John O'hare's Murderous 2

MURDEROUS THOUGHTS ABOUT MY HAIRDRESSER RUNNING SCARED IN FLORIDA

A NOVEL BY

JAMES KEAGAN

Also by James Keagan The Lime Street Massacre: Short Stories of Fascism in Liverpool And Its Profound Affects Upon the United States "Red Gladiators," from Tales From The Traveling Kop

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For Jane and, of course, my Natalie

Special thanks to Tony for kick starting this and letting me use him as a character. Thanks to my friends in Atlanta (you know who you are) for helping me survive in these turbulent times, Ellen, my sister Emily, for Steve in Atlanta , Steve in New York, Clay for support, Sandy and Elly for ideas. Ron and Mick in Florida. And to my wonderful hairdresser Marissa, whom I would recommend to anybody. Ken RIP

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Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust TS Eliot

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MURDEROUS THOUGHTS ABOUT MY HAIRDRESSER:

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Running Scared in Florida by James Keagan

Liverpool "Well, maybe a blow torch and a pair of pliers to my testicles, and someone threatening to kill my daughter," he replied. I’ve always found it funny, if not refreshing, how people have this yearning to tell me their weaknesses. I sometimes have to clasp my palms around my ears in order not know too much. You never know who wants this information. Before you know it, you have Boris and his three out-of-work electrician political asylum seeking buddies visiting you in the middle of the night to show off their prowess of the trade with carefully placed electrodes. This extraordinary trait in people to tell me (or is it everyone) their innermost secrets has always amazed me. I mean, why the hell would a man named (let’s call him Bob) Bob wait until his wife had gone to the bathroom in my local pub, then with upturned lips confide in me that his business had gone pear shaped and he was filing for bankruptcy to run off with his wife’s sister who he’d been having a rampant affair with over the last three years. The man had only had two pints and I only came in to watch the football. Maybe it’s the way I dress, my demeanor, definitely not my Liverpool accent. I think I just smile too much and people look on it as a priestly thing. "Oh, he must have a damn confession box down there somewhere." But I don’t. As soon as the afflicted couple leaves the pub I tell all and sundry about the whole affair, embellishing the whole way. His firm was going belly up because he had his finger

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in the till and the reason for the affair was because the wife refuses to take part in certain perverse acts in the bedroom, her sister will. I’m just a natural gossip. I lie too, truly believing it to be an outlet. I’m not being deceitful, I just have to. Yet despite all these, what some people might call, failings I’m very popular. I once told the whole pub that I was going on a tour of Italy with a girlfriend from London (they wouldn’t know her), and boarded a plane to Belgium to look for grenades on WWI battle sights. They would think I was crazy. On my return, I purchased a bottle of fake suntan lotion then wore it for the next two weeks less and less, telling stories about Roman romantics. I’m still smoking even though it inadvertently killed both my parents. My father at the wheel, they were returning from a little soiree at The Frog and Duck. The manager had let his regulars stay ‘til four a.m. They were traveling at eighty miles per hour in a forty-five mile per hour speed zone on a quaint little byway called Dairy Lane, so named because there had been a dairy there for as long as anyone could remember that took up the whole of the secluded winding thruway. My dad, a passionate smoker, had one in his lips just as he saw the slow moving milk cart oozing from the dairy gates. The offending cigarette fell from his mouth, burning his crotch. The Volvo hit the crate with such a force it took out both my parents and a whole neighborhood’s milk. The milkman survived with minor abrasions. There is an upside to this. My father was the owner of a successful tool making company that was soon bought out after his untimely demise. The profits went to a bank account specially made for me with a small allowance for my guardian, Aunt Peggy. You can’t blame her for abusing me. Although she was my father’s sister, they had had a tempestuous relationship. As soon as I was of age, I left her with the safe knowledge that I was financially secure for the rest of my tormented life.

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Yet all was not blissful. On the periphery it seemed I was doing nothing, but everyone knew I was doing something and I was getting strange looks. Things weren't what they seemed to be. I had no time to lose, yet how much time did I have left before they were on to me? Florida I knew I had to leave Liverpool. People were getting too suspicious. The feelers were out and the publicity about Alexander Litvinenko's murder was oppressive. I thought of New York. You could get lost in New York. Then I thought of the weather. Autumn leaves were already peeling off the trees and the wind from Russia was rushing in as a reminder that I was sick of low temperatures. No, I needed warm climes. I decided on Florida. Without a word to anyone, I left my apartment with one suitcase and hand luggage then boarded a plane to Tampa. I decided to fly out from Manchester rather than London, partially through convenience but mainly because I didn't want to be around the capital, there were too many eyes. Although I was nervous the flight went without incident and I was relieved to touch down on foreign soil. At the airport I was reminded of the feel of America. I had been to The States before, but not Florida. There is a European feel in Europe, and definitely an American feel in the U.S. I ordered a wheelchair from the plane to the baggage area. If there was someone waiting for me the last thing they would be looking for is a cripple. My luggage was placed on my lap and I was pushed to the car rentals where I used my never-ending credit card to hire a convertible, then after putting down the top I headed south, breezing over the intra coastal bridges taking in breathtaking views of turquoise water enveloping the beauty they call Florida. England seemed a million miles away, but I had to concentrate. I had a job to do. I drove for half an hour down the scenic Interstate 275 before seeing a sign for St. Petersburg. I had always wanted to travel to the one in Russia. There would be no WWII battle

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sites here to survey but the weather would be far better. That's where I was heading, I needed to start again where nobody knew me. Yet I passed the signs for the city and took an exit further south for St. Pete Beach. I could get lost in a beach resort just as easily as a metropolis; so I thought. I entered a new world and cruised the streets with an air of freshness. Everything was turned around. The gearshift car was replaced by an automatic, just put your foot down and drive through routes that were shifted from names like Dale Street and Scotland Road to romantic places like Sunset Way and Boca Ciega. Telegraph poles were supplanted by palm trees. People in overcoats waiting for a bus to arrive, bracing themselves against a bitter cold wind and an icy drizzle, were replaced by a completely different race of all ages, dressed in t-shirts and shorts with an air of complacency. It was the end of the earth, why go anywhere else? I chose a spot named Blind Pass Road to live on. It had a nice ring to it. I could live on Blind Pass Road. Within a week, I had completed all the essentials. I had rented a furnished apartment on the beach next to a cozy tiki bar. My flat had a wonderful view and the luxury of the sound of crashing waves to help me sleep. Unpacking my sparse baggage I distributed its contents through-out drawers and wardrobes then finally collapsed on the bed looking up at a whirling ceiling fan (so southern) and watched it circulate an air of freedom I had never experienced before in my life. Yet as I felt the reins of oppression loosen around my neck I hoped beyond hope that it would not be replaced by a noose. I bought a car (another convertible) then found a hairdresser and a psychiatrist out of the St. Pete phone book with my new cell phone and made an appointment with both. The ad for the hairdresser was one of those small box ads. I didn't want a full-page ad, but needed someone who

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knew what they were doing. I was pretty adamant on that issue. Yet my psychiatrist I picked had a one liner, a woman at that. I needed someone to play with. Then last but definitely not least, in fact, most imperative, I gained a library card. In order to do this I needed some kind of identification with my address, so I procured a driver's license with my false passport. After this I drove with anticipation to the South Beaches Library, a very stoic looking building that reminded me too much of a prison. I marched through the automatic doors into an atmosphere of domestication. People who had traveled from places like Canada and England felt at home here, searching through shelves of books so familiar to them they might as well be in Nottingham or Toronto. Behind a fake wooden desk were several older ladies and a very tall man, each with an individual style. I immediately picked up on (or did she pick on me?) a lady who resembled Lauren Bacall, the wife of one of my favorite actors, Humphrey Bogart. "What can I do for you, sir?" she asked in a very Alabama accent. "Why, ma'am, I do believe I want to join ya'll's little library," I replied in my best Southern drawl. "You ain't from around here, are you, sir?" she said in a terse yet sarcastic manner. "No," I apologized. "I'm from back east, Liverpool England, actually." For some reason, I felt an ultimate respect for this woman. Why does this happen to me? I couldn't lie to her. She was tall with prominent cheekbones, shoulder length black hair, much older than me but with eyes as young as mine. She was different from the rest of the staff and they looked on jealously as she dealt with the new customer, who wasn't only not elderly, but dressed in the trendiest of British fashion. It was a far cry from English libraries where you were issued a cardboard membership without a hello or a goodbye. I was given a tour of this fine establishment, which reminded me of

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Dr. Who's TARDIS. It looked so small from the outside and forbidding, yet this lady was showing me around another planet. "Could I see the war section?" I inquired "Why, of course, sir," she answered after showing me the array of DVDs on offer to the local residents of which I felt included. I immediately plucked Albert Speer's Inside the Third Reich from the shelves. I had read it many times but it would make me feel at home. "Would it be possible to check this out today?" I asked, sheepishly. "Why, you are allowed up to 30 books at any one time, sir," she answered. Days later I would check out Speer's seething biography--Albert Speer: His Battle with Truth by Gitta Sereny. I needed equilibrium. She also wrote a scathing attack on the commandant of Auschwitz. I didn't know where to go next, author or book. I'll work it out. I was getting used to this librarian's southern drawl and was in heaven, feeling at ease in my new-found domain. Checking out my Speer book with my new plastic library card gave me a moment of completion. I had found a new home, a new identity, and another life. I was ready to spend the winter, if you can call it that, in relative serenity with "Snowbirds" from up North, escaping cold weather to relax and fish. I ran on the beach through crashing waves, watching endless palm trees flash by me, read my war books and spent cozy evenings at the tiki bar. They all soothed me but I knew it couldn't last. The old feelings were coming back. Besides, like I said, I had a job to do. I received a call on my cell phone from the principal of one of the local schools informing me of the progress of my eight-year-old child named Jeremy. A normal reaction would be to inform the old bat that I do not possess an eight-year-old child, and neither want nor desire to know the wants or whereabouts of someone else’s little brat ,yet I actually kept up this banter. It

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wasn't my fault she called the wrong number. Progress reports on my non-existent little child arrived weekly. Two weeks ago, I almost got him in trouble by calling the school to inform them he was going to be late because he had diarrhea. He was already there. I am thinking about last night. A pretty girl I met at the tiki bar dragged me to a party. I was forced into the quintessential conversation on politics with fat American bossy bitches. One was a lesbian. They’d never heard of Marx or Engels, the laissez-faire system, didn’t even know Hitler’s birthday or his dog’s name (Blondie). No wonder I’m angry. It’s no fun and the sink’s blocked. Melisa Up until two weeks ago I liked my hairdresser Melisa, a very striking girl, maybe too young for me. She dates a fireman with a small penis. I have this Beatles haircut thing going which she normally keeps trimmed impeccably, yet on this horrific Tuesday morning, the stench of nail varnish was even more prevalent than usual. She was talkative, not with me as usual, but with the next hairdresser. They were leaning over each other’s seats, screaming and giggling over ex-boyfriends. Snip snip, razor razor, and before you knew it, there was a massacre on my head. And I had to pay her. Tears of laughter were rolling down her cheeks as I gave her the check. I wanted to kill her in the worst possible way. No axes or knives. No guns, too quick.

Elizabeth My shrink doesn’t help. I’m there to help her profession. She’s beautiful, long blonde hair. I stare at her legs underneath that short skirt. I lie to her. I lie to everyone but with her it’s different. I’m telling lies about my progress. It doesn’t exist. It never will. "So Nicholas, how are things going?"

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"I’m progressing, Elizabeth." I took the fact that after a couple of months she allows me to call her by her Christian name as opposed to the usual "doctor," as a come-on. "I’m not lying as much," I lied, glaring into her crotch. (If I looked into her eyes she would know I was doing her a favor.) I can’t say to her that I’ve abruptly stopped or she would be suspicious. Baby steps. "Are you still angry about your haircut?" "No, Elizabeth, I’ve thought about it for two weeks now. My hair will grow out. It’s just not worth it." I’ve even completely stopped obsessing about treading on the lines on the pavement. (I have to give her some complete victories.) "Are you going to your probation officer? Tomorrow is Wednesday." "Of course, Elizabeth." I said her name as much as possible to make her other patients jealous. She didn’t know I’d never been caught. I’d just told her about jail and probation to make her feel sorry for me. "Drugs?" "No way," I lied. Everyone needs drugs, don`t they? Why do I have to impress this woman? Is it unavailability or something? "Stealing?" "I already told you." "Just making sure." I look at that plaque on the wall, noting she had gained her degree at Northwestern University. Then I look at the wallpaper. What is it hiding, the cracks in the plaster? Then I looked back into her crotch and think that I’m helping her with her career in psychiatry. She

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finally noticed my pupils were glued to her vagina and sat up, her elbows on the chair and with that amazing ability women possess, outstretched her arms by two feet of their normal length and ruffled her skirt another two inches towards her knees, crossing her legs from left to right. I didn’t flinch. And so it went for another half hour, her thinking of a glorious career in psychiatry and me, having weird thoughts about her that were below my field of vision. (Too close to her eyes.) I left her plush office, down hot marble steps into bright sunshine walking across to the pavement making sure I stepped on every line, thinking murderous thoughts about my hairdresser.

Hurricane I woke with an unexpected feeling of normality. It was a false sense of security that would haunt me during this anything but normal day in Florida. My struggle against reality started with a trip to the convenience store to buy cigarettes. The place was packed with both tourists and locals who were stocking up on goods ranging from beans to beer. I had a TV but had yet to watch it on the grounds of inconvenience the result of which was that I had no warning of the impending hurricane looming off shore. Welcome to Florida. My second guess that something was coming was the sign on the front door of the bar that I had intended attending for that day saying in bold letters they were closing until further notice. This confused me, my temper and mood mixed with the weather. A hurricane has circling winds that cause outer bands of pressure on a certain point; this time being St. Petersburg. As I tried to return home, the wind whipped up into a tirade I could never have conceived let alone experienced such a storm; I was worried and it got worse.

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A palm tree crashed in front of my car. The soft top was flapping as the rain came crashing into the interior. I parked adjacent to the tree and exited the vehicle with no particular plan, my shirt billowing like a parachute. I was close to the once beautiful coast that had taken on a devastating and scary new look. Everything had turned around. I was soaked to the skin and looking for solace which I found in the form of beautiful brunette shouting from the second floor balcony of an apartment building, "Get up here, you're going to drown" she screamed. I followed her advice and trudged up the already drenched stairs, the surge from the sea had been swift. I reached the second floor to an outside corridor separating two adjacent doors, only a metal rail guarding against the chaos, and was given a warm welcome. She was gorgeous, long black hair, wearing only a leopard skin bikini revealing a slender tanned body and with the glazed eyes of a seasoned alcoholic she gave me a hug. Opening one of the doors she said "Come in you`re soaked . We entered a sparse but clean apartment where everything was beige, from the carpet to the ceiling. "Want a drink?" she shouted against the noise of the wind. "Love one," I replied feeling I had gained sanctuary. She then introduced me to a burly looking chap slumped across the beige couch wearing only a pair of black shorts and a stoned grimace that told me he had a tale to tell. "This is John Smith," she said turning away to pour drinks. His bare, tanned, corpulent torso revealed a hole through his left shoulder which I assumed was from a bullet of some sort. The power was out and candles illuminated the room. To add to the eerie scene John Smith was playing "Madam Butterfly" from a battery powered cassette player sat on his lap. I was suspicious to say the least. She informed me that John was a gay opera singer who had served in Viet Nam. He was smoking a joint and very stoned. I had entered my first hurricane party.

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"Oh, my name is Gabrielle," she blurted. Then returned from the kitchen with two glasses. "Vodka ok? Sorry no mixers, just ice," she said handing me a glass then giving me a huge kiss. Withdrawing I said, " Vodka is fine with me and my name`s Nicholas, thanks for saving me. I`m not used to this kind of thing in England," We smiled at each other in a sexy way and cheered our drinks before taking huge gulps. Between the hurricane and the company I was in full shock. She opened a glass sliding door then grabbed my hand and pulled me out to the porch as we watched water pour in from the sea and concrete lampposts sway in the crackling wind. It was an incredible experience exacerbated by another sexy kiss from Gabrielle. We walked back inside and closed the door to the intrusive storm to meet the stoned John Smith. I sat across from him and struck up a conversation while Gabrielle fixed us another drink. I tried to steer away from talking about Viet Nam, as I knew it would probably bring back bad memories. "You're a Brit, ain't you?" he asked in a half Southern, part California accent. "Yes, Liverpool, actually." "You guys had it right, you got the hell out of India after the Second World War. The French held on to 'Nam and got us into that damn shit." The conversation was hard to follow due to the noise of the wind. "What are you doing here, Nicholas?" Gabrielle asked as she returned from the kitchen and handed me another vodka before settling on the couch with her own. "Oh, just looking around, Gabrielle. How about you?" "I'm a manicurist," she answered, exhibiting bright lime green nail varnish on her long fingers. "I just like chopping nails."

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"Since 'Nam I've toured New York, Chicago, Paris. I've been all over Europe doing opera," John said in that certain lisp gay men seem to attain, while toking a joint. "Now here I am stuck in St. Pete, not exactly the cultural center of the world." "Do you mind if I use your bathroom, dear?" I asked in an almost apologetic manner. "Of course, not, love," she replied taking off an English accent, something I have noticed Americans like to do when I`m around.. I entered the squat bathroom with apprehension. As I lifted the toilet lid (there was a sign saying DOWN, BOY on the underside) I noticed to the left of me was a door, a real door, with a lock and knocker covering the bathtub. Then just as I was taking a piss,( the tinkle must have awakened the bathtub's passenger) lo and behold came a knock on the door from beneath. I zipped my fly then with the utmost curiosity slid the door across the tub where I discovered a child of around four years old on a bubble water proof plastic sheet who announced, "Hi, I'm Charlie." He was accompanied by a flashlight, a Gameboy and a Teddy Bear. "and this," he said holding up the bear," is Arthur." It was ironic that the hurricane was named Charlie. I didn't know what came first, the wind or the kid in the tub. And I said, "I'm Nicholas." With that he had the confidence to climb out of the tub and hold my hand into the living room, while asking, "Where's Mommy?" "I'll take you," I replied. Whereupon entering the living room Gabrielle sprung open her sparkly eyes to Charlie, "Hey, Baby, you hungry?" I was in dismay. "I'll make you some spaghetti." "Okay, Mummy."

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Charlie looked on eagerly as his mother staggered into the kitchen and put a pan of water onto the stove. I sat on an armchair across from John who was puffing away at the untidy joint. "So how did you get the hole in your arm, John?" I inquired. "Well, it wasn't at the damn opera," was his reply. "Tet Offensive. Scared the shit out of us. Didn't expect it. I was only a translator over there. I wasn't really a soldier, yet got all involved. I speak seven languages. Look at where it got me, a fucking hole in the shoulder." Then he took another drag and lay back with the look of someone who had got something off their chest. Charlie sat at a glass dinner table as Gabrielle brought in a steaming bowl of noodles. Then she sat next to John, crossing her beautiful legs, and went back to her vodka, while giving me a sexy wink. Charlie finished his dinner and his mother led him back to the bathroom, where I could hear the door being slid back over the bathtub. Gabrielle returned to the couch, refilling our drinks on the way. She looked vivacious under the illumination of the glowing candles . Then just when I thought my hurricane experience couldn't get any stranger, Gabrielle took off her bikini top revealing a beautiful pair of pointy breasts, nipples erect and announced, "I'm in the mood for a threesome but John here is gay as a Christmas tree, so it looks like just you and me, Nicholas." The ex-soldier and now opera singer took his cue and, with Madam Butterfly tucked under his arm, exited back to his neighboring apartment and I took mine. I followed this ravishing girl to her bedroom where we had marvelous sex while her son slept in the bathtub under a door and the weather wreaked havoc outside. The sound of the wind plus the sex had a soothing affect and we both slept soundly, waking the next morning to relative calm. Her long dark hair felt like heaven on my shoulders as I watched her hazel eyes rouse, and she greeted me with a kiss. We had sex again and I announced that I had to leave to check on my car. We disengaged and I

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returned my disheveled clothes to my body. Gabrielle gave me her cell phone number, a farewell kiss and I left the apartment to an ominous knocking sound emanating from the bathroom. I walked down the dank, putrid smelling staircase into the mayhem God had created, starting with a foot of water I had to trudge through, then walked a flooded hundred yards to my car. I was blessed, through all that carnage, downed trees, toppled lampposts, broken windows, a twisted evacuation sign with its arrow pointing to the ground, my car was untouched. I entered it, squeezed the bottoms of my jeans into the street then drove precariously through the river of roads to my apartment, swearing to watch the TV for future catastrophes.

Natasha Feeling the need to see half-naked bodies, I went to a bar named The Surf located on the beach which afforded a fine view of scantily clad sun worshipers. They were acting out the typical beach scene, swimming in the ocean, throwing balls to each other or simply lying on the warm sand waiting for their bodies to turn a beautiful color to show off at home, a color which would soon fade along with the memories of their day in the sun. "Frolicking," I believe that`s what they call it, a luxury I was denied as a child. Now, I have too many things on my mind. Telling myself this was too much flesh for me (but maybe it wasn't) I could tell already that I would have to put my voracious appetite for stockings and suspenders on hold for a while, the girls' legs here were too tanned for that kind of thing. I was dressed in a long sleeved shirt adorned with a trendy zigzag pattern and women's jeans. I couldn't find any flared jeans in the men's department, so I dabbled in the women's section even though they insisted I use the men's changing rooms. I take a size 12 but can squeeze into an 11. I had been to The Surf before and their less than average bands playing beach music to tourists usually made me frantic. Yet on this

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day, there was a band that made even Jimmy Buffett songs seem semi-palatable. The lady on the microphone had a marvelous gravely voice and you could tell she had been attractive in her day. As usual, I was smoking like a fiend but could not for the life of me find an ashtray. I was leaning on the balcony overlooking the beach where sat an array of tables painted in beach colors ranging from lime green to turquoise, the nearest being occupied by a young black man and a white woman who was very sensual. They kept petting each other and you could tell they were very much in love. Now, I'm not prejudiced but it was unusual to see a mixed race couple in this part of the world. When the black man rose to leave for the bathroom, I was astounded to notice he was the same height stood up as he was sat down. She wasn't just with a black man, she was with a black dwarf (he had a Rasta dreadlock thing going and seemed very proud of it). But that's the thing about dwarfs: their bodies are the same size as ours, they just have short legs and arms, and sometimes oversized heads. Just as the band was starting into a Bee Gee's song, the black dwarf returned from the bathroom and I realized I had to strike up a conversation with this couple. I strode over to their table and asked if I could join them. They said it would be fine and allowed me to sit with them. The lady introduced herself as Susan. The black dwarf introduced herself as Cindy. Oh, my God, she's not just with a black dwarf, she's with a black dwarf lesbian. It was a fine example of what an eclectic crowd there was here in Florida After an intriguing conversation avoiding the issues of lesbianism, race, or the vertically challenged that was driving me crazy, I finished my mixed drink and bade farewell to the very mixed couple then sauntered over to my tiki bar for a touch of relative normality. I ordered a beer from the chunky bartender who was wearing his usual straw hat and Hawaiian shirt. He just gave me a nod, passed me my beer plus shooter and moved on to a group of customers he had

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been talking to at the other side of the bar. Then came a strange chill on the back of my neck. I felt a presence from behind . Turning around I found myself looking into the eyes of a beautiful blonde walking toward me with conviction. She sidled next to me at the bar and exclaimed, "I've been looking for you. My name's Natasha, but you knew that." "I'm Nicholas, but you knew that, too, didn't you?" "Oh, how very Russian we are. What are we drinking?" "Jagermeister washed down with Budweiser." "Of course," she replied with a smirk. "Two beers and two Jagermeisters," I shouted. "And what do you do in this palm tree paradise?" "I'm a witch," she answered. "You?" "MI5, can't say much else," I answered with my head turned. I believe in honesty from the start of a relationship and I knew this was to be one. But then again, I didn't want to tell her too much. The drinks were served and we surveyed each other. I was glad that I was dressed my trendiest because she seemed to like what she saw by the look in her heavily made up eyes. Her blonde hair was thin but there was a lot of it. She had an interesting face, accented by a mouth with purple lipstick, which was punky, yet she dressed rather conservatively, a fine mix. I was impressed. After casual banter, we downed our drinks and she announced it was time to leave. "We'll take my car and pick yours up in the morning." She led me across the sand parking lot to a small white sports car then unlocked the passenger door for me. As I sat next to her I had a feeling I was stepping into another zone.

