY. I realise at this juncture that what I am suggesting is misogynistic. As an undergrad I minored in Women's Studies so perhaps calling me a misogynist might be going a bit too far...
What I have attempted in posting the fictional "profiles" on dating sites was merely a psychological and social exercise to see what responses I would receive if I were "honest" and/or had "a sense of humour". I drew no hypothesis and I have no conclusions. What I do understand from reading the profiles of people on these sites is: there are a great many women and men "out there" who are searching for someone who only exists in their own private world. Shallowness is not gender specific. Neither is Denial.
My first marriage didn't last because we were much too young. My second wife came out after 7 months of what I thought was a pretty good relationship. I was just too in love to see the mullet, the flannel shirts, the fanny pack worn in front and her purchase of a pick-up truck as signs she might be gay. Don't get me wrong - I like the Rainbow people. 'Hope I'm not being politically incorrect here. I'm just being honest. My third wife wandered off the trail in the Adirondacks. She was never found. The private detective her parents hired to find her said I was involved but he just didn't like me.
I am glad the judge has garnished my salary for the back child support I owe. I am still able to put a little aside for an apartment of my own. The Men's shelter where I am staying doesn't provide any privacy. I am eligible for subsidised housing in 2009.
On our first date I would like to introduce you to my Home group, "The Sister's of Satan". I will take you to an undisclosed location where we will don black robes, light candles and stand around a Pentagram and summon our Master forth. After the vigil the goat will be lead into the circle and ... well, you'll just have to see for yourself. After the Mass I will take you to a cemetery where we can read gravestones by moonlight. If we "click" perhaps we can break into a Catholic church, have some sacramental wine and desecrate the alter by making passionate love on it.
Or, we could meet for coffee in a public place because hey, you know, you never know who you'll meet on the Internet and I have a need to feel safe when meeting a stranger.
My initital online profile did not draw many dates (see the first posting to this site from July). The women who I communicated with appeared uninterested in me. A reoccurring theme in what women on these sites are looking for in a man, a date, a partner is HONESTY and a SENSE of HUMOUR. Wow! Who knew? Honesty is so important to these women that they will colour their hair, wear contacts, use mascara and make-up, only submit head shots, post professionally taken pics, post a pic of a model and claim it is of them, not post a pic. The sites themselves carefully choose who they want to represent in the pool of available women and post those pics. These of course are extremely attractive women who, through an accident of birth, are blessed with the features we men find most attractive. Or, perhaps should I suggest what this culture tells we men we must be attracted to. And the women, who have learned to use their looks to be successful in life - to get the right jobs, land the right first husband (or so they thought), and generally benefit socially in a myriad of ways from their appearances - are looking for HONESTY. I realise at this juncture that what I am suggesting is misogynistic. As an undergrad I minored in Women's Studies so perhaps calling me a misogynist might be going a bit too far...
What I have attempted in posting the fictional "profiles" on dating sites was merely a psychological and social exercise to see what responses I would receive if I were "honest" and/or had "a sense of humour". I drew no hypothesis and I have no conclusions. What I do understand from reading the profiles of people on these sites is: there are a great many women and men "out there" who are searching for someone who only exists in their own private world. Shallowness is not gender specific. Neither is Denial.
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