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When she started the car, I noticed her hands were wrinkled like an old woman's yet the rest of her was smooth. Curious, I asked her about her hands. "Hot wax," was the reply. I didn`t ask her to elaborate. She drove at a steady pace and used a card to gain access into a gated community full of orange buildings named Ciega Shores. As we disembarked the car she held my hand tightly, leading me to her apartment on the second floor of this well kept complex. She opened the door. "Come in," she invited and I entered a special world full of unfinished art and animal skins. "Sit down. I'll fix us a drink." Back from the kitchen with two dirty vodka martinis (how did she know I liked my martinis with olive juice) she announced she was going to the bathroom. I watched her leave the room, red skirt clinging to her pert arse and flapping around her slender legs. Leaving me on my own to reflect, I scanned the room. On the walls was an array of animal corpses, ranging from a huge turtle shell to a deer's head. These sacrifices were complimented by her artwork. Not one piece was complete. On one wall was a 7' x 6' painting of a deer hung between two trees being stripped of its skin while a white horse looked on in the background. (I wondered what the horse was thinking). Other works were what she called dot pieces. She literally punched out parts of photographs of her ex-lovers, family, friends and friends' babies then meticulously glued them onto drawings of subjects ranging anywhere from nudes to buildings, creating a marvelous mosaic affect. There was a stack of Playboy magazines next to the door, which I later learned she used for models to produce 'lipsticks,' drawing the nudes using various shades of lipstick. There was a huge bag of them next to the glossies. They all made sense to her, yet nothing was finished, everything undone. I took my attention from the walls to the floor. It was covered with

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twelve inch Mexican varnished tile that I learned she had laid herself. There was not one cut in any tile. Every tile was full. In front of the red velvet sofa I was sat on was a splayed zebra skin on which stood a metal coffee table. Its top adorned with mosaic tile depicting two naked black women performing some kind of ritual dance, wearing only feathered headgear. There were rolls of canvas leaning in the corner against the walls, some as high as seven feet. Next to these were two guitar cases beside an amplifier. There were other skins on the floor. A bearskin, head and claws intact, eyes replaced with glass that seemed to look in every direction. Its head rested on its chin and its claws seeming to etch into the floor. There was also a deerskin and a wine-stained sheepskin. It was a killing field. Natasha came in from the bathroom, naked. Her body was alabaster with what some people would call perfectly sized breasts, just heavy enough, yet her nipples had no areolas and they pointed in different directions. She had an arse like a Colombian boy, not even a tan line, strange for a girl living on the beach. Her slit was so high you could see her vagina from the front, nothing hiding here. I found this sexy. Without saying a word, she knelt down to the CD player and put on a New York band named the Flaming Lips which I was familiar with. Though my taste ran mostly to British bands, this did not offend me in the least. Still silent, she grabbed me by the hand and led us both to the bearskin where she lay with an expectant look, her legs splayed. I'm not one to excite easily but knowing this was something special, I undressed in a hurry. Without saying a word, I climbed on top. Her hair was spread over the bear's head. I felt her breasts against my chest. They were different, not from other women's breasts but from each

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other. One was pliable and normal. The other, even though it looked the same, felt like a cyst. When grasped it was hard as a rock. "They are augmented," she quipped. "my dad bought them for me when I was 21 and it messed up. I'll fix it one day." I slid my hand from the lead-like breast and moved to her vagina. It was oozing and silky. Then I held my erection and went to enter her. She had other ideas. Grabbing my hand, she directed my penis lower and slid it into her anus already lubricated from the excess above. Now, I have a condition whereby whenever becoming sexually excited as on this occasion, I have incredible sneezing attacks. I have broached this malady with many friends yet they all give me a look of incredulousness. "I do it when I look into the sun," said one exasperated chap. "but sex!" I do believe I am the only person in the world who suffers this ailment. Don't get me wrong. It's not the actual act of sex that makes me commit this inopportune act of sudden violent spasmodic expiration of breath through my nose and mouth, it is the anticipation of the act. Rather like soccer, it is not the goal that gets the crowd worked up into a frenzy that is the relief. No, it is the expectation of a goal. I also sneeze just before masturbating sometimes if I have particularly sensual thoughts preceding the event. And so it was. Just at that critical moment of entering her arse, I blew spittle and snot uncontrollably over her left shoulder, not just once but several times. It was a fit yet Natasha didn't flinch. It's like she understood. All I heard were groans of pleasure. After just a minute she lifted herself from me and then with her hand placed me into her svelte vagina. Even though it was wet, it felt tight. Then she maneuvered me to a position inside, she was doing all the work. I felt click, click, click at the end of my penis. Her legs moved up and down my back, then we

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both exploded at the same time. It was the first time I had felt someone come vaginally as opposed to clitoral, it was special. I lay on top of her sated, then felt the strange sensation of fur brushing against my arse. Thinking the bear had come alive, I looked around into the yellow eyes of a grey cat. "That's Caravaggio," she explained. "I thought he died in the 1600's," I said, "So did the cat," came her reply with a wry grin. "Aren't witches supposed to have black felines as their familiars?" I inquired. She whispered, "I'm no ordinary witch. Fancy another drink?" I withdrew from her and sat on the couch, still shaking from the orgasm and lit a cigarette. Natasha grabbed our glasses and came back with two refills and an ashtray. She sat next to me, taking the cigarette from my mouth then put it to hers and took a long inhale then blew the smoke slowly. Handing the cigarette back to me, she then went to the CD player and put on another New York band "Interpol," which I was also familiar with and found agreeable. She returned with a small black box and a brown wooden pipe that she placed on the coffee table, then sat down on the couch, her naked body next to mine. She opened the box revealing its green contents and proceeded to unravel the buds of marijuana into the lid. The small pipe had a twist top to it that she slid open and filled the bowl with the crumbled pot. Placing the pipe to my lips, Natasha lit the contents that glowed as I inhaled. "This is a dead man's pipe," she said. "It used to belong to my next door neighbor Tom who lived with his father. He'd bring it over sometimes and we'd smoke together. Then Tom had to go for major surgery, his spleen or something. Then, he jumped from a fifth story window. His

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father brought me the pipe, saying I would have more use for it than him. Been using it ever since." We smoked more pot and drank a lot more martinis, had sex again and talked like we had known each other forever. "Have you been to England?" "I was just there not long ago, that's how I knew where to find you," she replied with a grin and a wink. "Whose side are you on?" I asked with doe eyes. "Yours, of course, baby. I'm the good witch." She huddled next to me and I slept the sleep of a stoned man in a trance. I held on to the lead tit, hoping I had gained an ally.

Surveillance Man The next morning I awoke to my new unfamiliar surroundings, alone on the couch with a sheet over me to the sound of the door opening and the sight of Natasha walking in. She wore a straw hat, a purple sarong wrapped tightly around her and a black t-shirt highlighted by a screaming skull with the inscription. "BROOKLYN WHERE WE EAT THE WEAK." She was cradling a large porcelain bowl. "Morning dear," she said cheerfully "Morning," I replied. "Where have you been?" "Oh, collecting toad horns," was her, by now, expected reply. "I'm going to hide them but I don't expect you to look. It's the only secret I'll keep from you, promise." And, with that she disappeared into the bedroom, then moments later returned without the bowl.

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She was born in Atlanta, Georgia, but had lived in New York and parts of Europe, giving her a slightly cosmopolitan accent yet retaining its Southern charm. "Oh, before I forget, here's a spare key for the door and a card to let you in the main gate. I think you'll be safer here. Just bring some belongings when you can. Fancy a drink before breakfast or a drink for breakfast?" she asked as she slid next to me and gave me a kiss, undressed and walked into the bathroom. I tousled my hair, getting used to my apparently new abode. Sitting up, I noticed several small mounds of powder on the tile. Bending down to see what was under them, I noticed that the tile was fine. Then I looked up to notice small holes in the ceiling. This was when I realized we had a surveillance man upstairs. I walked calmly into the bathroom. Natasha was washing her hands. Clasping my right hand over her mouth, left arm under her breasts, I dragged her into the living room and pointed to the inquiring holes. Her eyes were bulging as I whispered to her to be quiet. I turned on all the taps in the shower and sink (microphones?). I asked her if there was a flashlight. She nodded and took me into the kitchen. As she passed me the flashlight, I turned off the lights and shone it to the walls, grabbed a chair and used it for a ladder. I used a coin to undo each vent to check for microphones. Nothing. They must have only just got started. I turned on the lights and grabbed a bottle of Jagermeister from the freezer. She produced two glasses from a cabinet and a bag of pot with the pipe. We drank, smoked and formed a plan (act like we don't know they're up there). And keeping the bedroom light on, we had sex in every position and slept naked on the covers. Continuing our normal lives, drinking at bars, waiting for leads, we would come home, get stoned, sex, and then sleep. I found a cocaine contact to break things up. They would never know we were on to them.

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One morning we started hearing things dropped onto the floor above our bed, like nails or pins. Then scraping, always just as we were waking. The surveillance guy was getting itchy, and we gave him a performance, showered, dressed and headed to the tiki bar. We had a few drinks then she dropped me off at her apartment and said she was going for more supplies. I sat and waited. Natasha came back from the liquor store and noticed him opening the door of the third floor apartment above us. She tripped on her high heels, writhing around in pain on the tarmac, grasping her knee (that's all we needed was an injury). Yet due to her training, she remained relatively calm. She staggered up the stairway with the bottles and fell through the doorway. I picked her up off the floor and placed her onto the couch, relocked the door and gave her a slug of Jagermeister. She told me everything. The guy was short, stocky and balding, in his early fifties. He was dressed in navy blue overalls and a leather belt with a clip of tools. He carried two personalized coolers, just enough room for a sandwich, thermos, a bag of chips and of course the urine samples he had collected from our rerouted plumbing. I could tell this guy had issues. From the report we read his name was Stanley. Unhappily married with dysfunctional twins. They were not doing well at school. His wife Delores was having an affair with their favorite bar tender Louise. His work was his life. It was his insecurity that let him down. He couldn't talk to his kids or even go to the bar. He needed some form of contact. All he had left was us. He started to leave notes for us, both on the Internet and written ones in the apartment, visual riddles like Joseph Cornell's boxes. He was getting too personal. All this was taking a heavy toll on the both of us, but we at least had the satisfaction that the job was also getting to them. Crabby Phil's

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The following day I woke to a warm bed occupied by a hot blonde. Shrugging off the massive urge to masturbate, (that would come later, so to speak), I moved into the living room, poured myself breakfast and turned on the ever present TV. The weather this morning was prescribed by a chirpy twenty-fiveish looking brunette with a turned up smile who gave me the facts. The almost attractive forecaster announced on my screen with a concerned look that "There is a cold front moving in," as she pointed with newly varnished fingernails to blue arrows onto a Florida map she couldn't see. "So, don't expect temperatures to reach higher than the mid-70s. Put an extra blanket on the bed tonight folks. The water temp will be in the 50s and will be mild to choppy." She was either lying or not sure. People in the know around here (like most places, they are few and far between) call it the whether channel. For such a simple predicament, these people seem to make it their job to confuse you. It would be much easier to put a voice recording saying, "It will be approximately 120 degrees Fahrenheit with a great chance of an afternoon shower." That is why Mr. Bates traveled with Mrs. Bates from Minnesota to get out of the cold This woman was suddenly transported into another world and supplanted by a beautiful blonde in a short skirt. Her blue eyes bulged as she announced that with just one pill a day she could enlarge my penis by four inches in length and twenty five percent in girth. Thinking that she could probably do that without the pill, I rose from my seat to fill up my drink. Placing the vodka and beer on the side table, I eased back onto the couch only to be confronted by another commercial. "Irritable leg syndrome," boomed a Boris Karloff like voice. This frightening announcement was done to the background of an illustration of someone lying in bed, kicking their legs like they were having an epileptic fit. I was impressed until Boris's narration was transferred to the shrill voice of a woman warning me in a doing-me-a-favor sort of way, "Side

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affects may include nausea, vomiting, dizziness, and headaches. If you feel any overwhelming desires to drink and gamble see your doctor." Either I was drunk or someone, possibly the manufacturers of Legsleep's main competitor, was using a form of superimposed imagery so that I wouldn't buy Legsleep even if I were kicking the walls down in my sleep. This was dangerous. If they can do that with this technology, they could make me believe and then say anything they wanted. I rose from my seat quickly. Trying not to look into the camera I pulled the plug from its socket shutting down a potential threat. The whole operation could have been blown just because you were watching Bugs Bunny. I had to warn Natasha when she rose. Eventually, she did, then decided it was time to get out. Claustrophobia had set in. We were suffocating under the pressure. She told me of a contact we could meet later. But in the meantime, we had to keep out of sight. Considering we knew they were already on to us, it was an insuperably difficult task to perform We decided she would drive as she knew the area. Her hands were frozen to the wheel as we passed the pink and orange beach shops selling paraphernalia from surfboards to postcards to eager tourists, chomping at the bit to part with their hard earned money from Pennsylvania or somewhere just as cold. As we stopped at a red light I looked sideward toward an old woman in the next lane. Her withered hands were clasped to the steering wheel for a different reason from Natasha's. The decrepit lady didn't have the aura of a happy Floridian in paradise driving an automobile to the grocery store, more that of a WWII pilot coming back from a bombing mission into Nazi Germany in a shot up B52 with two engines out, her head hung over the joystick, wondering desperately if she would make the next light.

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We drove through these surroundings of supposed serenity. People were walking casually past in beach attire in complete oblivion to the torment in my mind. It wasn't just my predicament but I had two of us to look after now. It was like having a child. I knew she didn't have the experience but also I knew by instinct she believed in what we were doing. It was foreign to me to put my fate in the hands of others, totally against my training. But not only did I put my faith into this vivacious and mysterious creature, I was definitely in love. Maybe it was the insecurity of the situation, but I doubted it. Her beauty, sincerity and surreptitious nature intrigued me like nothing I'd experienced before. She touched every nerve and sinew in my body. Yet it was a double-edged sword. As much as I had an ally, or crutch if you like, it was almost a burden. How could I keep her safe under the circumstances? Impossible. We pulled into an unpaved driveway, tires crunching the gravel and stopped before an ominous red and white neon sign exclaiming you are now at "Crabby Phil's." Snapping claws from an illustration of a no-doubt long dead crab pinched disparately at the title. Trying to look natural, we forsook the regular stepped entrance and chose instead to use (justifiably we thought because of Natasha's recent injury) the disabled ramp. Anything to put them off. We walked into a staged Hollywood set full of faux customers. Everyone was trying his best not to look at us. They sat at the bar saying nothing to each other, just remembering their lines. They all had their parts to play. It was a horseshoe bar, made of fake oak adorned by fake porpoises on the corners. On one corner sat a lean man in his early forties in a bright pink tee shirt that was overshadowed by a huge mole on the side of his cheek. It was hideous. We both looked to the left of him in order to see as little of the clay-like mound on the side of this suspicious character`s face sipping from a glass with a lipstick stain. This was Eddie the Spot. I'd heard of him through memos. Devious and ruthless. How he had found us this soon was

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incredible. It was another sign that I had to move fast. We sidled past him, avoiding eye contact with the offending blemish, to the far corner and slumped onto two barstools that seemed like well-prepared props for the occasion. The barstool next to mine was occupied by a middle-aged lady who shuffled nervously in her seat as we arrived. She then gulped her martini and quickly ordered another one from the huge bartender (whoever picked this cast should be fired ), he looked more like a marine than a bartender. His Hawaiian shirt strained under the pressure of his biceps, looking like a dinner jacket on a chimp. His hair was cropped in an army fashion and his marble eyes were hard, there was no greeting in them. I knew he must have been wired so I was cautious not to say anything incriminating in his presence as I requested drinks in a cordial manner. After looking towards Eddie the Spot for confirmation, he handed them to us unceremoniously without a smile. I shouted his attention once more and requested a menu. Two laminated menus were placed before us and I searched disparately for something I could digest. The cocaine had an adverse affect upon my appetite so I decided on oysters, easy on the throat and stomach. I shared my opinion with Natasha and she agreed. "Two dozen raw oysters please," I bellowed in a heavy yet friendly voice. "Raw oysters are off, sir," replied the GI. "Well, how about Oysters Rockefeller?" I queried. "Well, um," He looked confused until a waitress came to his rescue. A petite blonde attired in a black uniform with a money pouch around it. "Rocks are off, too." I was wondering what they had done with the real staff and customers when I announced that maybe we would eat elsewhere. The lady sat next to me finally kicked in and mentioned that

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there was an establishment around the corner named, "The Oyster Bar." She then turned in a frenzy back to her drink. These people were pathetic. If this was the best they could come up with, the job was going to be a breeze. Yet I knew they would have more in store for us. I felt a pang of anxiety and reached into my pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. Placing one into my lips, I lit it and immediately heard a booming voice from behind me. "It is illegal, sir, in the state of Florida to smoke a cigarette in a public place. Please take it outside." This was Crabby Phil. He sounded like the leader of a chain gang. If it was legal, I swear he would gladly have shot me. "What we have here is a failure to communicate!!" Complying with his wishes, I rose from my seat, gave Natasha a hug and exited through the side door that led to a wooden deck overlooking the ocean. I slid down the wall, resting on my haunches onto the wooden slats and puffed away at my cigarette in freedom. No sooner had I sat down than Eddie the Spot came through the door to join me. He greeted me with a cigarette in his mouth and a handshake. "I'm sorry," he lied. "Got a light?"

They couldn't even equip him

with a lighter. This was definitely a watch squad to keep tabs on us until they were ready to make their move. I lit his cigarette as he sidled next to me in a fake friendly way. "So, where are you from?" He asked as if he didn't know. It was a waste of time lying, so I replied, "Liverpool." "Oh, that's the next place I'm going to visit," he proclaimed in a mid-west accent, one that I found nondescript. It could come from anywhere.

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I felt uncomfortable and flipped my butt into the sky. "Nice meeting you, mate," I said with as much conviction as I could muster. Reentering the bar, I headed straight for my seat, leaned over to Natasha and whispered that we had to get out of here. "Yes, let's leave. It's about time to meet Paulie," she whispered. Paulie was our contact through Natasha. He was of Italian descent and of New York origin. At the tender age of twenty-five he had owned a gambling casino hotel in Las Vegas until the gambling commission decided to revoke his license because of his alleged association with organized crime. Disillusioned with Vegas, he moved on the bequest of his latest sweetheart to Florida. There in a world without connections and credit, he decided to form his own bank, declaring that anyone in his own position i.e. bankrupt/bad credit could obtain a credit card for the fee of $200 and with drafts that would be paid by a 100% fee. You could continue the credit as long as you didn't go over your limit and the fee was reduced by $20 each year. It wasn't a great deal but at least you had credit. The major banks got hold of the idea and followed suit. But this didn't perturb Paulie. In fact, it inspired him to open up another bank. Since then, he has opened up several restaurants, bars, pawnshops, a recording studio and numerous other enterprises. The Powers-that-Be decided that he would be a powerful ally in the States and kept in touch, so to speak. What strange bedfellows we make. If the first middle-aged lady at the bar was shy about her task, the second one was definitely not. With a gin and tonic in her hand, she stumbled toward us, dribbling alcohol over the floor. What a charming couple," she announced while getting wary looks from her cohorts around the bar. (We would later be informed that this was Crazy Lil who was eventually shipped back to Ohio for fluffing her lines under the influence.) She was dressed rather Victorian. Her

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clothes were made from cloth more suited to curtains draped across a window than wearable material. It hung from her chalky limp skin like a condemned soul on a spike. Yet with her hat held at a rakish angle and she looked like a used rag doll. "I've heard you're from Liverpool," she bellowed. "Yes, darling," I answered. "I'm from Liverpool," she announced in dramatic fashion and an American accent. Then in a self proclaiming way, she uttered, "I have a story to tell you. It's about Richard Starkey, otherwise known as Ringo Starr." I clasped my hand around Natasha's, knowing that we were both hoping that the story wasn't of a sexual nature because the woman was hideous. Yet, I somehow found a liking for her. To our relief she said, " When we were kids Starkey and his gang stuck me in a trash can, then him and his mates banged sticks around it to send me crazy. I still have nightmares to this day." The only way out of this situation was to pay our tab and get out of this place. I attracted the soldier's attention and requested the tab. The lady next to me asked our next destination. "Why, we're going to take you up on your suggestion, dear. We're off to the Oyster Bar. Much appreciated." After two more martinis, her confidence must have grown as she, in a congenial mood so very well acted out, asked almost beseechingly, "Why, I'm in the mood for oysters, too. I'll follow you `round there, if it's alright with you." "It would be a pleasure, dear" I lied Everyone seemed placated as she received a congenial nod from everyone around the bar. I rubbed Natasha's leg, looked her in the eye and said, "Let's go." We had to put them off the trail.

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Their agent would be at the Oyster Bar while we sped off to Paddie's on the Beach to meet Paulie. Paulie, who would decide our fate down here in Paradise. What would he say? Would he be receptive? Only time would tell.

Paulie Paddies was placed in an idyllic location. The bar was actually etched into the sand overlooking the ocean, giving way to a sunset every evening to each customer. As we pulled into the parking lot, we entered a relaxed atmosphere of casually dressed tourists and regulars. We were greeted affably by a skinny middle-aged bartender named Pam as we ordered our usual drinks. Natasha had started to spin, then locked on to a very impressive looking man in his midforties. He was as broad as he was tall, shaved head with penetrating blue eyes. He was surrounded by a half-dozen men who looked like they were awaiting orders. This man had an air of authority about him. This was Paulie!!! Natasha then made a beeline for this noticeable figure. His attention was immediately drawn toward her as she clasped her arms around his neck. They seemed to be very familiar. My training had taught me to never approach a contact directly at first, yet because of the circumstances I followed her direction and found myself in full contact with him. He discarded not only her but his awaiting subordinates and introduced himself "Paulie." "Nicholas. I've heard a great deal about you." "I know about you too, Nicholas," he replied in a very Mafia accent.

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I could feel his magnetism. No matter what he had done, I put my faith and trust in him. "So, whaddya think, Paulie?" Natasha asked, rather bluntly I thought. To which Paulie took us to one side. He said in a half whisper with a certain look, "You are a very handsome couple. Just stay alive!!" My greatest fear was upon us. They had sent a hit man after us. I needed time to think. We both realized we needed some kind of repose for now. Just run and hide until I could work this out. Natasha said she knew just the place. We headed for the swamp.

The Swamp Bidding farewell to Paulie, we thanked him as Natasha threw some bills onto the bar to pay our tab then I followed her as she hurried to the car with purpose. I had no sooner closed the passenger door when she roared the engine into life then sped to the interstate. At the first exit, she spun the vehicle around and started to travel in the opposite direction while I watched for anyone following. So far, so good. Our timing was impeccable, the trip took three hours and the last boat pick up was at five. We arrived just after two. If there was someone following us, they would have no chance of getting onto the river. The office was a rustic cabin that fit in with the whole scenario. We were asked our choice of transport and decided on a double kayak. If we were to go down, whether by human or alligator, it would be together. The two men in charge were very affable and made sure we had our cell phone while giving us their number in case of any incident. One of them towed our vessel to the embankment behind his truck and assured us that he would pick us up at the other end of the trail at five. He also warned us not to have any expectations of seeing alligators due to the extreme damage done to the river by the latest hurricane. He told us the route was marked by

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red ribbon on the trees. We thanked him as he pushed us off into welcome solitude. Natasha sat up front on one of the two wooden bench seats allocated to the craft. We rowed in tandem and worked well together as we did in everything. It was only minutes before we were in a world devoid of humans, only nature. I had never felt so peaceful. We needed this. The hurricane had devastated the waterway to such an extent that it resembled more a lake than a river. The water stretched beyond eyesight beneath the vast undergrowth surrounding the burst banks. The vengeful storm had snapped off trees like a child would break pencils. The jagged splinters of the stumps pointed to the skies, asking why? Each broken tree had its own black reflection on the glassy mercurial waters creating a mirror-like image of the reality we were drifting through. We rowed through this devastated beauty, the carnage making it even more surreal. Following the red-ribbon markers set out by the rangers, it would take us under fallen trees that we would have to duck our heads under, then turn sharply to avoid a fallen branch only to disturb a flock of colorful birds who would fluster and fly off in a scene of beautiful pink chaos. It oozed serenity. They would never find us here. I was losing myself in this dream world when Natasha turned around, and with an impish grin, revealed, "I know where the alligators are." Then, taking off her shirt, she plunged her oar into the water and headed away from the designated route. She looked like Boadicea, her bobbing white breasts illuminated by the sun creeping between the trees. We headed toward an embankment full of shapes I was not familiar with. As we drifted closer, I realized they were alligators. I stopped rowing. She turned around, teasingly, while resting her oar in the kayak, "First they pull ya under then they spin you around and break your neck before they eat you." After this enthralling speech, she pulled up her sarong and backed on to me. I undid my trousers

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and entered her. As her arse moved against my legs, I felt a certain pride about being able to maintain an erection under the watchful eyes of alligators. This was not in the training manual. It wasn't like watching them on TV. You were in their house now and I didn't know how receptive they would be to these uninvited guests shagging on their front lawn. There were about a half dozen of them basking on the bank. During the uneasy yet wonderful sex, Natasha kept turning around passionately kissing me, yet keeping a watchful eye on the reptiles. Then a splash, another splash and two of the alligators had decided enough was enough. We're not calling the police, they've got enough to deal with, what with the hurricane damage; we're going to deal with this ourselves. And with that Natasha withdrew from me, spun around then, grabbing her oar, she started to row. We both rowed the same side to turn around then went back to the red ribbon trail. I kept looking around for the pursuing gators. But there was no sign. I think they were just glad to get rid of the sex offenders from their neighborhood. And so we drifted across the devastated river of beauty, through pond and wildlife that had survived God's wrath upon them with a dignity that I had to admire. Unlike the Katrina Hurricane that had wreaked havoc upon the area and humans alike in New Orleans where the populace begged the government for aid and assistance, the plant and animal kingdom here just got on with their lives. It was just nature taking its course. They were dealing with an eviction notice that didn't even exist. The three hours seemed like minutes as I rowed through paradise facing the pale white skin of Natasha's back, dotted with the pink spots that blondes and redheads are afflicted with resembling a constellation of stars. Every now and then I would catch a glimpse of one of her breasts as she turned to row out of a situation and it turned everything into a perfect world.

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We became aware of the fact that we were drawing close to our drop off point and Natasha put back on her shirt. Then a few minutes later, I was ecstatic and relieved to see the comforting sight of the ranger's truck to pick us up. (I had a feeling these guys were two of Paulie's agents.) As we docked onto the sandy shore and were greeted with an affable smile by our hosts, I realized the answer to our predicament. We needed a new identity. The kayak was pulled from the water across the bank onto the trailer then Natasha and I shared a passenger seat in the truck. The ranger asked us about our adventure and we gave him limited details as he drove us back to our car. We headed to Ciega Shores to regroup

Breakdown Entering the complex with the card, our feelings of anxiety grew more and more as we drove through the electronic gate. I closed the car door and one of the windows smashed, such was the electricity between us. We rushed upstairs to our second floor apartment then locked the door behind us. I spun into the bathroom for a spare toilet roll and used a chair to climb up and close the holes for the intrusive cameras. Then I pursed my lips while holding my forefinger to them and grabbed Natasha by the arm, stripped naked while Natasha followed suit. Then I grabbed one of my prize possessions, the Braun electric shaver. I stepped back, ladies first. As we had discussed, we shaved our pubic hair, Stanley would think we were two completely different people. I unplugged the TV holes to his cameras and we gave him a performance he would never forget. Masterpiece material for a long time yet hard (so to speak) to put into his report. I went to turn the bedside lamp out and it exploded. Then the whole complex had a blackout. I had a lot of explaining to do. I had to remind myself to apologize to the neighbors for

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their inconvenience as I slumbered next to Natasha in a worried sleep, thinking of things that bump you off in the night Morning did not bring any relief to our anxiety. Keeping the blinds closed, we consumed copious amounts of alcohol and various other drugs, both tasting that aluminum flavor that seems to transpire during a breakdown of ones mental faculties. The talk shifted from the hit man problem to other worries. Natasha was in a state of severe shock and I couldn't break her out of it, her beautiful blue-grey eyes were reddened with tears. The stress had definitely taken a toll. I couldn't even get into the shower by myself, Natasha had to ease me in. Days would pass without notice, waiting for the hit man to finish off our misery. Yet he never came. Eating was out of the question and I threw up bile in between drinks. Natasha, God bless her, going through the same horror, was very supportive. We would hug and cry and have sex, the knowledge that we were watched on camera by Stanley gave an extra edge to the scenario and mentally, I think, was taking myself out on him. Yet I knew it was out of my control. We screamed and scratched together: the Hit Man cometh. We talked of many things between our rambling about dark thoughts and shared past secrets. She talked about her grandfather abusing her when she was a child, revealing the events at his funeral where she threw a pair her soiled panties onto his grave. Many screams, more crying, then sex and drink. Discussing in a quiet moment that during our childhoods we both had abused pet dogs. She started to get obsessive about the Carter family. On her mother's side, she was slightly related to President Jimmy Carter (why do we still have to call them President when ousted? We don't call Margaret Thatcher Prime Minister, just bitch). Through bubbles of spittle and tears she spat out a traumatic story, telling me how her cousin wanted to join the Scientologists and was Baker acted by the family for years. They feared embarrassment to Jimmy's career. But Drunken

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Billy the brother was fine. He was just an alcoholic. Yet the mere thought of Jessey making weird alternative speeches with all those movie stars in Clearwater who are totally alien to the Baptist mentality was just too much. "And that's what they'll do to me, Nicholas," she screamed, hands flailing in the air. "It's one thing the hit man searching for us. But these people have political punch. They'll find me and lock me away like they did with Jessey and throw away the key." She broke down in tears. It was a horror show yet we went through it. Then silence.

Trip I made a decision. We needed an escape, at least briefly, just to sort our heads out and think about the situation. It was getting too suffocating. "We'll go on a trip, baby," I said with determination. She didn't even answer, just dragged a small suitcase from an overhead shelf in the closet and started to pack a few clothes and bathing suits for us both. She clasped the luggage then hugged me as if it meant life itself. "Let's go, Nick, please. Let's go, I can't stand this any longer. The waiting is killing me." I took the case from the bed and locked the door behind us as we left the apartment for an unknown destination. All I knew is that it was for sanity's sake and to keep us alive. We had to leave. We took my car, put the sparse luggage in the trunk, then, after waiting for the automatic gates of Ciega Shores to let us into the outside world, sped off to the east coast. We stopped for petrol and put the top down. Happy freedom. The whole job, the situation seemed to dissolve in the rushing wind. I couldn't speak for Natasha but the metallic taste in my mouth was leaving me like an escaped convict. I wanted so much to empty my head and enjoy life with her.

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We sped down the roads leading to the Everglades, Alligator Alley, and acres of swamps where bad people disposed of unwanted people who got up to their neck in something that was too big for them. Or, sometimes, unfortunately were in the wrong place at the wrong time. All sharing the same grim fate at the jaws of the local reptiles. We decided to dismiss Orlando, home to the big-eared Mouse and his friends, luring tourists from all over the globe with its bubble gum attractions, the epitome of Americanism. We also bypassed Cape Canaveral, host to one of America's proudest achievements, the space shuttle. This boast that took the lives of seven ambitious astronauts for the sake of keeping up with the Joneses in Russia. What good did that do for their families or anyone, for that matter? I don't want to go to Mars. I've already been there. We also missed out on Daytona with its alluring beach and the crashing waves of the Atlantic. A magnet for young spring breakers mixing alcohol and sex as a relief from school, and for rabid race fans from all over the world. No, our destination was Miami. We reached a reasonable hotel by nightfall, doing the usual checking the rear view mirror and stopping at various truck stops to make sure we weren't followed. We slept soundly and woke to wonderful sunshine beaming through our windows, then swapping beautiful hotels with beautiful people for several days in Miami decided to move on. We had to go as far as possible. And so we traveled to Key West, spending time with gay drunks and drunken gays, watching marvelous sunsets next to a sign exclaiming "This is the southernmost part of the United States." It was our stopping point. We couldn't travel any further. After this was Cuba and Castro, casting a giant shadow over this too proud country. The Bay of Pigs debacle. I was too young for that. They couldn't blame that on me.

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It had been a marvelous escape yet we knew we had to face our demons and both agreed to return to St. Petersburg. The drive back was like a dream and the sight of Ciega Shores was a welcoming, yet daunting one. We had to face reality. And so we slept the naked sleep of the guilty.

Ciega Shores Our residence, Ciega Shores, or as we affectionately called it, "Fort Ciega" due to the obstructive electronic gates, which we were never sure was to keep people out or in, was a beautiful array of orange stucco buildings housing permanent and seasonal residents. It was a mixture of apartments ranging from lofts to two bedrooms overlooking either the intracoastal river which it bordered or the dull parking lot dividing this mixture of undercover agents. It was a camouflage for an east European block satellite. It had all the main ingredients ruled by an overwhelming force called the "Committee" that held meetings every month attended by the elite of this population of generally old people. Of their own volition, they chose to be subjugated under a regime by which they had full knowledge they would die under along with the daily regimen of life that included spying and informing on their neighbors and so-called friends. Always aware of my surroundings, I constantly observed these aged revelers, basking on God's doorstep, soaking up the Florida sun, wrinkling their skin to a prune like consistency. They strolled the aisles of these three story buildings, taking advantage of every convenience from the elevators to the gray carts to carry their groceries, prized vehicles which were eyed from behind twitching blinds to make sure they were left at the appropriate place by their recipients, a sin that would surely be reported to the "Committee" and severe punishment dealt to the offender.

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Nowhere was more prevalent of this undercover behavior than the heated swimming pool, exhibiting a huge sign exclaiming "ACHTUNG! NO DIVING, NO DRINKING, NO PETTING —ALL PUNISHABLE BY DEATH. Everybody obeyed the rules, sat under umbrellas or lay on plastic lounges. The spies would whisper and gossip, trying to pry their way into the good will of the all-seeing "Committee." From my apartment carrying a cooler full of beer and a beach towel over my shoulder I would stroll down to the graveled paths covering the perfectly trimmed lawns strewn with carefully placed exotic plants and ferns, passing signs saying, "No Dogs Allowed." and head for the pool taking up one of the vacant lounges on offer. Throughout the days I attained quite a tan, not a golden one but olive due to my black Irish heritage. I would observe and say nothing, reserving the right to baptize myself in the pool due to the fact that I determined that through a fine mixture of incompetence and incontinence the regulars in the water were probably polluting it to an extent that even chloride couldn't resolve. They would sit about the pool oozing gossip as I would casually slip in the water (at my own risk) within hearing distance for better advantage. Yet I rarely gained any information from these gatherings of old bikini clad women who talked mainly about illness, never there own (there was always someone missing) but about the woman who was at the doctor's or hospital "Oh, I don't think Elinor has long left," said a withered lady probably on death's door herself. "Once your hip goes you might as well say 'goodbye, it's been a good life.'" The rest of the women nodded in agreement in the secure knowledge that they too had a doctor's appointment upcoming and would be talked about in their absence in a similar macabre way. I believe in the South they call it the organ recital. These ex-babes have probably gone through

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childbirth, menopause, and their ex-husbands' bank accounts, let alone many indiscreet tawdry love affairs. Sundays were different. The doctor's office was closed and so the whole cast would be in attendance. On these occasions none hid anything—on the contrary, it turned into a bleeding contest. They would be under an umbrella on their plastic chairs drinking cocktails in beautiful sunshine and expounding on their conditions, each trying to beat the other. It may start with a knee replacement. "Oh, it just would lock up on me and the pain! So, eventually Albert took me to the hospital and I had it replaced. Best thing I could have done, and I can swim again." The lady next to her sipped on her drink until the knee woman had finished. "You wanna talk about pain!" she said in a Brooklyn accent. "You don't know it until you've had gallstones." She took another sip on her drink then continued. "It was worse if you ate fatty foods—back pain, diarrhea, the shakes." "You sure that wasn't the drink, Gloria?" said the knee woman, undoubtedly a little peeved about being outdone in the pain sector. Ignoring the remarks, Gloria continued about her stones. "They get into your bile duct. Some kind of endoscopic surgery I had to have. The doctor was very nice. And handsome, too. But the pain!" "Ah, you gals had it easy," screamed another New Yorker named Sylvia. Her piercing eyes glared from her wrinkled face with a mixture of pride and scorn. She talked like a longshoreman from the docks on the East Side and seemed proud of it. "You try having your tits chopped off. You take them puppies for granted until you have a mastectomy. Ya feel lost, without 'em, and then ya godda have the whole thing in reverse when they stick a couple of falsies on ya." Sylvia went into details about the procedures and finished her speech by saying, "It's not just physical.

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It's mental." As she tapped her temple with a bony forefinger. "Ya don't feel like a real woman no more." With that she lay back in her seat and resumed her drink while the others sat for a few seconds in reflective silence before Elinor (apparently still alive) changed the subject by asking, "So, what did you get from the yard sales yesterday, Helen?" Yard saleing, as the veterans of the camp affectionately called it, a euphemism for buying other people's junk, was a ritual played out by each inmate every Saturday morning. They would rise before the sun with the greatest of trepidation with the alluring scent in their nostrils emanating from the old discarded relics from people's cupboards and attics strewn across neighboring lawns. The reason for the early rise was to get the best stuff first. Natasha and I wouldn't get out of bed, let alone leave the apartment, until they had all left the building. After which we could only watch from a distance with incredulity and trepidation as they would return en masse, flipping open car boots and revealing their trophies to fellow scavengers. This new found booty ranged from toaster ovens to books, from printers to tacky bric-a-brac (generally made from shells) to add to the rest of the collection on their already cluttered shelves. Our next-door neighbors were named Glock. John and Gloria, to be precise. They were perfect neighbors and I trusted them impeccably due to the fact that they had lived there for over twenty years and couldn't possible be plants. I offered John a monthly sum to watch out for people watching our door, but he refused. Instead he gave me a fishing rod and reel plus an assortment of fishing tackle. The tackle was in an orange plastic box and worth two hundred dollars itself let alone the splendid rod and reel, availing myself to an oceanic fraternity. The gift from John Glock turned out to be more entertainment than just than fishing. I loved him and his

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wife Gloria, (They were both from New York, he was an ex-fireman in the New York Fire Department.) He wanted company, and I was glad that he chose me. As I said, I really liked John Glock, yet every subject I could possibly mention on our little fishing visits to the neighborhood dock he would bring back to the fire department. "Why a possum? I rescued a girl in the Bronx who owned a possum," he would say in a casual manner while reeling in his bait with not a catch but my eye as I tried to think of another obscure subject that he couldn't possibly bring to his talents as a New York firefighter. It was on one of our little fishing soirees that gave me the opportunity to meet Mick. He wasn't exactly cute yet held everyone is his aura. He wore spectacles that magnified not only everything in his vision but in theirs. He was an icon. He wore a large gold medallion, not trendy in these days, yet he made his own era and he made it work. I overheard his conversation and it came from a part of London not many people would want to come from. I walked over and said, "I'm from Liverpool." He answered back with an "all right, mate," in a soft voice that was the antithesis of his character. Our conversation drifted. He knew that I was into something and he also knew I was onto him. I told him just enough and he reciprocated. I figured he was an English mercenary in Angola or one end of the war-torn ex-colonies in that Dark Continent.

He had little regard

for the local "spies" and displayed it openly by hanging out with a gay black man, an ex-cop from New York. They would go fishing in the black man's new boat leaving wagging tongues at the swimming pool. John Glock and Mick (along with a man named Joe Lyons who I had yet to meet) were to be my best friends outside the job. Yet one day, while hanging out by the pool, I found a special friend. A French redhead (God, I love redheads maybe even more than blondes). She was

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reading something and wore a white bikini which when wet hid nothing. Her pink nipples protruded through the almost transparent suit and her slit was quite apparent through the bottom. I glanced over occasionally between dips, relieving myself from the heat and noticed her pushing her Gucci sunglasses over her nose and gluing her eyes to my arse. And, oh, yes, the attraction was mutual. I strode over with my towel and struck up a conversation. She introduced herself as Dominique. Her French accent did anything but alleviate my passion for this vivacious woman. She was living off the proceeds of a prosperous divorce settlement from an older American businessman who had fallen for her Parisian charms. I, on the other hand, had no such ideas of long term relationships; just sex. She held my hand as she led me to her first floor apartment adjacent to the pool. I felt the gossip languishing from the poolside. They had nothing else to do. I took her from behind over the kitchen stove while she apologized for being too fat. Admittedly, she had seen better days but I didn't find her obese in the least. She must have liked what she sampled on the stove because after many groans and screams she spun around and pushed me into the bedroom then onto the bed where I lay prostate, a position which she took full advantage of and impaled her self vigorously until sated. After this steamy episode, she poured us gin and we smoked a celebratory cigarette. This encounter was in my head (so to speak) for days during masturbation until one Friday evening it came to haunt me. Natasha and I were listening to one of our favorite bands at full blast (thank God the Glocks were almost deaf). The ferocity of the knock gained our attention. We were both naked and searched desperately for something to wear. She chose a sarong and I a pair of soccer shorts. Natasha answered. It was Dominique. A very drunk Dominique.

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"Hi, you must be Natasha," she slurred, holding a half bottle of gin. I rolled my eyes and said, "oh, fuck," in my head. Natasha turned around, giving me an inquiring look, yet wanting to be the perfect hostess, allowed our French horny guest in and invited her to sit down. As she sat on the couch next to me, the longing in her eyes was very visible. She wanted more, even more than I imagined. She held up the plastic bottle of gin and said, "You guys want any of this?" in that transatlantic accent of hers. "No thanks, we're drinking vodka," Natasha replied sternly while announcing she was going to the bathroom. Dominique's timing couldn't have been worse, just as Natasha was returning from powdering her nose she decided to grab my balls and in an explanatory way offered to have three-way sex with us. Natasha's anger was unsustainable as she chased the French slut down the corridor, cursing her uncontrollably. I disengaged myself from the situation, deriding the French nymphomaniac as a complete lunatic and a disgrace to any self respecting alcoholic. Oh, well, that's what you get for living in a closed community. . Japs The pressure was having a great affect upon Natasha's psyche and it didn't surprise me when she announced that she needed a break from the job and was going to hide out for a while. "I`m just going to visit my mother in Atlanta, I`ll to drive up there, it`s only six hours." "I understand, babe, I'll be here when you're ready." She hugged me and said, "I'll be back. I just need a break you understand? I'm not used to this intensity like you are." And with that she left me to fend for myself. I was so used to her

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being around it threw me into a depression which I duly drowned with alcohol sending me into a deep sleep. I awoke around 5:30 am, there was no use trying to sleep. I'd learned from painful nauseating experience that I would simply lie there worrying about the past and present. My brain needed numbing. Turning to a movie channel, I watched some inane film starring Paul Newman passing himself off as some Caesar. It reminded me of my haircut and gave me the impetus to rise from the couch and pour myself another vodka. I returned to another crazy commercial, they intrigue me, this one showed a very loving looking couple staring into each other`s eyes on the edge of a bed while a smooth male voice said in a assuring manner "You no longer have to suffer through erectile dysfunction, now there`s "Elect." Just take the pill once a day and no more of those embarrassing moments" (I thought the manufacturer may have been Chinese, using a play on the word erect). Then, as usual, in these ads a sterner voice came over and gave the warnings about the product "If you have an erection lasting for more than four hours consult your doctor." As I gulped my drink I thought if I have an erection lasting four hours the last person I would visit would be my doctor. Still no sign of Natasha; two days now, not even a call. There was something wrong, very wrong. After several vodkas washed down with numerous beers, I watched the sun filter through my windows. I felt slightly enlightened, engulfed by its warmth and light and the urge to greet it. So, after packing a cooler and a bag of books (you never know what you want to read by the time you get there) I left the apartment, clambered into the car and headed for the beach. Pulling into my favorite spot, I opened the trunk and took out my Eddie Bauer beach chair, leaving Natasha's lying there, lonely. I had purchased the chairs vicariously through a beach bum hanging around a

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shop. I gave him the money to buy them, then left him ten dollars for the inconvenience. I didn't want to draw attention to myself by buying luxury items. Setting my stall about ten yards away from the water's edge, I noticed the depth markers popping up through the ocean and imagined them to be periscopes from Japanese submarines. A great influence in my choice of reading, I think, pulling out The Rape of Nanking: the Forgotten Holocaust of World War II by Iris Chang, a marvelous, yet disturbing, account of the brutal assault by the Japanese army upon that city. I don't want to speak to a Japanese person for a long time. I was alone apart from the ocean and the many birds of all description flying around me. From scavenging seagulls to the incredible pelicans with their eagle eye spotting fish from the sky. Then, like a Stuka dive bomber, sirens wailing and French refugees fleeing in all directions to avoid the strafing guns, they would plunge into the sea then retrieve their prey and fly away with it stored under its abnormal beak. This blissful scenery was broken first by the early morning joggers then the deck chair invasion by mainly New York tourists. It was Manhattan time. Next month it would be Canadians, after that would come the British. It was a geographical calendar. After reading several pages of Japanese brutality, I closed my eyes, opening them to the sight of a beautiful girl, bikini clad, wading towards her two female companions. I assumed the girl to be around twenty years old but you can't tell nowadays, or has it always been like this? The stepping-in girl shouted towards her colleagues, "What are you two talking about?" "Your tits," replied one. Being that they were of no abnormal size or proportion, I assumed she had only recently acquired them. My second guess was correct; this was pubescent talk at its finest.

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Dr Patel I had worked up quite a sweat; my body was lathered in it and screaming at me to take it into the water. I possess overactive sweat and saliva glands that exhibit their unfortunate results on the most inopportune moments. It reminded me of one of my weekly visits to Dr. Patel, the curer of all my ills, in Liverpool. I described to him my embarrassment when in the act of vigorous sex with a girl who had recently crossed my path I literally soaked not only the bed but the poor recipient of my desires; it happened all the time. This generally ended in her wrestling me off her, screaming, while rubbing the acid-like produce from her eyes. The over active saliva glands were just as much a problem only more open to the public. While speaking in a bar for instance, people would cower and duck for any kind of shelter they could find while trying to escape the rain of spittle showering them from my mouth. I even drooled on occasions. This would encourage jokes about bringing an umbrella the next time they saw me, jibes which forced me to be continually swallowing while in the presence of others. Upon hearing my plight my highly regarded practitioner informed me that although he sympathized with my situation, excretion of both sweat and saliva was an essential bodily function and therefore I would just have to live with it. Dr. Patel wasn't just my doctor. He was my companion, someone to hang out with every week just to make sure that everything was okay between the two of us and the world in general. He would pacify me with a prescription of some sort then I would leave his office in a buoyant mood. On the way out, Mrs. Bigallo, the receptionist, would call out, "You want an appointment for next week, Nicholas?" "Of course, Jane," I would reply, then dash to the chemist to apply for my latest batch of drugs to cure my present malady. When I walked, I rattled, the ever-present plastic bag of pills swaying by my side. Upon entering a pub, I would be greeted by the usual banter of the manager.

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"Alright, Nicholas," he would exclaim while pouring me a pint. "Heard you comin'," and the customers would giggle. It didn't perturb me. I knew what I was doing. I blame Dr. Patel, well not so much blame but find him partially responsible for my fondness for drugs. Upon one of my more memorable visits to my Indian chum, I entered his office with what I considered a real complaint. "I can't even take the head off my beer doctor, without my stomach blowing up and I can't drink anymore." The fine doctor was around sixty years old, dressed in a white shirt, its collar adorned by a dark brown tie. Then there was the tweed jacket. He so wanted to be accepted yet all the tweed in England would never make him the English gentleman he so yearned to be. No, to his mainly white patients he would always be known as the Paki doctor; but I loved him. Yet, on this memorable visit, he took his eye off the ball. He should have known by now after all the intimate times we had spent together that I had a compulsive behavior. And, so it was, that while reflecting upon my latest malady I had challenged his professional ability. He rested his elbows on the cheap wooden desk then pushing his spectacles over his nose asked, "How much do you drink per day?" Rather aghast at his assumption that I drank every day, I gave him a conservative reply. "About four pints," I lied. Not to be thwarted, the old man said something that not only made the blood in my whole body rush to my feet but altered my life radically. Without emotion, he said in that distinct Indian accent, "You have to give up drinking."

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Appalled, I slumped in my chair. It was like a death sentence. He might as well have worn a black cap. I couldn't imagine the absence of drink. The whole of my persona was based upon drink. Wasn't everyone's? Which beckoned my reply, "Can't you operate?" Shaking his head, he handed me a prescription for antacids and informed me that I wasn't to touch alcohol for six months. The following day I started to do drugs. I knew people who dealt drugs. They were easy to come by. Deciding on omitting the usual first step, smoking hashish, I decided to dive in at the deep end, plunging into a cocktail of acid and cocaine. My morning routine was a hit of acid, two lines of cocaine and my antacid pill prescribed by Dr. Patel washed down with water. This made my eating habits a little sporadic, to say the least. After a couple of months, I became as attached to the small postage stamp-like blotters as the quaint designs they were decorated with. They put my mind at rest with the world and I was able to function quite normally. It was my daily regimen and the planet seemed a little brighter. Eventually I was downing the mixture with beer and vodka. My stomach problems had abated. Using this to my advantage, I would derive great pleasure in introducing new people to my habits. Because they were not accustomed to the wares I was throwing into their unsuspecting constitution, I found that I was able to gain valued information from these willing participants. Yet, the powers that be told me to cease my new form of interrogation. I was giving sloppy reports and missing flights; shoddy work. And so it was that I compromised by substituting dropping acid for smoking Nepalese black, a rubbery substance containing the finest hashish, laced with white speckles of opium, but continued with beer, vodka and cocaine.

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The Fear of Balding Rising from my deck chair, I sauntered into the Gulf of Mexico, bringing me into close proximity of the teenagers, apparently from New York, who had recently been joined by an older woman. Lying there floating, I watched other revelers who had saved their money all year to be a part of this piece of paradise. I listened to the older lady giving bad advice in a very loud voice to these impressionable girls who would undoubtedly pass it on to their daughters in the same inimitable accent. It reminded me of a trip to the grocery store the other day ( a store half way to Tampa, we still didn`t trust the local one) when I was in line at the check out waiting for the underpaid girl to ring up the pensioners`s food stuffs in front of me while the old lady fiddled with one of those annoying little snappy purses for change. My boredom was eased slightly by browsing through the titles of the magazine covers on display conveniently placed at eye level for customers in the same predicament as myself. They ranged from Hollywood gossip to absurd rumors of farmers in the Midwest being abducted by aliens, I mean if aliens were looking for intelligent life here then why on earth would they pick on a pig farmer from Kansas. Yet it was a young women`s magazine that drew my attention, not so much as the audacity of the subject matter but the obvious message they were sending to these susceptible girls. This as I remember is how the titles read; His Biggest Sex Secrets You Always Wished You Knew….and one thing you`ll wish you didn`t. THE BITCHY LITTLE MOVE MEN LOVE An orgasm nearly killed her (and we`re not kidding) Flatten Your Belly

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(And my favorite) IS HE NORMAL DOWN THERE? SIZE, SKIN TONE……WHAT`S WEIRD, WHAT`S NOT ??? !!! God ! The pressure, not just on the young gullible female recipients of this indoctrination but the boys they are inspecting in these intrusive ways. After reading this lipstick propaganda printed by older women who wish they had their time over again and were instilling values to these impressive youngsters, the young girl would probably go out on her next date and probe the unsuspecting boy while his hormones were raging, to such an extent that it would dampen the ardor of even the most valiant of teenage prospective studs. The poor lad probably only wanted to watch a movie. I tread through the water back to my chair nestled in the fine white sand. Slumping into it, I cracked a beer from the cooler admiring the sun's bright arrow across the shimmering waves pointing directly towards me. Looking towards the pubescent bathers and the terrible teacher, a man crossed my line of vision. Not just any man, but a bald man. Since I was a youngster, because of my high forehead, my father would joke with me while pulling back the front of my hair, "you'll be bald before you're twenty, lad." Aunt Peggy continued the ridicule, one of her psychological along with physical tortures. Since then, whenever I caught sight of a bald man I would close my eyes and say, "cancel it." Then, in my mind, in order to have any effect, it had to be said three times. "Cancel it, cancel it, cancel it," but only if he was to the left of me. If he was to the right, that would mean I was not to become it. If I opened my eyes and caught the sight of this chromedomed loser again, I would have to repeat the process all over. Upon seeing him on a third occasion and having to repeat the ritual, that person was done and I wouldn't have to deal with him ever again.

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Sometimes I would find it easier to just get the whole three times process over with in one session, close my eyes, say the "cancel it," twice and then reopen them twice to perform the same task, mainly for convenience. For instance I would be in mid-sentence at a bar, enthralling the crowd with a story, when Telly Savalas would cross my path and I would have to close my eyes, canceling him out. "What's the matter?" one of the throng would ask, desperately waiting for the punch line to my narrative. It would have been so much easier to have gotten Telly out of the way as soon as I noticed him at the bar. Then, as I got older and watched younger boys turn prematurely bald and my high forehead remained in tact, I stopped the habit for awhile until I woke in a cold sweat one morning after a dream that my hairline had receded, whereupon I restarted with a vigor. Yet I couldn't just carry on where I left off, now I had to say, " cancel it, cancel it, that's what I used to say, isn't it" three times. This problem was a particular bane while watching TV. If a show or movie I was viewing contained a great deal of good-looking actors with a full head of hair, then I would sit facing to the right of the screen. Yet a documentary containing a cast of aging politicians, who through worry or guilt about their past corrupt deals had far forgone the privilege of owning hair on their head, would force me to sit to the left of the set. This whole thing was exacerbated if I had company, particularly female. Per se if I was having a cozy night in, watching TV with a girlfriend on the couch, every time a bald man appeared on the screen I would have to change places with the unfortunate date. It had a profound affect upon my sex life as the lady in question would invariably find a convenient excuse to leave, no doubt reasoning in her mind that if intercourse occurred along with an

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accidental impregnation, my insane genes running through her precious baby's body was intolerable beyond belief. But I didn't care. At least it kept me from being bald. And so it was, my feet encrusted with sand and eyes closed while I let this hairless nightmare pass, that my cell phone rang. It was Natasha; she had a lead. "I'll call you tomorrow, babe. You OK?" "Yes, love, I've missed you" "You too see you later."

Christmas Excited, I packed up and drove back to the apartment and slept a sound sleep. After my usual beer and vodka breakfast to steel the nerves, I remembered my library book was due, William Shirer' The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. Grabbing it from the coffee table, I made my way to the car and put down the roof. As I pulled onto Blind Pass Road into brilliant sunshine, it was noon and the temperature had already reached the 80s, I looked into the blue sky and noticed a surreal sight. All along this avenue lined each side with palm trees were huge plastic bubbly Christmas tree-like decorations, each about eight feet tall strapped to the top of the lamp posts . The robust Santa Claus came first, leaning back with a big smile, holding onto his wide buckled belt. Then a few lamps away came his sleigh pulled by several reindeer, further on was a snowman. And so it went, this unusual sight. I was baffled at first, then I remembered it was December. Time seems to stand still on this part of the earth with its tropical weather. Yet here were all these raised festive figures stood in snow, albeit plastic snow

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The local council must have erected them during the night. Absurd as it seemed, it was almost comforting to think they had gone out of their way to make us feel Joyful and Triumphant with an innate yearning to burst into carol singing outside your grumpy neighbor's door. Next to my beach apartment my particular nasty next-door person is named Gene and he never finds any humor when I greet him with a loud "Hi Gene!!" albeit an obvious play on the word hygiene. God only knows his reaction if I and a group of fellow drunken revelers showed up on his doorstep attired with mufflers and red pointy hats slurring loudly very much out of tune "OH COME ALL YE FAITHFUL". I could see him, old Scrooge himself, swinging the door open, throwing a bucket of ice at us while screaming "Get away from here, you`ve spent too much time in the sun". Bah humbug!!! No I`m afraid old Gene couldn`t get into the Christmas spirit if Santa Claus himself asked him up to the North Pole to get drunk with the elves and stroke his reindeer, so to speak. It would never feel like Christmas on this beach resort. It wasn't so much the season to be jolly, more like 'tis the season of Canadians. They were everywhere. Not that I have anything against the Canadians. I've yet to meet one to dislike. They seem to have a fine blend of British and American; something they have honed to perfection through the years, and produced a very congenial race. Besides, it could be worse. There could be a French season through which I am quite sure I would have to leave town. Yet as I sat at the light waiting to cross 75th Avenue, I was reminded of the most absurd among this fake atmosphere of Yuletide glee. It was a bright red building across the street, a substantial sized one at that, with a huge sign in gold lettering exclaiming, 'The Christmas Store," It was open all year around. I passed it every day. Yet, as I stopped at the traffic light next to it, observing its wares displayed in the windows: tinsel decorations, boxes with gold ribbon wrapped around them and other things that would send a kid into a frenzy, I never once saw

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anyone enter or leave the building. I myself never even considered visiting this place, believing it to be a front for something criminal and fear of getting trapped into some kind of drug extortion ring by a bunch of Mafia thugs dressed in fur trimmed red coats. Yet the locals assured me that the establishment had been open for years and did a roaring trade. "Have you ever been inside?" I would ask, curiously. "Well, no, not myself but from what I've heard," would come the uneasy reply. There was something going on in there I wanted nothing to with. I had enough problems of my own. The light had already turned green, something I was aware of when hearing the horn of an irate driver behind me waking me from my thoughts. I drove towards the library only two blocks ahead and pulled into the parking lot , wondering about my next selection of relaxing beach read. I have only one difficulty with the library, partially of my own doing. For a while now, I had extended my "cancel it, cancel it, that's what I used to say", from not only bald men but to anyone who was old, fat or just plain not good looking. This place was full of them. No one is sat down, everybody is either shuffling from one book shelf to another or stationary in one section, making it almost impossible to keep to the left of anyone at any particular time. The closing of the eyes and repeating the "cancel it" chant in my head was ruled out many months ago after several incidents involving bumping into shelves and a particularly embarrassing faux pas in which I tripped over some computer leads after stumbling into the adult librarian's free-standing desk only to fall across the lady's lap. No, I had to keep to the left of these freaks. This was a problem in itself, because unlike the British who drive on the left hand side of the road and when passing in a pedestrian manner keep to the left, Americans drive on the right and do so while passing each other on foot. So, while I was browsing between these aged, overweight pensioners, thin tufts of hair revealing pink spots on their shiny scalps, it was with

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great difficulty that I kept to the left of the walking dead. No greater exemplified by the occasion when I was returning a copy of The Diary of Anne Frank and was approached by an old lady on a walker determined to pass me on the right. I knew she was resolved but I had speed on my side so with that I went post haste to a bookshelf to the left of me and hung on. But I had underestimated her zeal. "Just walk around me young man," she proclaimed in a very loud croaky voice. I felt as trapped as Anne Frank hiding from the Nazis in the attic. "But I've got my sleeve stuck in this book shelf," came my feeble reply. I looked around at the gaping, aghast customers and closed my eyes three times chanting, "cancel it, cancel it" in my head then passed her without a word on the right. I was too young to be on a walker. I placed my Shirer book onto the circulation desk and was confronted by the mysterious Sarah. "How are you, Nicholas?" she inquired "Relatively splendid," I replied. "and you? "She ignored my question and asked one of her own. "I've noticed you have a penchant for war books. Am I right?" "Yes, Sarah," I answered. "Well, I run a book club every month back there in the conference room and in a couple of weeks we will be discussing Daniel Jonah Goldhagen`s Hitler's Willing Executioners. I wonder if you would like to join us?" There was a sense of authority about her, almost aloof, that I'd never seen before. It was like talking to the queen. That's it, the queen. She wasn't Lauren Bacall, she was Katharine Hepburn in "The African Queen." She still had the same high cheek bones and was with Humphrey Bogart but on a different level. She was fighting the torrents and pestilence on the dark continent's river. But she still had Bogie by her side. I wanted her to be safe.

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"I'd be honored," I answered, gallantly, as she went back to the conference room and returned with a copy of Willing Executioners. "The meeting will start at 10:00 am Tuesday the 2nd. Look forward to having you." I left the building with my copy and strange thoughts about Sarah. What did she mean by "look forward to having you?" With my mind in a spin I remembered I had an appointment with my psychiatrist. Leaving the parking lot, I turned onto 75th Avenue then right onto Central Avenue which led me to downtown St Petersburg. I constantly looked in the rear view mirror and occasionally pulled into a side street to let cars go by, fearing I`d been followed. Leaving the top down, I parked the car a block away from Elizabeth's building. Noticing there was still an hour to spare, I entered a bar just two buildings away where I sat drinking Jagermeister (I didn't like to drink vodka in public) with a congenial bartender who had time on his hands. The office crowd were just paying their tabs and leaving for work. The difference between downtown and the beach was clothes. Downtown, they wore them. On the beach was like living in a world where people of all ages, shapes and sizes walked around in their underwear, something which if they tried on the streets of Manhattan, Toronto or London, they would be arrested for. Yet, on this beach and its surrounding areas, beautiful girls, old women, tanned surfers and old aged men with pot bellies would parade themselves in restaurants, convenience stores and bars in the flimsiest of outfits. Downtown was more business like and trendy. People had a sense of fashion. It was only five miles to the beach but people who lived down here rarely visited the beach and vice versa.

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Elizabeth It was almost 2:00 p.m. and was time to go. Paying my bill, I made my way to the psychiatrist's office. Upon entering, I noticed new chairs. "Nice chairs, Elizabeth." "Thank you, Nicholas, and how are you?" "Well, Elizabeth, I have to tell you, I mean that's why we do this, don't you think?" "What, Nicholas?" "I'm having constant dreams of having sex with my sister!" I blurted. (I haven't got a sister.) A little taken aback by my early offensive, especially after I'd lulled her into a false sense of security with the chairs compliment, she asked calmly, "Were there any incidents with your sister when you were growing up, Nick?" "Nick," I like that. She's getting closer to me. I just wanted to get her on the right track. "Well, she's a little older than me and used to model. The only strange thing I can think of is that when I would take a shower she would come into the bathroom to use the toilet and would grab my balls around the shower curtain and giggle like hell." "Apart from that trite episode, can you think of any sexual abuse you have been subjected to during your childhood?" she inquired. "No," I lied. Aunt Peggie's little indiscretions I would prefer to leave to my subconscious and Elizabeth's curiosity. Let her figure this out herself. It's her job. She was wearing a short pale green cotton skirt riding up those usual casual legs, so tanned. Then disaster, I started to sneeze. It was an attack. As I mentioned it's not the act itself, it was the thought of sex that would bring on this self-humiliation. Would she find me out?

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"Elizabeth, if I can use the restroom for a minute?" "Of course, Nicholas, you know where it is." Desperately holding back another guilty sneeze, I crept to the bathroom and blew my brains out in a way I would have to use in another fashion one day when they all discover what is going on. This fit seemed to last an eternity. Then I composed myself looking into the mirror for any tell tale signs of snot on my cheeks. Back to Betty! I marched back into my self-imposed interrogator's cell and confronted her with a question rather than one of the obscure answers I was giving out like popcorn. "Elizabeth, in the dreams it never really transpires, the sex I mean. It always stops at my sister's black bra. I touch her arse and get to do certain things but it never really goes the whole way. What do you think?" She paused, put her fist under her chin while crossing those legs, so tantalizing. "Guilt!" she blurted. "What are you feeling guilty about?" she asked. This was good. She's learning. I'll have to step up the ante. "Well, there is one thing, Elizabeth," then I paused for drama. "I'm not sure but I think I may be gay." She crossed her legs again (she always did it when I caught her off guard) giving way to a hint of pink panties. Was that panties or had she been shaving? I suppressed another sneeze. Her eyes twinkled at the thought of this attractive (albeit disturbed) patient having yet another dark side to him. I could see her imagining me in bed with another guy. It was exciting her. Time to bring her down. "Have you ever had a sexual experience with another male?" she inquired while trying to keep her professional composure and crossing her legs once more. This was the icing on the cake.

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"Well, not actually, but I can look at another man and find him attractive. Is that wrong, Elizabeth?" "Well, it depends. Do you feel aroused? I mean, do you get an erection when you see these men you find 'attractive'?" Once again, I paused for affect. Timing, as they say, is everything. I could have her throwing herself off the cliff onto the rocks below but that's not what I'm here for. I'm here to help. And so, with that, I soothingly said, "Well, not exactly but say I'm at the bar with a man who I find has wonderful taste in clothes, a handsome face and figure with an intelligent banter, I will, let`s say, get very touchy-feely. My hands will find his knees frequently." A little deflated, Elizabeth continued her questioning and so we sparred for the rest of the fifty-minute session ending with the usual, "Are you staying out of trouble, Nick?" Then my reassuring farewell reply, "Yes, thanks to you, Elizabeth." But this time she approached me and gave me a hug. All in all, I think she did rather well during the interview and could see definite progress. I walked out of the air-conditioned marble clad building into the warm street and made my way to the barstool I had occupied only an hour before to the now familiar face of the bartender. "Same again, mate?" he said, half mockingly. I nodded my head and he brought me another round of drinks. I was worried about Natasha and called her on my cell phone out of hearing distance from the bartender (he could be a plant). Thank God she answered and inquired, "Hey, babe, what are you doing?" "I'm downtown, I'll call you at 'y' at five and give you a location " then hung up the phone. Out of fear that our cell phones were being tracked, Natasha and I had scoured the city one day, mapping out convenient call points. We listed them as x and y, then z and a, b and c, and so

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on. Charting them through our cocktails, we memorized the locations after which I ate the map. One of us would call from x to y; if in the circumstances whereby x or y was either out of order or being used, we would wait ten minutes, then move to z and a, etc. I had several hours to kill which I spent continuing the casual banter started earlier in the afternoon with the bartender over liquor and beer, being careful not to give anything away. Then, around 3:00 pm my cell phone rang. It was Ms. Highsmith, the schoolteacher in charge of my alleged son, Jeremy. "Dr. Weinberg?" she inquired. "I hope I've not caught you at an inconvenient time." Weinberg!!! I didn't even sound Jewish, but I tried. His real father is probably a sponsor of some sort or other for the school judging by her appeasing tone. Just the sound of his son's name made me think he had married a gentile. They had probably argued either

calling him James or

Jeremiah then compromised with Jeremy. "Not at all, my dear. What can I do for you?" I asked in a slightly Hebrew tone. "Well, it's just that Jeremy is always in fights with the other children. He's so, just so violent, doctor. But he's such a brilliant child. You have such a special son but I don't know what to do about this problem." She sounded extremely concerned. "Just hit him," I demanded. "What?" she blurted. "I said, just hit him!" "But corporal punishment is against the law, doctor," she replied, gaining her composure. "Well, I was caned regularly as a child and it didn't do me any harm. It instills discipline. I'm telling you, my dear, you have my full permission to take him into your office at any time and beat him. You will hear no complaints from me." There was a silence. Then, the teacher changed the subject. "About his grades?"

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"Yes?" "Well, he's top of the class in math, yet near the bottom in geography. He seems to pick and choose which subjects he applies himself to," she said, embarrassed. I thought about this problem, then said, "I know sometimes he can appear to be a precocious little tyke but I've discussed the geography thing with him and he told me he already knows where he is going and doesn't feel the need for any geography teacher to give him directions. As for math, I would like you to give him extra tuition after school or put him into a special class. I have to go now, Ms. Highsmith. I have a patient waiting," then abruptly hung up the phone. At 4:44 pm I paid the tab and bade farewell to my newfound companion, then decided to walk to the payphone, as it was only a short distance from the bar. The phone was, thankfully, unoccupied and I picked up the receiver while putting in my coins. Natasha answered immediately. "Hi, babe," came the reassuring voice. "See you outside the Tappas bar in fifteen minutes," then hung up. Walking back to my car, I paid the parking attendant then drove through the relatively quiet streets to our designated rendezvous. Finding a spot directly across from the restaurant, I walked into the welcoming arms of Natasha, then hugged and kissed her while caressing her beautiful blonde hair. We entered the low-lit establishment and were ushered to a candle-lit table in the corner. As usual, we sat next to each other as opposed to across, surveyed the menu of fine Spanish cuisine and chose to share a meal. We ordered martinis, which arrived at the same time as two men in their mid-forties dressed in suits walked through the door. They sat across the room of the half-filled restaurant and looked out of place. I didn't like it. The two of them were staring at us.

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It could be nothing; after all we are a very noticeable couple. But I wasn't going to take any chances. As the meal arrived, I clasped her hand and whispered through her fine hair, "Cause a scene." I handed her my car keys and she nodded understandingly. "I'm parked across the street, cause a scene then storm out, start the car and I'll see you in two minutes." "No problem, babe," she said. Then, crashing her silverware onto the plush table, she overturned the untouched plates of food, screaming "bastard," and marched through the exit. The men in suits along with the other clientele were staring at me as the waiter approached asking, "Is there a problem, sir?" I waved at the suits and they reciprocated with nervous smiles and a cursory wave back. "The two gentlemen across the room are friends of mine and generously offered to pay the bill. I have to leave. You understand?" "Yes, sir," came the polite reply. At that, I left the building and jumped into the waiting car as Natasha sped off into the warm Florida night, wind and exhilaration rushing through our lungs. We drove post haste to the beach, stopping briefly at the liquor store for supplies, a case of beer and a bottle of vodka. As we turned onto Blind Pass Road, we were greeted by the sight of the now illuminated icons dedicated to commercial Christianity that were hanging from the light poles reminding us that we should feel gleeful. But neither of us was in the mood. Driving into the complex, we took our alcohol and marched into her apartment then immediately stripped. She poured us drinks then we drank heavily while smoking pot from the dead man's pipe, after which we had wonderful sex. Then, after bidding farewell to the surveillance man slept a sleep of worried dreams.

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Suicide Cancer Patients Lying naked next to Natasha, I awoke to the shrill of the telephone. Nervously, I reached across her alabaster augmented breasts to answer. I'd put feelers out and wondered who it would be. It was Atlanta George one of my contacts, a huge black man. He informed me he had a lead and I had to meet him at the Inn Town Suites, Room 205 at 8:00 PM. There was no time to lose. I thought the trip would do us good. I roused her, we had anal sex and showered. Booking a flight with the Atlanta based Delta Airlines, which cost a fortune due to urgency, we made the flight in good time, I informed Natasha that there would be no parental visits: she agreed. As we arrived at the Atlanta terminal, Natasha informed me she had a premonition of disappointment. She is always right about these things. The Atlanta airport is a city within a city, trains take you from one part to the other. It was a culture shock, Atlanta's black community was prevalent, so different from Florida. The New York accent in Florida was exchanged for a southern drawl, "ya'll have a nice day now." We were glad to have packed warm clothes. It was cold, very cold. Between being so used to the Florida heat and the alcohol thinning our blood, it would have been intolerable otherwise. Steam billowed from our mouths as we met the frigid Atlanta air, issuing a scenario of not just different temperature but a whole new world. It was hard to believe it was only a state away, it was like being in another country. We hired a car and made our way to the hotel, a thirty minute drive. Our reservations were already made. We took our key from the reception desk, walked outside then upstairs to our seedy room, which had a dubiously fine view of a strip club named Tattletail's. I had several contacts in the city and made a couple of calls, left Natasha in the room, bought liquor, beer and an 8 ball of cocaine which was supplemented with a number of acid

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blotters. I thought it would be a nice surprise for Natasha. I returned to the hotel room with the goods and was proven right. "Good idea, baby" she said giving me a passionate kiss then rushed to the kitchen returning with two vodkas. It had been a while since I had done acid and it was going to be interesting to do it with Natasha to say the least. It was going to be a long night. Waiting for George to call we talked about nothing in particular. It got to be late before we realized it was a red herring. I suggested we go to the strip cub across the street and she agreed. We strolled across Piedmont Road into the dreamlike world of Tattletail's where young girls start to take off their clothes as early as nine in the morning to please the perverted appetites of men mostly too old to satisfy themselves without some kind of monetary payment The surreal sight and lights were exaggerated by the blotter of acid. It was all coming back to me. Like I said, it had been a while. I ordered us drinks and we agreed to sit in a corner seat, coveting the sight of almost naked girls parading themselves in front of old and young scavengers. A young blond with perky tits (what is it with me and blonds, is it because my mother was blond?) caught my eye as she was walking the floor. "You want me, babe?" she asked. "Of course, dear," I answered. As she strolled over I had the audacity to grab her by the arm and pull her head toward me. I whispered into her ear that it wasn't for me that it was for Natasha. I could tell by Natasha's eyes that the acid was starting to kick in and she seemed very agreeable to the project. The stripper then took off the skimpy outfit she was wearing and started to sway her almost perfect body into Natasha's face, her nipples sometimes brushing across Natasha's lips. Natasha was in

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another world. I stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the dancer`s garter belt, not in the usual way but upwards, therefore giving my fingers access to her vagina. "My name's Sonya," she said with a sexy smile. I didn't believe a word of it. Natasha's demeanor was starting to concern me and I myself was finding it difficult to keep in charge of the situation. So I decided we should head off and ordering a cab from the gangster on the front desk. Between the blaring dance music, flashing lights and my state of mind, it was a difficult task to perform. I was starting to realize that we had swallowed what I now knew to be some extremely strong acid. We were informed of the cab`s arrival and I escorted Natasha outside where we entered the back seat of the vehicle and I requested we be taken to Buckhead, a popular bar district I was very familiar with. The driver was either Indian or Pakistani and was continuously talking into the mouthpiece of a radio system he had plugged into his ear. He never said a word to us and I could tell his conversation had nothing to do with taxis. It made me nervous. Surely they couldn't have found us so quickly. As we traveled, I found the dark scenery rather depressing after Florida. No palm trees only pines, lots of them. The buildings were not pink but dull for dull reasons. The proprietors weren't selling beach wear or surf boards. They weren't here to make people happy but to make money and their customers knew it. As we approached the busy Buckhead district, I remembered it was a weekend as the Atlanta traffic ground to a near halt. I'd been to Atlanta before, as I said, and was aware that there would be many familiar faces. Yet it seemed much busier than I remembered, I think, since the place had hosted the Olympics. It had grown to be a pretend city rather than the sprawling town I had fond memories of. I wondered if the population's attitude had changed in the same way. Even though it was always rather cosmopolitan for the deep

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South, it was after all, the South. The fascinating South, where even in Britain they are enamored of its mysterious ways. As we inched closer to our destination, I tapped the driver on the shoulder. He took his earpiece out momentarily as I pointed to a bar named Michelangelo's where he dutifully dropped us off. He received a meager tip due to his mediocre service. We left his vehicle and entered what I thought was going to be familiar surroundings, yet the place was almost barren. This once popular bistro, usually packed full of rugby fanatics and their throngs of followers ranging from ex-players, hangers on, to the vixen-like whores dripping from the burley men`s sweaty shorts. The place had apparently changed owners and not only altered their décor and staff, but their customers. I was soon to find out that it wasn't just the ownership takeover responsible for this lack of clientele. As we paid for the one drink which we downed quickly, we left the destination. I held Natasha's hand and led her through the cold night air into a common thoroughfare. A street lined with trendy bars and clubs yet unlike my last visit, this popular stretch was barricaded by police and packed to the point of overflow with black people. I wanted to get to another destination, a large Irish bar called Pado's. I could have taken an alternate route yet I was morbidly curious. I asked one of the policemen to open the barrier and he hesitantly allowed us through. We walked through the crowd of black revelers who were not spending money in the bars, just spending time. It was only then that I aware of the "boom boom ta boom boom" sound coming from the cars cruising around the area. As we squeezed through the provocative ambience drifting through this group just hanging out, we felt like aliens, given hostile looks by people who had only glanced through their history books enough to blame Natasha and me for the iniquities of other white people. I knew George was not among these people.

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It seemed an eternity before we reached the other barrier, where we were allowed into the high street by another policeman. What had happened here? The storms of the Civil War had apparently not yet blown away, some local inhabitants treated black people from the other part of town like carpetbaggers as they had more than a century ago, leaving them with the aftertaste of a sour peach. It was unfair to place the blame and the unknown price of this catastrophe on the black community just because they had decided to descend upon this white part of town. Soon we walked into the warm, affable atmosphere of the predominantly white Anglo Saxon community of Pado's. In a mixture of Celtic, English and American southerners, we sat in a corner of the packed bar and observed as the acid began to kick in even more. People's dress sense was far superior to Florida's shorts and tee shirt look. After all, they had seasons here to change their attire. The banter was much sharper, too, not the relaxed beach talk, but quick. A common theme on everyone's lips was that the blacks had arrived. For some reason the downtrodden, under-privileged dark community of south Atlanta had decided to sample this once white, posh part of town and aimed to show these people part of their culture. South Atlanta, once the murder capital of America, where blacks were killing other blacks had come to town and these folks didn't like it. There were no white hoods around but the stench of racism still prevailed and it got too much for me. Besides, I didn't want anybody recognizing me with Natasha. Once again, we left after only one drink and exited onto Peachtree Road immediately finding a cab, which we ordered back to the hotel in Midtown. The driver took us the short distance to our shabby lodgings. Entering the sparse room, we stripped seeing each other in different colors. The drugs made more of an effect than I remembered. The "trip" had been a failure. George never did show but I have to say that the acid

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experience was marvelous. We made the best of things and had drug-induced sex all night. It was impossible to sleep. We packed by 7.30 and made our way into the brisk morning air. Once inside the rental car, I drove from the hotel through unfamiliar territory, streets lined with trees I was unaccustomed to. I was lost. Natasha pointed out a sign for a school play named "Celebrations Around the World " (because of the Supreme Court decision regarding church and state the school was not allowed to call it a Christmas event.) Why not, we thought. Drunk, full of cocaine and still very much on an acid high hallucinating the day away, we followed the throng of eager parents to watch their loved ones act out what must be the performance of their dear children`s lives. It was refreshing to see their innocence. We sat on folding metal chairs in the front row as they, in pacts of five, acted out the ritual of Christmas celebrations from different countries, ranging from China to the United Kingdom The act was farcical as the kids fluffed their lines, tripped over their costumes and one little girl even inappropriately farted very loudly just as the three wise men were bearing their gifts in traditional African garb. These scenes issued loving giggles and cooing from the doting parents but it sent me and Natasha into convulsions of hysteria to the point we were falling off our seats. Natasha and I looked around at the audience and finding them mortified rather than amused, embraced quickly to stifle howls of laughter. We could not contain ourselves. The acid and other substances enhanced the already bizarre performance. She nudged me, pointing to one of the teachers who was staring at us. It was time to leave. Within this glaring eye of the aforementioned teacher, we left the school by a fire exit. Natasha broke the glass for the fire alarm as a diversion. To the sound of a loud bell and screaming children, we escaped and sped down Interstate 85 to the airport.

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Still in a giggly mood we dropped off the car at the rental place next to the airport and made our way to ticketing. At the checkpoint we were greeted by a couple of airport employees (no line) who gave each of us a knowing nod and handed us back our tickets immediately without checking our i.d.'s. We proceeded to the tedious, yet essential in these days of mad terrorism, security procedures. Shoes off, belt off, ( thank God we did all the cocaine) through the metal detector and once again just a cursory glance at our i.d.s; no one checked us out. We still had time for a drink at the airport bar. With a shaky hand holding Natasha's, I drank the drink of a worried man. Leaving the bar to the "terminal" gate, a word that would have horrible consequences, we were ushered onto the plane with a greeting by our full names. Hand luggage only, we meandered through the plane aisle, noticing ominously only nine passengers; very old sick looking passengers. (We were later told that they were all sat together in the front seats and were ordered to spread out.} As we were escorted to our seats by a flight attendant (also very sick looking) we shoved our luggage into the overhead compartment and sat down, Natasha by the window. The plane taxied into position, engines roaring into action. I looked at Natasha. We knew something was wrong. She cupped her hand and whispered into my ear (I'd never seen her this nervous.) Her aunt was dying of cancer in Ed White Hospital and had been receiving regular visits from Natasha. She informed me that she recognized many of the passengers from the cancer ward. What was this about? Then it hit us simultaneously. They were suicide cancer patients. They were going to crash the plane. The flight attendant wobbled down the aisle, holding her slipping wig, the chemotherapy had made her bald. It was too late, we were taking off. There were so many empty seats. We wanted the back row but the flight attendant stuck out her leg (it was prosthetic) to bar our way.

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There was a bomb on the back half of the plane, that was why it was void of company. (We later learned that the passengers had been promised security for their grieving families and their name engraved on a plaque in a prominent place in Arlington cemetery to complete the mission.) We took off into the clear blue sky, trapped. This was bad. One thing was in our favor, the passengers were fading fast. There was nothing to do but wait. As we huddled together Natasha noticed through the crack in the seating behind us one of the patients lying prostrate on the seat, a large black lady. She was dead, never to have the honor of her name on the plaque. She died before the mission was over Yet fate was on our side Paulie had apparently already heard of the plot through the top researcher at the cancer institute (owned by the Shriners,) found out the whereabouts of the plane, contacted the pilot's family (also a cancer patient with a wife and three children) and put in a call to the airport. They, in turn, contacted the pilot to say his family was in danger. We knew we were safe when the flight attendant came out with the drinks. Her wig fell into the drinks cart. She was nervous. The plane descended into Tampa Airport, the .landing gear thumping onto the runway, taxiing to the terminal and making a relieved stop. Taking our luggage, we rolled it through the aisle, passing the half dead patriots. The pilot had come out to meet us with an ashen face. Natasha gave him a stern look and we moved to the airport lounge. Slumping into barstools, we ordered drinks. That was close. We were getting sloppy. It was time to take it to them. Natasha suggested Clearwater, a hotbed for followers of the cult of Scientology. She wanted to do a stake-out. I dismissed the idea by saying gently " I think we've had enough for today, love." She nodded and with the safe knowledge we had supplies, collected the car and drove home. We slept for twelve hours.

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Christmas with Ted Bundy After this we decided to lay low, hunker down (or as Natasha liked to call it, hibernate) and discuss a new strategy. Would talk and drink for hours; the dead man's pipe and Carravgio being our lone companions. We talked about sexual abuse and the other horrors of the past: suicide, of secrets and lies and why we had done this. She started back on her dot piece and I had the audacity to suggest the reason all her work was unfinished was maybe she was scared of success. To which she unraveled from behind the amplifier many canvases, mainly female nudes, and a framed dot piece (also a female nude) then informed me that she had been shown extensively in New York and Atlanta. She liked to expound on her vast knowledge of the history of art. Caravgio, mainly because of his rebellious nature, I think, was one of her favorites; hence the cat's name. Little facts, like the old painters used to use egg yolk as a base for paint. Also that a lot of artists died through toxic poisoning due to an uncontrollable habit of holding their brush , encrusted with lead paint, in their mouths while pondering on their latest work( Van Gogh's madness was also attributed to this, but the fact that during his leaner times he actually ate mercury filled paint and washed it down with turpentine I`m sure couldn`t have helped his state of mind.) Natasha was also guilty of this trait of oral brush holding so I supposed it must be worth it. It was all fascinating stuff and I knew I could never be bored around this vivacious woman. Then came a phone call from Natasha's mother (her parents were divorced on the grounds of her father's infidelity and both remarried, living in separate parts of Atlanta.) her mother informed her of a visit by an neighboring couple for dinner one evening last week and the lady was so impressed with a charcoal male nude above the fireplace that Natasha had done years

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ago, that the husband was willing to pay up to a thousand dollars for a similar piece. Upon this news Natasha informed me that I was to be the model. Natasha then came back to tell me that it would probably be two four-hour sessions in as many days. I wondered what I could occupy myself with during those hours of stillness; I decided on the DVD of Henry V. I sat looking away from her with my legs crossed watching Kenneth Branagh's version of Shakespeare's marvelous portrayal of the great king's conquest of the dreaded French. Every now and then I would turn my eyes toward her (for which I would be seriously scolded) and was impressed by the fury with which she worked. At the beginning of the second session, Natasha ordered, "okay, show me some dick." I was ready for this after she told me it was best for everyone concerned if had a semi-erection, so with that in mind, I didn't masturbate or have sex that morning. After the session she showed me the product of her work. I was very impressed. It was very stark and striking. "You like it, baby?" she asked. "Very much, love," I answered. And with that, she rolled up the canvas and drove to the post office to send it to Atlanta and await a thousand dollar check. Not bad for eight hours work. I found it rather amusing in an odd kind of way, to think that I would literally be "hanging" over some couple's fireplace in Atlanta and the husband paid for it! Then just as I was getting used to the thought of clothes, Natasha arrived back from the post office and while stretching out another canvas informed me she wanted to do it again. "I want one for myself," she said, "that way I'll always have you, baby." With those eyes, who could argue. And so it was back to Agincourt for another two days. It was all escapism, but was worth it.

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The only times we would venture outside was to get supplies. For liquor we used a well established store named "Cut Cost Liquor" owned by a very pleasant Indian family and had been there for years, therefore once again on that reasoning couldn't possible be a plant. Groceries were a different matter. We didn't trust the local supermarket in case they tainted our food, so we would make our grocery shopping as sporadic and widespread as possible so they would never know where we were going to purchase our goods. The one exception we made from our self-imposed seclusion was the St. Pete Beach Christmas lighted boat parade. We were given notice of the event by our local TV channel informing us of the route which happened to pass our resident dock. Natasha told me it was quite an elaborate affair and we should take advantage as an excuse to get out. And so on the designated evening we smoked pot and took a cooler of beer down to the dock arriving early in order to get a good vantage seat. John and Gloria Glock were already there, so was Mick with his girlfriend Min (also from London). Even though Mick hung around with a gay man he was straight as can be. We sat at the same table as they and had marvelous banter, Mick openly flirting in a harmless manner with Natasha, complimenting her all way. Natasha pretended to be bashful but I could see she lapped it up. I was happy for her. She needed it. Then John and Mick, both avid and very experienced fishermen, discussed which fish were biting and so forth, all of which went over my head. Every now and then they would slip in some jocular remark about my ineptitude at the sport. I had fished with both of them many times and they never tired at making jokes about my inability to catch anything. My incompetence knew no boundaries, it was as if there was a "beware" sign on the end of my hook, meanwhile John and Mick were pulling in fish which just surrendered to their charms. They talked about the evasive "snook;" I never found out

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what was so fascinating about this fish, I don't think it is so much that it made a tasty meal just that it was a wily creature and so hard to catch. I suppose that's why they call it a sport. The dock and its surrounding area started to fill up with residents, most of whom I had never set eyes upon. Many of them came to say hello to Mick and Min, to John and Gloria who introduced Natasha and me to each of them. At first we were wary, after all we had gone to so much trouble to stay under the radar. Then finally we decided to let our guard down. After all, they wouldn't dare try anything here in front of so many witnesses. A big surprise to me was how many residents were Floridians. Just proving that they weren't just vacation homes for out of towners, local people had decided to live here too. It was my first chance to mingle with people who actually were from Florida, they seemed such a rare breed around these parts. It was worth the wait. I found them to be wonderful people, charming and very affable. Many even wrote their room numbers down and offered us an invite to come up for cocktails anytime. I inquired as to the whereabouts of the elusive boats as I could see what appeared to be Christmas lights up ahead on the water. Mick informed me that the parade starts at Tierra Verde several miles down the beach, then travels down the intracoastal through Vina del Mar (I love the names of the local places) and finished at the "Yacht Club" just a mile north of us on Blind Pass Road. Yet when they got to the Corey Bridge, which is just half a mile from us, they wait for everyone to catch up so the bridge isn't closed for too long to road traffic. On paper, Mick explained in his usual soft spoken manner, this was a good sound idea, yet in reality was "a complete balls up" as the revelers on the boats were so drunk by the time the slow crafts reached there that they turned back, therefore we only got to see a fraction of the parade. I didn't care because when it came it was a joy.

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A cheer rang out from the crowd as the bascules of the Corey bridge swung open and the first of the elaborately decorated vessels passed under it, sailing toward us. First came a two engine fishing boat with lights not just around the boat but the rods hanging from their "torpedoes" (a local slang name for the tubular plastic holders for the rods.) Next came a fat cat, a tycoon's boat worth millions. Once again elaborately decorated, it must have taken these sailors weeks to do this. And everybody was waving, even the fat cat and his bikini clad babes. Normally all you saw was the babes sunbathing on the deck, he would be at the wheel high up in another world. But this was special, he was giving back to the public. Small boats were mixing with the rich boats from the smuggler to the millionaires. It was socialism on the sea. Next came a schooner, almost a pirate ship, with so many lights it made you wonder where they got the power to light them all. One proud captain had erected a Christmas tree and a reindeer (fake, I hoped) on deck and was riding the aforementioned animal much to the amusement of the crowd. My personal favorite though, were the yachts, with their lights trailing up and down the sails and mast then around the craft from port to stern. Yet no matter how many tacky lights you strung on these wind powered vessels, they still looked majestic And so it was, this was how Florida celebrated Christmas in their unique way. I was just happy to have been a part of it. It was a wonderful experience seeing these illuminated ships pass in the night and a great escape from the mission. This was all very well but once again the old feelings came back, I just wasn`t happy. I couldn`t put my finger on it. But something wasn`t right and if I didn`t figure it out soon I was going to have a panic attack. Then it hit me as the crowd of sight seers sitting on the dock were talking excitedly about how joyous it had been, and " Oh, I think the lights were better than last year don`t you, Mavis ?"

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Even the company at my table were just as culpable as Min said " That woz lavley won it?" in a thick Cockney accent……….. GLEE!!! That`s what it was. Too much fucking glee. The word I hate more than any other, well at this moment any way. I imagine if I was on the fourteenth floor of a blazing building it would be "jump, or if I was in front of a firing squad my most hated word would be "fire." But now, in the midst of so many families just bursting with maritime merriness, it had to be "glee". It`s a lot like drugs, I need equilibrium. Cocaine and pot, cocaine and alcohol, acid and alcohol, my body and brain needs counterbalance. To do cocaine by itself would drive me insane and that was the case here with all this Christmas spirit, I needed to tip the seesaw the other way. So, with that in mind, I formed a tentative plan. At the risk of being hasty, I addressed the person who would probably be most likely to help me. "Mick, who's your favorite serial killer?" I asked the question with such nonchalance as to believe I could be asking him his favorite movie star or fish but that wouldn't work. It was a gamble I had to take. I was to be pleasantly surprised how receptive the company would prove to be as Mick took just a couple of seconds for reflection and let the gravity of the answer he was about to give set in. "Oh, Jeffrey Dahmer. What a nutcase," he said, eyes widening with excitement behind his thick lens glasses. "Why, Mick?" I asked, eager to stoke up some momentum. "Well," he said while rubbing his chin in a very philosophical way. "I mean the fact that one of his victims, some Asian kid actually, escaped from his flat. I think he was naked. And a couple of birds called the cops over. The kid was all fucked up on the drugs Dahmer had given him. Then," he said, warming to his task, "Dahmer shows up all cool, calm, and collected and

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says to the cops that he's his gay lover. The cops escort the kid and blond Jeffrey back to his flat and lo and behold, he shows pictures of the Asian kid in skimpy underwear. The cops leave, missing the fact that there's a five day old corpse in Jeffrey's bed, and bid goodnight. Dahmer then proceeds to strangle the Paki or whatever he was, has sex with him while 'e's dead, I might add." Mick took one last drag from his cigarette and stumped it out into his makeshift ashtray, pausing for effect. "And, after that he chops the kid up and cleans his skull up for a souvenir. Now, that takes some beatin'." He announced this with pride as to say, "beat that, I dare you." Much to my surprise it was Gloria who spoke next. "Oh, I'll go along with Charlie Manson. I mean, he never actually killed anyone himself. And I know it was awful what they did to Sharon Tate, pregnant and all too, but that guy had charisma." Gloria was a little cutie with sparkling eyes and a smirk to match, belying her age. I sensed an undercurrent of sexuality in her tone as she mentioned the demonic Manson as "Charlie" in a friendly way as opposed to Manson. Not to be outdone by his wife, John Glock raised his hand and said in a Humphrey Bogart accent, "I'd have to go with Shon of Sham. Why, when I was working for the New York Fire Department, every other person I rescued would ask me if Son of Sam had anything to do with this or that. He had the whole city in fear." "I remember the Moors murders in England," Mick said. "You probably remember Jack the Ripper, you old git," said Min with a grin. Everyone giggled, even Mick, as I could feel my nerves calming. This was just the tonic I needed. I was just feeling at peace when Mick asked, "Nick, who's your favorite?" I didn't even have to think. "Ted Bundy," I announced as if I all along had the answer to the quiz. "Oh, he was good looking," blurted Gloria.

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"Oh, yeh," agreed Min. "Why, Nick?" Mick asked. "Well," I said as Natasha grabbed my hand under the table, probably wondering what I was going to say. "He was, as Gloria pointed out, very handsome and highly intelligent. Born illegitimate, his mother brought him up thinking she was his sister and her parents were his. That's a scary upbringing, don't you think?" I left the question hanging before carrying on. "Then he murdered pretty young girls with long brown hair parted in the middle. He escaped from jail twice and ended up here in Florida where he was convicted on the evidence of the bite marks on one of his victims. Thirty five murders he confessed to but there were probably more." It was like I had created a contest and I wanted to win. But the main thing was I had gained peace of mind. Christmas with illuminated boats and serial killers. I had been aware of Natasha`s silence during the conversation, I knew she was thinking other thoughts. My suspicions were confirmed when she tugged on my shirt and looked into my eyes. I knew we had to get back to work. With that, we bade farewell to our friends and strode back to our cell to plan the next offensive.

New Year's Eve Jellyfish Waking to an unusually empty bed, I patted the mattress but no Natasha. My eyes were sticky and I was having a hard time opening them. "Hi baby," came the shrill greeting from Natasha.

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I turned over in a daze and gradually a fully dressed blonde came more and more into my vision. She seemed very excitable and wasn't so much rushing from one room to another, more floating like a ballerina on air. What was going on? What had I missed out on? "What's happening, baby?" I asked in a desperate quest to catch up with events while I was having weird dreams; or was this the weird dream? "It's New Year's Eve, baby. Tomorrow's a new year and today is the day we say, 'fuck them.' We're taking the day off, Nicholas." She drifted into the kitchen and brought me a large vodka and the dead man's pipe. "Here, drink this." Which I dutifully did. I could tell she wasn't in the mood to be refused anything this morning. She took the glass from my lips as I sat up straight, my back against the headboard, then stuck the pipe into my mouth and lit a fresh batch of pot in the bowl which she had obviously laid out for me. "Now, suck, Nicholas, suck." Once again I obliged. It was rather shocking, if not intimidating, at this waking hour but I was enjoying this mild form of masochism. It seemed like she had decided to be the boss for the day and I liked it, especially the bit where she said we had the day off. Natasha hovered into the bathroom and pursed her lips to the mirror while applying lipstick, the only thing she wore on her face, no makeup, just lipstick and sometimes mascara. "Get me a vodka, Nicholas, when you're getting your own, please, babe." I climbed to the side of the bed and sat up, naked, trying to take all this in while wiping the glue-like substance from my eyes. Everything was going so fast. I had to step up to her level. So on Natasha's advice, I walked to the freezer with disheveled hair and brain then poured us both a vodka, which I brought back and placed on the side table next to the bed where I resumed my previous position next to it. She waltzed in, smelling fresh, her eyes ablaze and grabbed the glass

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as I did mine, clinking them together and said, "Cheers, love," in a very English accent. "I know what you want, my darling," she chirped as she made her way to the drawer in the side table and grabbed our stash of cocaine, then slid the small mirror lying on top onto the table next to me. Dumping out a mound, she then grabbed her purse and produced a credit card that she used to chop several lines. Then she reached back into her bag and produced a hundred dollar bill, which she rolled and handed to me. I snorted three of the lines. I have to hand it to Natasha, she knows how to start a New Year off. If this was anything to go by, I think it will be a good one. "Now, get in the shower, stinky," she demanded in a playful way. Once again, I complied with her wishes. Why not? She's been right so far. Stepping into the warm shower felt good. For some reason, worry? alcohol? Who knows, I had a sweat filled night. I kept waking up in a panic, soaking wet and it had encrusted on my body, making me feel I was in another skin and it was soothing to wash it off. As I was showering, Natasha brought in another vodka and placed it on the sink and closed the door, allowing me to dry my hair. I reentered the bedroom and noticed she was dressed in jeans and her Brooklyn t-shirt so I decided to wear something accordingly. "Do those last two lines, baby," she said, pointing to the mirror. As I did, I could hear her foraging around in the refrigerator and freezer. I walked into the living room and she was standing by the front door with a cooler (that I assumed was just packed) and her keys dangling in her right hand. "Ready babe?" "Yes, dear," I answered.

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"Let's go" she announced while opening the door, locked it behind us, then she purposefully descended the steps toward the car acknowledging the next door neighbors who were smoking outside. She was on a mission. "Happy New Year, if I don't see you." "You, too, Natasha," they said. We packed the car then got ourselves seated "Buckle up, baby, we're going on the interstate," she announced while grabbing my hand, then grasping the back of my head with her other hand gave me an excited kiss. She readjusted herself to the steering wheel and started the car while giving out a sexy satisfied growl. As we pulled out of Ciega Shores she pressed the button to let the roof down. It was around nine o'clock yet the sun was already making its presence felt. "Where are we going, love?" I inquired. "It's a surprise, baby," she said with that wonderful smile of hers while tapping her nose with her finger, hair blowing across her face. We headed up Gulf Boulevard then turned left onto the Pinellas Parkway, paying fifty cents to the man at the kiosk, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt. "Happy New Year," Natasha yelled at the tollbooth man. Only in Florida would they make these people wear Hawaiian shirts. It was an extension of Disney World. The whole state was one big act. Then we pulled onto I-275, past Tropicana Field, the Devil Rays' baseball stadium which looks like it is sinking, it being on a slant. It was nothing like being on a motorway in England, passing factories and huge walls hiding other factories and chimneys. I-275 was lined with wonderful palm trees. It was a pleasure to drive on it. Then came the Howard Frankland Bridge, passing over the Gulf of Mexico. This crossing is several miles long and offers an incredible

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view of the shark infested water lapping against the sides of the bridge. After this we passed Tampa Airport, voted number three in the world. It really is a beautiful place to be in. "So, we're going to Tampa, Natasha?" I asked while grabbing a beer from the cooler and ducking my head under the dashboard away from the wind to light my cigarette. I lit two and stuck one in Natasha's mouth. She grabbed it with a spare hand and said, with a smile, "Thanks, baby," then carried on driving with purpose. We pulled off an exit and Natasha steered us through streets she seemed very familiar with and ended up parking next to a trendy looking bistro in a trendy looking part of town named Ybor City. The place was just opening for lunch and Natasha confidently strode into the establishment. Bells rang on the door as you opened it; very Bohemian, but clean. The décor was of the same mode as our waiter with a laid back attitude and a poet's goatee. We ordered beers and surveyed the menu. "Did you bring the coke dear?" I whispered. "Why, of course, darling. Today is going to be perfect." And I believed her as she reached into her cloth purse and passed me a plastic bag underneath the table. She never took her eyes off me and said, "I Love you, Nick." "You, too, babe," I said while pushing back my chair to find a venue to avail myself of some of the bag's contents. I came back from the bathroom in a jubilant mood. It was only ten thirty and I felt on top of the world. On Natasha's advice, I had put the job out of my head. Obviously, she had and it was infectious. We needed a day off. Fuck them. Both deciding on Eggs Benedict we ate heartily despite the cocaine and washed the meal down with two more beers. I went to pay the tab and Natasha pulled my hand to the table. "Ah, ah, no. Today everything is on me."

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"Fine with me, love," I said with a smile. "Good," she said in a satisfied manner while slipping her credit card on the table. The poet waiter collected the card and came back with the slip, while Natasha signed with what I assumed to be a handsome tip by the gracious thanks he gave, wishing her a happy New Year. Sated, we stepped back into the car. I looked at Natasha and asked, "Now, what?" "Oh, you'll see. It's a surprise." Then she wrapped her sunglasses back around her face (her gray blue eyes were very sensitive to the sun) and made way through the streets that resembled more New Orleans than Florida; it was a unique place. Then she turned to me and I knew she was about to come out with something profound. Natasha was not just a vivacious, loyal, never boring woman, she was also highly intelligent and when she had a point to make she had a certain face that made everything seem tongue in cheek. Yet I had learned since these wonderful times of knowing her that it was a façade. This was really serious. It was now she showed that face. Her eyes were glued to mine while she was driving as she made her point. "Right, Nicholas," her eyebrows furrowed as a smirk came over her mouth (that was the tongue in cheek face.) "How do these bastards who are chasing us perceive us westerners, especially Americans? They're over the cowboy and Indian thing." She kept her eyes on the road and knew every turn, then would put her eyes back to mine. I was trying to guess her train of thought, but I had to admit as close as we were, she had me lost. "Gangsters." She said it with venom. "Fucking gangsters, Nick. That's how they perceive us. Fucking gangsters." She had a point.

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"And that is what we are going to give them. They think we are all carousing tonight, Nick. We'll give them what they want. It's New Year's Eve and we are going to be Bonnie and Clyde." I liked the rhetoric but still didn't fully understand where she was going until we pulled up in front of a used clothes shop. Now I got it. I liked it. They won't know what hit them. She got out of the car then burst through the doors of the unsuspecting establishment like a gunslinger. I followed meekly behind. Perhaps this not being in charge wasn't such a bad idea after all. The place was jammed with racks of clothes and had a musty odor to it. There were two assistants. One was a guy who could have been the twin of the chap in the bistro. I always find it amusing how those people try so hard to look different, yet in the end they all look the same. The other assistant could have been very attractive if she had eaten in the last two years. Around twenty-five with bleached blonde hair and skin to match, her bones protruded though a wafer like covering over her skeleton, revealing blue lines issuing a road map to her heart. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked, exposing a set of yellow teeth. "I'm with her actually, love," I pointed to Natasha in the men's section, rifling through hangers like a maverick flipping cards. She looked possessed. By the time I reached her she had pulled out a suit, held it in front of me and looked at it. "What size chest are you, Nick?" "Why about a forty four, I think, Natasha." "Good, try this on. I'll be over there in the moll section." She tossed the suit at me and off she went. The skeletal girl was stood behind me. "The changing rooms are over there, sir." She said as if it were my last resting place. The "changing room" consisted of a small cubicle with a tiny bench and the only form of privacy was a short purple velvet curtain, which when closed barely covered your stomach and genitals. All the time the chalk like girl was stood outside like a macabre sentry.

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I've said it many times. Natasha is a witch and this was a fine example. The suit was a grey pinstripe number with padded shoulders and had the desired affect, also it was a perfect fit. I placed it back on the hanger and put my clothes back on, unveiling the curtain. I was confronted by Natasha in a very 30s black dress with a box hat over her head. She looked spectacular. "What do you think, Nicholas?" I was aghast. "Just fantastic, babe. Wonderful." "Okay, there's a bar across the street. I'll get us some accessories. Start a tab and I'll see you there in fifteen. The suit to your liking, also? Oh, here try this hat on." It was grey with a black band and once again a perfect fit. "Ok, looks great. See you over there baby. Then she gave me a huge kiss while taking the suit and hat from me and handing them to the skinny assistant. I walked out of the shop into the real world across the street and into a tiny bar. It was more like a house that had decided to sell the contents of its refrigerator. But I sat at one of the several barstools on offer and was given prompt service from who I assumed to be the proprietor because no one would employ anyone in this establishment and expect enough revenue to pay the poor soul. "I'll take a Budweiser, please sir," I said to a thirtyish looking man who delivered promptly then went about arranging bottles like he was expecting a busy night. As I drank my bottle of beer (no glass provided) I started to think about Natasha. She's acting like a woman possessed. But maybe she's right. It may be just an act, but hell, we do need a break. If it's her way for staving off a mental breakdown, then I'm all for it. Then she burst in with two huge bags and a grin from ear to ear. "Get us two vodkas, baby." Then gave me a kiss before slumping on one of the stools next to me.

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"Two vodkas, please, mate." "Oh, you will love what I got us, Nicholas," she said, panting. The vodkas were presented and duly drunk. "What do we owe you?" Natasha asked. She paid the bill. "Give me a hand with this stuff, Nicholas." I took both bags and we walked to the car and placed them in the boot. We entered the car and Natasha drove through the streets we had just come through back to Ybor City. She parked in front of a brick biulding with a huge window exposing its interior. I fell in love with the place immediately. We walked in and I felt at home. We sat at the oak bar (everything was oak; a real bar at last) and ordered drinks. Natasha turned to me and said, "You like it here, don't you, Nicholas?" "Yes." "I knew you would. We'll have a couple here then head to the beach. It's going to be a beautiful day." "How do you know?" "Because I did a backwards rain dance on the beach when you were asleep," she answered with indignation. "I told you, today is going to be perfect." It was lunch time and the residents were coming out the woodwork. They didn't look Floridian. More their own style, musicians, artists, etc. Eavesdropping on conversations from these people, I could tell they were no beach bum rednecks, they had purpose and a certain panache and carried it well. Ybor City was to Florida what Austin was to Texas, an oasis. Texas, epitomized justifiably by the electric chair, Stetsons, cowboy boots and bad politicians, yet gifted with the wonderful, artistic Austin. They don't deserve it, yet I would like to think Florida had

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earned this unique place. True to her word, after the two drinks Natasha paid the tab and we hurried off to St. Pete Beach with our booty. "Enjoy that, baby?" she asked, looking over her sunglasses as we sped over the Howard Frankland bridge for the second time today." I`m loving everything so far, love," I replied with a grin. We made it back to Ciega Shores before one o'clock and I toted the bags up to the apartment. Natasha opened the door and I fell onto the couch dropping the clothes to the floor ready for slumber. Natasha was having none of it. She brought in the mirror from the bedroom, formed six lines of coke and handed me the one hundred dollar bill. "Snort, Nicholas. I'll have no shirking, not on my watch." And so I did. I know when she is serious. She came back with two vodkas and a couple of beers then took the two bags of clothes into the bedroom. "I'm going to hang this stuff up for tonight. Put your bathing suit on, baby. We'll go to the beach. Can't wait. All that beautiful weather I worked so hard on." I took off my clothes then put on a pair of discarded black soccer shorts and a red tee shirt, then slid into my Adidas "slides" (our name for flip flops,) you can't overdress for the beach. I took the cooler she had brought up from the car and repacked it with beer, then I slipped a bag of coke into my wallet which I placed into a compartment on top of the cooler with our books, the latter being a mere formality as we ever read when we are together at the beach. Natasha came into the living room dressed in a pink sarong and tee shirt covering her bathing suit, in her hand was the dead man's pipe. We liked to get stoned for the beach. Mixing the pot with several lines of coke, we moved our way into the mood , taking full advantage of a mixture of drugs as to cause a conflict of interest in our minds; Doesn`t everyone feel this way?

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Making our way to the car, Natasha unlocked the door and I put the cooler on my lap. We parked in Paddies' lot then walked in the bar starting a tab with Pam. Paulie was in the corner surrounded by cohorts. He took a cigar out of his mouth and gave us a brief wave, then we took our drinks out to the beach where we were greeted by Jake the cabana boy. "I want to go to the water's edge today, Nick. I'd like the water on my feet, if that's all right by you." "You've been right all day, baby. Why stop now?" I remarked to Natasha then turned back to Jake "Lead the way, mate," I said to the tanned lad with the chairs and umbrellas. Having got us up on the water's edge with reclining chairs he spiked an umbrella into the sand. Natasha tipped him and we relaxed with our drinks. We always insisted the chairs be as close as possible so we could touch each other. Like I said, the books were never touched when we were together on the beach, though we were both voracious readers. The conversation was too rich to read. Our experience generally consisted of condecending observations on our fellow sun worshippers and reserved especially for tourists. They were our specialty. "Just look at those two kids, Nicholas," Natasha said as she nodded her head toward two cherubic looking children while taking off her tee shirt and sarong, exposing her beautiful white body only covered by a tiny black bathing suit. "Fat little bastards. They're like a pair of baby fucking seals. It's a good job this isn't Alaska, they'd be clubbed to death." This was how it always started and finished, stoned and coked out of our heads, looking for prey. The kids in question were rather fat, yet their mother who was sunbathing seemed to be of normal size. "Look at the mother. She's not fat." Natasha was on a roll, so to speak. "What is she doing, fattening the little bastards up for fucking Thanksgiving or what?" "Let them start smoking, I say."

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"Give them cocaine, I say, Nick. That'll stop the little fat bastards from eating all the cream buns." And so it went. Our usual verbal annihilation of everyone on the beach until they were all gone. Dead. "Fuck this, Nick. I'm going to get more Jagermeister from the bar. Are we still ok for beer in the cooler?" "Yes, babe." "See you in a minute." I turned around and watched her pert arse stagger up to the bar and giggled to myself. I loved it when she was in one of these moods, there is no mercy. Then as I turned back toward the ocean I noticed an apparition. An absolutely beautiful woman of around twenty five in a conservative yet very sexy bikini stepping out of the water coming toward me. Her eyes glued to mine. I would have said it was identical to Ursula Andress coming toward James Bond in "Dr. No," but there were three main differences in the scene. One was that unlike Ursula Andress, this lady, albeit just as vivacious, didn't have a look of passion in her eyes. No, it was shock, definitely shock. Also, unlike Ursula, who emerged from the water with a step of conviction, this girl of my dreams had a prolific limp. And third, and I would definitely say most important in this case, this one would have one over on the Bond girl; She had one tit hanging out. She limped right up to me and stood there shivering even though the temperature was around 80degrees. It was definitely shock. "Are you ok love?" I asked in a samareten on the beach kind of way "No," she said, with a shaky voice.

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"What's the matter?" "I think I was stung or bitten by something." "Where, love, where?" Without a word she grabbed my hand with hers to keep her balance then put her foot up on my knee. Through the sand I could see blood oozing from the sole of her foot. I grabbed my plastic cup of beer and poured it over the afflicted foot to see what we were dealing with. And so this was the scene Natasha was confronted with when she came back from the bar with the shooters: a beautiful girl with her foot on my lap and a breast hanging out in my face. I wasn't sure how she would react, but like I said she was in one of those moods. "It's a jelly fish sting, Nick. You've got to piss on it." "What?" I said, exasperated. "You have to piss on it. That's what cures it. I had to do it myself once on my calf." She's right, you know. I've heard about that. My husband is at least a mile down the beach. I'll never make it." I'd been taking orders all day. So I thought, "why not?" "What's your name, love?" Natasha asked. "Stephanie." "Well, Stephanie, I'll hold you up from behind then you put your foot on Nicholas's crotch and we'll sort you out." And so it went. Natasha holding this beautiful woman (with one tit out ) up while I pulled my shorts down and held my dick against her foot and pissed all over it. I swear I detected a smile on Stephanie's face as her heel dug into my balls and urine spurted out over her bite wound. Natasha had to hold her mouth against the woman's shoulder in order to stop laughing.

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"Ok, darling. You're cured. Go to your husband." I said relieved in more ways than one. "Oh, thank you both so much" she said while staggering off into the distance. You could tell the woman was from money and I wondered whether her husband would give us a reward. "Oh, by the way, you have a tit out," Natasha shouted. But I think that Stephanie was oblivious to everything. Natasha grabbed the shooters and gave one to me, then lay back in her chair with the other. "Cheers, darling," she said while raising the plastic cup of Jagermeister. We both drank the lethal syrup simultaneously. "That was fun," she snapped. "Who's next?" She was brutal. "I love you, babe." "You, too, Nicholas. More than anything." We watched the crimson sunset then decided to pack up and head home. "I've already paid the tab, Nicholas. Let's go to the car. We have a statement to make." I was wondering which was the more likely to kill me, the job or more days off like this with Natasha in charge; I was leaning toward the latter. She carried the cooler and marched toward the car as I staggered behind a woman looking for more action. She was on a mission against the mission and I was impressed, her zeal was commendable and she was taking it to them. "Fuck them," was definitely the statement of the day and I was proud of her. We arrived home and Natasha immediately went for the cocaine. She could tell I was waning so she poured out several more lines and ordered me to snort them, and I did; It worked. "I'm going to get our clothes ready Nicholas. Why don't you fix us some alcohol?" "Good idea." When I returned to the bedroom with the liquor, Natasha had my suit laid out on the bed next to a white shirt, braces and a gray striped tie, the hat was on top of the jacket. She was

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wearing the long black "moll" dress and was adjusting her hat. "Why don't you wear those black shoes you brought over from England, babe. It'll look good." I had to agree. She had good taste. "What time is it?" she said while her eyes searched for the clock . "Oh, eight thirty. You've got time. Put your stuff on. I ordered a cab this afternoon for nine o'clock ." I looked at her, incredulous. "You did what?" I couldn't believe it. "You preordered a cab to a destination for us? They will be right on to that." She grabbed me by the shoulders with an iron grip then looked at me with blazing eyes. "Don't you see, Nicholas. That's the whole damned point. We are making a fucking point. They can follow us wherever but when we are dressed like this they wouldn't dare touch us. It would be front page in every paper in the world. Fuck them. And believe me, where we are going tonight we are going to be center stage whether they like it or not and I don't think they will. Put your bloody clothes on, please, and let's make a scene." Humble and silent I put on the attire she had picked out and had to admit it looked good, damned good. Especially when she walked in with the vodkas, shouting in a fake Southern black accent, "Mah, look at mah man. You look good, baby.' I pushed us in front of a mirror. We cut a fine figure. " No, baby. We look good." "I agree babe, fucking lovely. Ok, now let's do a couple more lines and get out of here. And don't freak out when we get followed. Remember the order of the day: fuck them." We snorted and I put a bag in my pocket, she had some in her purse. The horn from the cab outside was our cue. We checked each other's nose for white residue then walked downstairs to the waiting taxi and an adventure. We climbed into the back of the cab, both holding on to our hats closing the doors and Natasha said, "Don CeSar, please sir."

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The driver turned on the motor and peeled out of the gates of Ciega Shores. We had to turn left. I looked in the back window and sure enough, a car did a turn and was on our tail. The driver didn't need directions, everyone knew the Don CeSar. It was the Taj Mahal of St. Pete Beach, reputedly visited by gangsters and movie stars alike. Its tall pink towers dominated the landscape and was indeed a fine establishment, by far the most prestigious hotel in the Bay area. Like Natasha said, they wouldn't dare touch us there. We were driven to the front entrance where we were immediately met with admiring glances. Then, hand in hand, we strolled through the palace of grandeur with a confidence befitting it. As we walked past the black piano player (whose name was Sam, if you can believe it. It was so Casablanca) Natasha leaned over and gave him a hug. "Hello, Miss Natasha," he said graciously. I liked him immediately. As we swaggered over to the bar, all eyes were on us. One of the bartenders, an older man, acknowledged Natasha and said, "Hi, gorgeous." "Hello, George. This is Nicholas. You're going to be seeing quite a lot of him." I looked him in the eye and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, George." "You, too, Nicholas. What are you having?" We ordered drinks and let the night roll. Natasha sidled up to Sam and asked a request. It was "As Time Goes By." We danced. Then Sam took a break and some modern music came out of the system, which we took full advantage of. We were the only people on the floor and we were doing it well, mixing the old with the new. People were taking pictures with their cell phones of Bonnie and Clyde . Two burly men in the corner wearing ill-fitting suits were using their phones to speak to someone. I

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knew they were the ones who followed us. But just like Natasha said, they wouldn't dare touch us here. The New Year was rung in as everyone hugged and kissed, apart from the two burly men. Natasha grabbed me by the hand and led me outside to a waiting car, opened the back door and joined me. "Thank you so much, Tony." She said to the driver, a very good looking man with slicked back hair. "Any time, Natasha." And with that we sped off in silence back to Ciega Shores. As we alighted the car Natasha leaned over the seat and gave the driver a peck on the cheek, "Talk to you next year, Tony. Happy New Year." We staggered up the stairs and then she crashed on the bed into a deep sleep, fully clothed. "Well, Bonnie, you made your mark." I thought. I poured a beer and looked at her exhausted face, wondering what the new year would bring.

Book Meeting I awoke in a cauldron of cold sweat from a dream whereby I was defending an untenable position on the icy slopes of North Korea affectionately known as the 39th parallel against Red Army troops who were swarming around us like locusts. I was eventually captured, interrogated interminably yet didn't tell my North Korean tormentors anything. Rising with a mixed feeling of anxiety and relief that it wasn't true I decided to renege on my promise not to watch television. It was in my interest to know what was going on and things were getting worse. Even on American TV I was able to catch up with the BBC World News and the killing of Alexander Litvinenko was now drawing global attention. They were expelling British diplomats from St. Petersburg in

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Russia and vise versa. At least, my name hadn't been mentioned yet but I could feel the cold war heating up again and the ice was melting beneath my feet. I watched Natasha basking in a well earned sleep, then found myself watching Dr. Zhivago on the TV with Radio Head blasting between my ears on the headset coming from the stereo. I was drinking a glass of fine Beaujolais, reading a book and sipping on a glass of Jagermeister, Several lines of cocaine were lined up like soldiers in front of me ready for my consumption. I was in the mood for multitasking. Dr. Zhivago I was well versed in knowing the book and film by heart. I watched Julie Christie march through the snow into the party to avenge her honor against Rod Steiger's indiscretions upon her, dragging a pistol from a fur muffler and shooting him in the hand. All to the dismay of the distinguished guests apart from Omar Sharif with tears of admiration pouring from his eyes. Meanwhile the revolution went on around them. I snorted a line of coke through a cut off plastic straw and gulped it down with the Beaujolais. Natasha asleep, I was left to my own devices and thoughts. It suddenly occurred to me that I had a book meeting appointment at the library. I let sleeping dogs lie while I packed a cooler, found the book and a half bottle of vodka while pushing a plump bag of cocaine into my back pocket. I couldn't do this alone. Leaving Natasha to her dream world, I drove the serene sunlit blocks to the prison like library with my trusty copy of Hitler's Willing Executioners on the passenger seat. In my drug induced state I became aware of my surroundings with a different perspective on both the neighborhood and people. I noticed with a strange sense of irony that every other front yard seemed to be graced with a tacky plastic pink flamingo. For such a redneck state with a hint of homophobia traveling with every gust of wind I found it strangely camp.

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Dimples may be cute on the facial cheeks of young children but abhorrent on the cellulite ridden, sun-encrusted arse cheeks of old women. Attired in the flimsiest of shorts or, amazingly, bikini bottoms, they sport their bodies unashamedly through the streets with the confidence of a top Hollywood model. Their sagging, crinkled, raisin like breasts only held up by the tiniest of threads revealing a stomach over their vaginas. What are they thinking? I made a vow to never get old and if I did, always to dress in a tweed suit no matter what the weather. The men fared no better in this geriatric fashion show on the beach. Their spindly legs holding up a corpse, skin hanging from bones that were dying to let go. Sporting breasts rivaling their wives for their limp qualities they would hold themselves up on anything from a walker to a shopping cart just to show the general public that they still had what it takes to be a man. Stopping at a traffic light I noticed an elderly lady on an electric scooter dressed as if she were attending a sports event which she would be an integral part of, adorned in a jogging outfit. Crossing my path, she held her hair sprayed head as close to the handlebars as a motorcycle racer dashing to the finish line. I held back an innate urge to run her over. "But the light was green, officer." "Well, you can't just run over old people on scooters, sir. It's against the law." "I thought it my civic duty, officer. Why, just look at her. She's hideous. Admittedly the tire tracks on her face don't do her any favors, but you must understand." "Alright, sir. I'll let you off with a warning this time. But it's bad for the tourist trade and the tourists are coming soon. I'll take care of this, sir. Drive carefully." And with this in mind, I bade farewell to the sheriff's deputy, and while slugging the last of a beer, made my way to my venue. Passing the dead woman (she would have died soon anyway) and her crumpled scooter, I drove past the Christmas shop without a twinge of conscience.

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The officer was correct. The visitors had arrived in vast numbers from cold places. The Snowbirds. You could tell the tourists from the locals. It wasn't just the look of anticipation on their faces as they rode rental bikes down the sidewalks adjacent to the beach, the caps covering their heads exclaiming their passion for the New York Yankees or the White Sox. Not even their pale skin ushering in a new pinkness to their pallor. No, it's because they were good looking. It's as if the surroundings had absorbed any beauty from its inhabitants and thrown it into its own environment and persona. Florida's beauty was created at the sacrifice of its occupants who gave up their good looks and charm to create a place in their own image but not mine. Arriving at the library I was ushered into the inner sanctum of the conference room, a place concealed from the rest of the building. One could have political meetings here, hold testament against the regiment of democracy, swear to be a suicide bomber and the rest of the so-called civilized world would know nothing about it. The enigmatic Sarah was the queen of the ball as she sat at the head of the table full of mainly old people and a biker looking chap. I whisked into the unfamiliar crowd and sat in a chair reserved for me next to my beloved Southern speaker. "Now this is Nicholas," was my introduction to this crowd of unsuspecting guests. What were they up to? Who is the plant? I was introduced to each individual in an anticlockwise fashion. First was Gloria, a widow, at best hanging on to her dead husband's memories like a clock yearning for time. "Hi, Gloria." "Nice to meet you, Nicholas," was her nervous reply. Next to her was Tom, one of the few men in the company. He seemed affable and had an extremely congenial smile that I latched onto immediately. Then came Sylvia, her intelligent face surrounded by a mass of dyed bubbly blonde hair. Like the rest of them apart from the

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biker, she was beyond seventy years old and in the cradle of her beholder. After this was Roberta. I could tell she had an instant dislike for me. I had dealt with jealousy all my life but this was something different. This woman's life revolved around hatred and suspicion. Her shoulders were held up a pink head totally devoid of a neck. The head was automated by a bearing system any German engineering firm would be proud of. The eyes traversed with the neck, as the neck turned left the eyes turned right and vise versa, all pervasive and intrusive. Her looks weren't meant in a kind way, they were meant to hurt. What had happened to this ancient ugly lady in her past life to only wish harm on her so called fellow beings? I could immediately tell she was one of the axis powers. She understood them in her own sick way. Japan: "The Rape of Nanking" didn't even faze her because she would be the only woman not to be raped. Hitler: He was just a misunderstood boy. Italy: Ciao! Next to the scary Roberta came an empty chair, then came the biker. He was leant back on his chair with an air of complacent ease (I think he was stoned.) He had long, lank hair, yet was clean shaven and well scrubbed, it was only his clothes that gave away his passion. Then two more extra chairs. But just when I thought that maybe the cast were dying off, I noticed the reason for the separation. On the following chair sat a man so unkempt and scruffy even the biker refused to sit any closer to him. He was affectionately known as Jim, a homeless guy whose only form of residence was the library steps. He was allowed into the establishment by the Powers that Be on not just sympathetic grounds but that he was a local icon. He was part

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of the club and ingratiated himself with the other members to enable himself to get off the steps and receive free coffee and doughnuts; I could get to like Jim. Two more empty seats away from Homeless Jim, who was now on his third polystyrene cup of coffee and sixth glazed doughnut, was the lovely Jessica, she was sat next to me. Like most of the others, she was an older lady, yet lady was the operative word. She had an aura of goodness about her and, like Sarah, a certain style. I was glad to be around them. They were my shields. After my introduction, Sarah started the meeting as I assumed she always did with several reviews of the book. Everyone at the table fiddled with the review papers that had been set before them, looking for the particular one Sarah was reciting in her sweet southern drawl. She held the gathering's close attention as she quoted a very eloquent review from the New York Times. As I listened to Sarah's almost poetic rhetoric, I noticed the flickering fluorescent strip light above me. It reminded me of the light in my dream while being tortured by the North Koreans. But this time I was going to tell them everything, in fact, more than they wanted to know. I asked myself, why was I here? I didn't want to discuss this book I had already read twice. No, I think I wanted to show off my prowess on the subject. For a long time now I'd been running, it would be a nice change. Then suddenly, just as I was slipping into my own realm of superiority, came the first salvo. Not from me, but from the evil Roberta sat diagonally from me. Not directed at me but at my ally, Sarah. She was Poland whom I had sworn allegiance to and honored to defend. Yet Roberta, just as Hitler before her, didn't do the obvious, the Schlieffen Plan. No, she went through the Ardennes Forest in a Panza sweep no one suspected.

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"Well, Sarah," she exalted. The rest of the group just looked on as if this was the norm. Roberta was obviously someone in the crowd who was feared if not revered. She went on, "I am surprised at you that you would ask us to read such an intense and lengthy book in the space of a month. We have other things to do, you know." "I realize that," Sarah replied. "but I thought the subject would be worthy of discussion," her Alabama voice rising in an apologetic shrill at the end. Poland was obliterated. Roberta didn't let up; her tirade had only begun. The head swiveling on its bearing with such precision as the eyes followed suit in the opposite direction around the room. She threw Stuka dive bombers and Junkers at the dismayed citizens of Belgium and France. "If you want my opinion of this book. I think it's overbearing. I mean, all those tables and so-called facts are biased and prejudiced. Of course he will hold these views. He's a Jew." I was shell-shocked. But I felt I had to reply with something. "But Roberta," I said, almost sheepishly. The atmosphere was contagious. "Don't you think that he came up with enough credible information to back up the fact that regular Germans knew all along?" I was about to carry on when she attacked my other flank. In a brilliant maneuver that Rommel himself would have been proud of, she retorted with the head swivel and eyes locked onto one target; me. "Well, you would back him up. You're English. Only for America you would be speaking German yourself." I knew Sarah (Poland) was defeated, bombed into submission. I looked to the left of me to Jessica. Yet all I could see was seraphic smiles toward both Roberta and me. I was sat next to neutral fucking Sweden.

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It was the final straw. I had to get my troops out of there and regroup before I fell like the rest of the dominoes before Roberta's onslaught. This was my Dunkirk. So with that, I excused myself to go to the bathroom, leaving the beaten crowd. I shut the conference room doors behind me. Once closed, you couldn't hear a word. I marched straight through the exit doors into the parking lot and headed for my car. Inside, I reached for my cooler and took a swig of vodka. Then, knowing I needed rejuvenation, reached into my back pocket for the reserved cocaine. Snorting three fat lines, I drank more vodka then walked back through the by now sunlit parking lot into the library. By the time I arrived, Roberta was still berating her point to her dubious fan club of whom I could call laconic at best, and they were appeasing her with theirs. I was aware that I was the only one left to stand up to her. Earlier, during the third line of cocaine, I had a hunch and was about to play on it. "Roberta," I said in a now cocky voice. "Could I ask where you are from?" She looked quite taken aback and the ball bearings were once again directed at me. Not just her eyes, but everyone's. They knew something was about to happen and didn't want to miss it. "Why, I'm American," she injudiciously replied. "Pennsylvania." "Rhymes with Transylvania, or even Bohemia, wouldn't you agree? I mean, where is your place of origin?" "I was born in the United States," was her exasperated reply. "Then where were your parents from?" Everyone looked to Roberta. Robots can actually sweat.

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The Battle of Britain had begun. My Spitfires and Hurricanes were shooting her down and roaming the skies above the table with impunity. The rest of book meeting could feel freedom in their grasp. "Yes, my father came from Europe." "Did you say, 'ja,' mein fraulein?" came my sanguine reply. "You tell her, Nick," Homeless Bill retorted, as he coughed up several crumbs of sugary pastry over the table. "Now, that's enough, you two," announced my wonderful Sarah. She had arisen from the ashes. The Warsaw ghetto was liberated. The freedom bells rang and we were told to go home ten minutes early. I was addressed by Sarah as the rest of the group left. "You're a very naughty boy, Nicholas. Roberta will have it in for you." "Fuck her," I replied. Not shocked in the slightest, she handed me a book and said, "Here's the next reading assignment. Hope you can make it.

Eye Exam The surveillance man woke us with his usual knock. We were getting used to having sex on camera. I reached over the bed stand for the new lubricant we had purchased, flipped the cap of the plastic bottle and poured a generous glob into my palm, rubbing most of it onto my dick, the rest I eased into her buttocks and anus. I slid into her and we both groaned with pleasure in the safe knowledge that upstairs Stanley was satisfying himself.

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After we showered off the sex, Natasha reminded me that I had been told to get an eye exam. Dressed casually but smart so as not to attract attention, we locked the door and sped off to the mall. Alighting the car, hand in hand with Natasha, I found the front entrance where the mall map was located. I found the mall scary and intimidating. Too many people. Too many cameras. We realized that we were half an hour early for the appointment and dashed into the nearest store. It happened to be one of those fake camping shops trying so hard to look rustic to appease the hoards of bohemian outdoor type tourists from the likes of West Virginia pining for the forest. Using this to our advantage, we decided to purchase a pair of powerful binoculars that we thought would be a handy tool during the mission. As we walked towards our destination across the perfectly flat marble tiled floors, passing children with their noses pressed against toy store windows dreaming of how the world should be, I still had a feeling of unease. Not even the soothing notes emanating from the mall's music system pushing their captors into the spirit of buying could calm me. I had a bad feeling about this one. We found the optician's office at the far end, adorned with pictures of models in stylish eyewear and cut price deals. Entering, we were greeted by an Asian woman behind a glass counter showing their optical wares at exorbitant prices. This was unsettling. We hadn't been told about her. "What can I help you with, sir?" she inquired, like she didn't know. "I have an appointment" I replied, knowing that all was not what it was supposed to be. I gave her my code name and her face turned ashen as she announced, reassuringly, "The doctor will be right out. He's been expecting you. In the mean time, you could look around the store to find a frame you would like."

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I've been wearing glasses for over five years and never altered the frames, always the 60s Michael Caine look. They would have known that. A bad sign. I perused the store, its white walls lined with bright lights, mirrors and hundreds of spectacles. After just seconds, I found my frames and brought the sample to the Asian lady at the counter. "I'll take two of these, dear," I said. Natasha's hand was gripping mine so tight I knew she had the same bad feeling. From behind a curtain came a small shifty looking gray haired man with a big nose, wearing a white coat that didn't seem to fit. "Hello, sir," he said as if astounded to see us. "Please come into my office." He invited me to go behind the curtain. My gut feeling told me something wasn't right, so I insisted Natasha come with me. If he was going to take me out, at least I'd have her for back up. Flapping through the curtain, we entered a small, dark, sinister room. The only form of light emitted from a spotlight highlighting a chart pinned to the wall. In front of the spotlight was a leather chair. He asked me to sit down and read the chart. I got to the third line and started to have trouble, only in my head. He then sat on a chair next to me and affixed a visor with different attachments. As he rolled the different lenses around, he asked me to read the chart again. My palms were starting to sweat. I could smell his deodorant. He was getting nervous too. He hadn't expected Natasha to be there. Bad homework. The optician, or whoever he was, flipped more lenses around. "Now, read the chart again." "W,c,2,s,8." He was asking too many questions. We needed to do something fast. "F,2," Why had he got the number two in twice? I was starting to shake when he took the visor off and started toward the chart. Taking advantage of the fact that this would-be assassin had his back to me, I leaped out of the chair, grabbed Natasha by both shoulders so hard she almost dropped the bag holding the binoculars. I pulled her close and whispered in her ear, her soft blonde hair

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against my lips, "You know the drill, dear. Have the car running at the entrance" She hugged me then turned back into the store. I watched her through the curtain walking briskly out the door and down the mall corridor. I slid the curtains shut again, turning around to find him searching frantically for something in a white cabinet on the wall. I wasn't going to take any more chances. Grabbing his oversize coat, I spun him around and head-butted him square between the eyes, metal instruments falling around him. He fell, legs apart, holding his face. I kicked him in the groin to make sure. As I pulled back the curtain, the Asian woman was coming from behind the counter. "What's happening?" she asked, nervously. "I think the doctor's had an attack. Call an ambulance." Without waiting for a response, I flung the front door open and ran for the exit, attracting the attention of a mall security guard. "There's someone with a gun," I shouted. Shoppers ran. First into each other and then with me, pulling kids in a dream world from shop windows into a land of chaos and hell toward the exit. Shopping at the mall would never be the same again for them. We all left a nervous security guard to deal with a gunman. I received a call the following week informing me that my glasses were ready. The huge automatic doors, already opened by my fellow (albeit hysterical) escapees, revealed beautiful sunshine and Natasha with the engine running. I leaped into the car. The roof was down and we laughed hysterically with relief. Arriving home, we both made for the apartment. The stairs seemed like an eternity as I looked around for anything suspicious. Natasha's hands were shaking as much as mine as she managed to push the key into the door. It was a fight to the freezer as we poured vodka after vodka, consuming it with vigor. Then we stripped naked, smoked pot and had relief sex.

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I lay in bed, sated, as I watched Natasha don her beachwear consisting of a Brazilian cut bathing suit (she considered American bathing suit bottoms as diapers). I decided to wear my James Bond like Speedos. They weren't your up-the-arse stuff, but more like that straight-legged thing from the '50s. If we were going to be caught today, I wanted publicity. We packed the usual essentials, a cooler full of beer, towels, sun lotion and a couple of books to make us look normal. Then I put on a pair of soccer shorts over my provocative Speedos in order to get through Ciega Shores without arrest. Nevertheless, it would still be a bit of an eye opener next to the American sun worshipers wearing their baggy shorts.

Parasailing Assassins Placing the cooler and bag of towels in the back of the car, Natasha drove us to the safe haven of Paddies. We needed a sunset. The drive took us from what is considered St. Pete Beach over a small bridge to Treasure Island. Then within less than a minute, we turned left onto Sunset Beach, to Paddie's, the perfect resting place. Only in Florida could you visit so many romantic sounding places in such a short time We dashed off to find solace on the beach. Entering Paddie's we were greeted by the familiar smile of Pam. "Two beers and two shots, guys?" We answered with a nod. "How's your day been?" she inquired. "Fine," I answered. We gulped the shooters, poured our drinks into plastic cups and headed back outside to the beach, leaving Pam with a credit card. Jake, the cabana boy with his deep tan and suave looks, found a spot for us on the shore, hammered in the stake between our chairs and slid the umbrella over it. Slipping him a five-

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dollar tip, we acknowledged his thanks. I drifted in and out of the bar, procuring several shots and beers, consuming them while getting enveloped into the rippling waves coming toward us. Looking ten miles across the beach to Clearwater, Natasha noticed several para-sailors coming toward us. First three, then seven, then fifteen to twenty. She was unnerved by the fact that there wouldn't be enough time to get them up there from a boat, the lines would tangle. They were getting closer. It was like a Martian invasion. Then we heard engines, they were selfpropelled (micro lights). The first one flew past us, waving to sunbathers, he was sat on a small seat with a large propeller behind him, the others followed. Who are these guys? Any one of them could have a gun. Then, like an angel, Curtis, one of Paulie's guys, came running to us and urged us inside. It wasn't safe. Paying our tab with Pam, we started another one with Allison, who was beginning her shift. Watching the last assassin parasailor glide towards Clearwater, we strolled back to our seats to await sundown. The sun sank below the gray waterline, issuing a cloudlike image of Arabia that Laurence would be proud of. He could strut across in his white sheets and head robes conducive to the Arab tribes, in the name of the British Empire. The sun sinking in front of me reminded me of the demise of the once great power that I was only too aware of. The only thing that kept it going was its secret service, the best in the world, the only one the Russians really respected. Then above Arabia were black clouds infiltrated by crimson red skulls, bearing their rib cages overlooking the scenes, warning Laurence that war was a bad thing. As we sat entranced by the sky's strange beauty we noticed once more something ominous coming from the direction of Clearwater; fog. Natasha informed me that she had witnessed this rare phenomenon only once before and that it swirls swiftly, covering everything in its path. She was right ; it rolled in like a mystic tumbleweed across the sand then rose like a magic carpet

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enveloping not only the sky but the sun itself. Within minutes I couldn't see two feet ahead of me. A normal person would have panicked, but once again my training came through. . Bumping into things and other blind people we ambled through the grey mist to the lights of Paddies where we found Allison at the bar. Paying our tab we walked hesitantly to the car then drove to Ciega Shores, the community of spies and enemies. It was a slow drive, we could barely make out the white lines on the road, let alone anything else but we made it to the complex. Exiting the car into the swirling fog, Natasha informed me the fog hardly ever comes this far inland. We entered the flat and put on a CD, made drinks then fell asleep in each others arms.

Joe Lyons We both awoke simultaneously and Natasha peeled her body from mine, left the bed and strode majestically into the bathroom. The air was permeated by the bittersweet smell of lubricant as I watched her arse with every step. The door closed, not only to the bathroom, but sex. I heard the shower start. She never wanted to screw after cleansing. Undeterred, I pulled back the covers then walked into the kitchen to embrace the contents of the refrigerator and returned with my bottled breakfast. After slugging down a shot of vodka washed down with a beer, I searched frantically for my stash in the bedside drawer. Taking out a large plastic bag, I then emptied copious amounts of cocaine across a mirror on the bedside table. Grabbing the wallet from my strewn trousers, I pulled out the quintessential credit card and used it to cut several lines of fine Columbian export. Scratching back into my wallet, I extracted a hundred dollar bill, rolled it and used it to snort two of the lines. Mr. Franklin had done his job well today. Natasha reentered the bedroom, naked bar a pink towel wrapped over her wet hair.

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Without a word she approached the table and similarly abused Mr. Franklin to absorb the two remaining lines of coke. "I'm going out," she snapped. "I'll see you this evening." "Ok," I thought. I'm going out, too. Without showering I dressed in the same clothes I had discarded from the previous evening. Pushing my way in front of the mirror, I then completed my ablutions and left without a smile or goodbye. Things were a little tense to say the least. Slamming the door behind me, I strode downstairs to my car with the safe knowledge that I had three grams in my back pocket. I needed somewhere different. I drove without purpose along the beach road, Gulf Boulevard, to a bar that attracted my eye; "Ricky Bee's." Parking the car, I sauntered into the casual beach resort bar overlooking the beautiful ocean. It had all the trimmings: straw roof and a chubby bartender wearing an Hawaiian shirt. The barstools were almost all taken, I chose one between a good-looking girl and a handsome man. Perching myself between this attractive unconnected couple, I ordered drinks from the obese horrendously dressed barman. The pair sat besides me picked up my accent. Both their heads turned towards me as my drinks arrived, my eyes immediately locked upon the girl's, a face full of freckles surrounded by a mass of beautiful bright red curly hair and highlighted with crystal blue eyes. Yet, it was the man who made the first approach. "English, old boy?" He bellowed in a so British accent, with not so much a question but an announcement, "Joseph Lyons. Pleased to make your acquaintance." "Nicholas. Nice to meet you sir" "And what are you doing here in paradise, Nicholas?" "Oh bit of this, bit of that" came my evasive reply. "Mum's the word, hey old boy," he said with a smirk while tapping his nose with an outstretched index finger.

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"And yourself?" "I'm a writer sir, novels mainly" he said while sipping on a martini. "I normally have one of my books in the car I could have shown you but I'm afraid you're out of luck. Maybe next time I see you, that's assuming you live here of course." "Oh I live here alright, not too far away actually," I said, letting my guard down slightly. "What kind of stuff do you write" I asked curious to know what went through this character's head. "Anything I damn please just let them try stopping me" he replied with a chortle while finishing his drink. Then ordering a refill he shouted, "and one for my colleague" Drinks were poured then raising our glasses we said "cheers". He had a current copy of the Times newspaper from London and was nearly through with the crossword all before noon. A fine achievement, I was impressed. He was around my age, well dressed and groomed looking remarkably like Al Pachino, the actor. I first feared he may be a plant then I thought, Joe Lyons, the name of a popular London franchise of cafes. Surely, they wouldn't have planted someone so quickly in an off chance bar giving him such a ridiculous name. Not for the first time, I actually decided to trust someone here. We shared jokes as his accent vacillated between upper class and cockney just as mine ebbed from Liverpool to continental. Even through this congenial banter I felt something burning between my shoulder blades. I turned around and met her vixen eyes. Then she turned towards her drink and seductively sucked an ice-encrusted fruit cocktail through a pink straw while keeping one eye on mine with an upturned grin from the side of her mouth. You can always tell in these situations and I could tell. My confidence bolstered through the effects of a few drinks of my own I leant over to her and

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whispered into her ear, "I'm going into the women's bathroom to do large amounts of cocaine. Join me in a minute?" She clasped my hand and said with a wry sexy smile, "You got it. What's your name?" "Nicholas. Yourself?" I replied, exiting my stool. "Kate. See you in a minute," she said with a giggle. I strutted with confidence to the ladies' bathroom, entered then closed the door without locking it. It was strange seeing no urinal, yet the contraceptive machine was on the wall. Pouring out a lump of powder from one of the plastic bags in my pocket onto the top holding the sink, I chopped four lines to be shared between my undoubted guest and myself. And sure enough with a polite knock, she entered with that same giggle, closed the door and locked it. Offering her a rolled up bill (ladies first, I consider myself a gentleman), she bent over and snorted two lines like a vacuum cleaner. Then standing upright, eyes ablaze, she grabbed me by the back of the neck and kissed me heavily on the lips. She handed me the bill, announcing, "I gotta pee." Bending down, I finished the drugs, all the time watching her pull up her short skirt then slip down a sky blue thong. She then sat on the toilet and pissed into the porcelain with her eyes closed and a look of relief. I think it was a moment of inspiration, a thunderbolt from a higher being that made me utter the words as I was scraping the residue of coke from the counter into my mouth, "Let me wipe." "What?" she said, not too incredibly shocked. "Let me wipe you." "Ok, you pervy limey," she remarked with a grin while opening her legs.

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So with that, I kneeled down towards her spread knees, unfurled several sheets of toilet paper and applied it to her moist vagina. I looked her straight in the eye, both of us grinning, as I rubbed the paper back and forth to dry her. I shoved the damp paper between her svelte legs into the bowl and she gave me a smacking kiss before pulling up her panties and shoving down her skirt. She slapped me on the back of the head and quipped, "kinky bastard." Regaining control, I pushed her back down and said, "I'm leaving. Give it a minute, then I'll see you at the bar." "Ok, soldier," came the drunken reply. Landing on my stool next to Joe, I was greeted by an inquisitive, "What happened to you, old chap?" I had to give him an almost double take as Kate arrived pronto and attracted the bartender's attention in an attempt to pay the bill. I felt guilty turning my back on Joe but boys and girls will be so and with that I asked her, "Would you like another drink darling?" The burly chap behind the bar handed her a ticket and she produced several dollar bills from her purse then turned to me and said, "Thank you, but I have to meet my boyfriend for lunch." After giving me a quaint peck on the cheek she exited the bar. I would never see her again. I'm a very loyal person in some respects. Should I feel guilty about Natasha? After all, it wasn't really sex, it was more of a sanitary thing. For now, I put it out of my mind. Yet my conscience got the better of me when Joseph asked, "What happened there, lad?" "I wiped her," came the guilty reply. "You did what? No, no don't tell me. You wiped her piss?" I hung my head and murmured, "Yes, I wiped her piss." It was like I had become the messiah. A beam of shining light had struck Joe Lyons on this sultry afternoon by the seashore. "You took that beautiful girl and wiped her vagina," he

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exclaimed several times, with admiration. "Why, I do believe we could make this rather fashionable my new friend. We will officially call it ` The Royal Order of the Wipe.' Drinks for my Liverpool friend and I barkeep," he demanded in a vaudevillian fashion. "I feel a mere subaltern in the presence of a senior officer, my friend. Well done," he bellowed raising an outstretched hand to salute me, and then dropped it to the shooter glass. Raising it, he announced, "To Queen, country and The Wipe." We toasted and I made a friend, much against my training (don't trust anyone.) And so the afternoon passed away with intelligent banter interspersed with an occasional pause while Joe would look to the sky for inspiration then fill in another line of the crossword. We parted, swearing we would meet again.

Mercury The stress of the job was getting to Natasha. This was exacerbated by the amount of cocaine we were consuming. Sometimes we wouldn't sleep for days. The only thing bringing us down was the alcohol and pot. The pressure was even getting to the surveillance man upstairs. On one particular occasion while on a three-day stint without slumber during which I was constantly trying to reach a contact, phone calls that Stanley had to report for the record, we heard him scream from above." Either share the damn coke or get some sleep, will ya? You're killing me" The situation was getting to all of us, constantly looking over our shoulders, not knowing who to trust. I felt something had to snap. And it did. I arrived back at the apartment after the wiping incident to the sight of Natasha in the kitchen (naked of course) cooking. Our eating habits had been so sporadic I'd lost track of when we last ate. She greeted me with a passionate kiss and announced, "Dinner will be ready in

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twenty minutes, sit down, I'll pour you a drink." Through shock and amazement I obeyed and was duly handed two drinks. Her behavior was in total contrast to that of this morning, but I wasn't complaining. Maybe she had gotten a grip on herself. The music had stopped. So, searching thought the CDs I found and played a favorite of mine, "The Editors." The first track was just kicking in when Natasha arrived with two plates of food, silverware and napkins. It was baked fish, baked potato and Lima beans; Simple, but hearty. I delved into the food while congratulating her on the cuisine. She sat next to me with the same portion yet barely made an impact, merely nibbling at small pieces of the fish. I looked into her eyes, her pupils were like saucers. It was a ruse. "What did you get up to today, baby?" I inquired. "Oh, the usual, card reading and séances. I'm much in demand you know. And you?" "Met an interesting chap at the bar, actually relaxed with him, jokes and everything.. He's from England." "Is he safe?" she asked, dropping her fork to the coffee table. "Don't worry, dear. I was careful." She leapt from the couch and returned from the kitchen with more drinks. Slugging down the shooter she then marched into the bedroom returning with the small mirror and the main stash of coke. I noticed that, unlike her plate of food, it had diminished immensely. I had a horrible feeling she had been free-basing; I left to use the bathroom. Pulling up the toilet seat I noticed the cat curled up behind the bowl looking terrified. Caravaggio was a feline barometer for Natasha's moods and the signs were not good. Returning to the living room I observed that Natasha had cut out several lines onto the mirror and without the cursory polite thing of offering me first, snorted three of them collapsing

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back onto a pillow with a sigh of relief. Pushing away my plate, I reciprocated then stripped off my two day old clothes. I sat back next to her, then hugged her body next to mine feeling her breasts against my chest. She put her face into my neck and shoulder then wept uncontrollably. "What is it, baby?" I asked, soothingly. She pushed me off then returned to the kitchen with our shooter glasses, filling them with vodka. Sitting back next to me, her face in pain and distraught, she handed me a glass and downed hers. Then, with her head bowed, uttered, "I have something to tell you." Thinking the worst, hoping she hadn't compromised the mission, I said, "I'm all ears, dear." Using her napkin to wipe back tears from her eyes and nose she confessed, "Just two weeks before I met you I was told I needed to see the dentist." Intrigued, I said, "Yes, go on." "Well, I went and they filled my mouth full of mercury. It's illegal." Aghast at this revelation, I nodded, "Yes?" "Well, don't you see? That's how they've been tracking us, through satellite and the mercury in my mouth. That's how they've been one step ahead of us all along" Her voice was building to almost a screaming pitch into a giant crescendo. "I tried every dentist in town to remove it because I didn't want to jeopardize the job, but no one would see me. They're all in on it, Nicholas. Don’t you see!!" Raising from the couch her eyes looked almost demonic and her whole body started to shake. I stood up and held her once again but the trembling became worse. Her speech became unintelligible. Her mouth was moving frantically yet no real words were being expressed. There was nothing in my training that had taught me to deal with this kind of situation. It was like shell shock. She needed a doctor. Her condition was deteriorating by the second; she looked a pathetic

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beaten soul. I knew I couldn't drive her in this condition yet I was reluctant to call the authorities, as it would give away our position. But I had no choice. I called an ambulance. The response was quick and frantic. Within minutes there was a harsh knock on the door. I opened it to the sight of flashing lights and four burly paramedics, three men and a woman dressed in black and resembling more a SWAT team than a band of nurses. Upon seeing the traumatized naked sight of Natasha they went into action. Pushing past me one grabbed her by the shoulders pulling back her hair shouting, "Can you tell us how you feel?" Then, turning to me, he demanded, "What's her name?" "Natasha," I answered desperately. "Natasha, can you tell us how you feel?" Her answer made no sense. She was in another zone approaching the point of no return. Another medic returned from the ambulance with a blanket while the other two came back with a wheeled stretcher. The four of them picked her up like a puppet, placed her on the gurney, then put the blanket over her and wrapped three restraining straps around her body. Distraught, I asked, "Where are you taking her?" "Palms of Pasadena Hospital, sir. It's just around the corner." As I watched the SWAT team slide her into the back of the ambulance, they closed the doors and sped off into the night, red and blue lights ablaze and sirens wailing. Slamming the door shut, I leaned on it for a few seconds to regain my composure. I had to form a plan. Grabbing both our shot glasses I poured two vodkas and downed them then sat on the sofa to think. I knew where the hospital was. I had passed it many times. The only other thing in my favor was that Natasha was unable to speak; therefore she couldn't give anything away. But I still had to get to her. So, with resolve I cracked a beer and drove the car to the nearby hospital.

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Finishing the beer in the parking lot I made my way to the emergency room where I was greeted by a nurse at the reception desk. "There's a girl just been admitted minutes ago." "And, you are, sir?" she asked, in a clinical way. "Erm, Nicholas, her fiancé," I lied. "Just wait here, sir," she said while making inquiries over the phone. Replacing the receiver she redirected her attention to me and announced, "If you'll take a seat, the doctor will be out to see you momentarily." Obligingly, I sat with several other anxious looking people in the waiting room. After an eternity a white-clad older gentleman came in and after enquiring my whereabouts from the receptionist, approached me. Announcing himself, he said, "I'm Dr. Katz." "Nicholas," I replied, nervously. "Your fiancé is in a very traumatic state and she will be in here for awhile. We are going to do some tests on her. By the look of you young man I think we should admit you too. Go home and get some rest. Then come back tomorrow." Shaking his hand, I thanked him and made my way home. Upon entering the flat I went straight for the dead man's pipe. I needed peace. Smoking pot heavily while drinking beer I passed away to a soothing Second World War documentary on the History Channel about the fall of France. What a lullaby. I slept dreams of hoards of Panzer divisions overrunning the quaint French countryside, soon to be Vichy soldiers surrendering in the thousands. In the dream, I was a German tank commander in control of the march to Paris. As usual in my dreams, I awoke at the threshold of my quest, in this case at the gates of the capital city of France. It was nine thirty in the morning and even Stanley had awakened before

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me. I could tell by his impatient knocks from above he was probably missing his usual sex display and wondering what had happened to Natasha, it would look bad on his report. He was the least of my worries. I had to get back to the hospital. I showered and dressed quickly. Then, taking a beer for the journey made my way to Palms of Pasadena Hospital with the mixed feelings of apprehension and excitement. After the usual cursory inquiries I was greeted once again by Dr. Katz " You look a little better, Nicholas," he remarked, almost condescendingly." We need to keep her in for another night. She's had a seizure, a bad one. "Can I see her?" I asked desperately "Yes, momentarily, just for a few minutes. She needs rest and by the look of her blood results I don't think she'll find it around you. She is in room 102. Good luck" And, with a shake of the hand he left with a mission down the corridor I made my way through antiseptic corridors to the designated room. It was like trying to find the grotto at Christmas as a child. Upon entering I was shocked to see my beautiful, vibrant partner subdued on a sick bed, an ashen face and a drip pouring into her arm. I almost cried, thinking "Is it all worth it." I sat next to her on a chair by the bed then put my hand on her face. It roused her. Her eyes opened slightly and she recognized me. "Nicholas, oh Nicholas thank God you're here. They kept injecting me with something. I was afraid I was going to say something but I didn't Nicholas. I swear I didn't" "I know baby, just relax" "I love you, Nick" Then she fell back asleep. Exiting the hospital into bright light I decided to go to Ricki Bees. I arrived and found it wasn't as busy as my previous visit and managed to find the same barstool I'd occupied the day

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before. The bartender gave me a knowing nod and poured me my usual with an extra helping of Jagermeister. He must have known I needed it. After another round in a dream world, listening and looking at the Gulf of Mexico I was awakened by the familiar and welcome voice of Joe Lyons. He was in a very excited mood." Old boy. Just the man I want to see," he said in a buoyant fashion. "Two shooters and a dirty martini," he shouted to the bartender "Good to see you," while placing his newspaper on the bar, crossword mostly finished. "And yourself Joe" I replied wondering what all the excitement was about. "Marvelous news, old chap. I've got my wings." "What?" I said in exasperation, wondering if he had been to heaven since our last visit "I've got my wings, man. I wiped. Not long after I left you here yesterday. Some lady I've been seeing on and off lately. I approached the subject and she obliged. Good show, don't you think? And before you say a word, sir, I can say to you honestly that I performed .the task with the dignity, honor and panache expected of the British Empire." Raising his glass, he clashed it to mine, "To the wipe!" "Cheers, Joe," I said, in congratulation, while thinking, "well, at least someone's had a good week." "Oh, went to a party last night, old boy. You'll like this one," he said, taking his mind (or so I thought) from his crossword puzzle. "Just sat there at the bar, as you do, downtown St Pete. It was full of young trendies, so annoying. Well, to cut a long story short, they snared me into their throng and wheeled me off to some house party they were throwing for someone's birthday, or some other inane occasion. I ended up after a short drive amongst screaming young drunkards with not a cultural brain cell between them, at an equally trendy apartment. The décor was

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horrendous and the music they blared was worse, an insult not only to my ears but also to my bloody intelligence." He stopped momentarily to address the bartender, "Oh, two more drinks would you, please sir." The drinks were poured and served then he got back to his story. "As I was saying, I was there, stuck in purgatory, thinking what would Joe Lyons do in this situation. So, I concurred and agreed with the plan." He took a sip from his newly poured drink and readdressed me with a cat's grin. "These wankers thought it so hip to put all the booze into the bathtub and fill it up with ice water, so bohemian, don't you think? I took full advantage of the bathtub liquor, got drunk as a lord while insulting anyone who came into my purview. I saved the best for last, old chum." His smirk widened. "My coup de gras was upon exiting. I informed the revelers in my best stage voice that I had pissed into the bathtub, an announcement that was first greeted with shock and horror then anger. But it gave me time to make my way to the high street for a hasty escape. All good writing material, I say. What about you, Nicholas?" "Bloody good stuff," I replied while cheering his glass. Joe took a slug then turned to the crossword to fill in two more answers and finished the puzzle. I found Joe Lyons such an entertaining character. In a heartbeat he would change from Oscar Wilde into the vulgar provincialism of the metropolis, with an accent resembling more someone from White Chapel, living in fear of the Ripper wonderfully encapsulating Shaw's Doolittle in Pygmalion. He would talk extensively of his love for classical music. He had a particular penchant for the Russian composers whom he thought had a bloody good reason to write the music to inspire revolutions and beat the Germans at Stalingrad (obviously a reference to Shostakovich). He thought that Beethoven was the original punk yet Vivaldi a mere waiter.

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He also had a habit of saying the wrong thing, much to my amusement, like when a very young vixen like waitress was passing us in a short skirt, he grabbed her attention. Then, while pushing his hat back even further, addressed her by asking in a tone Heathcliff would have been proud of in Wuthering Heights, "Where have you been all my life, dear?" To which Lolita replied, "Why, I don't believe I was around for half of it." Then moved to the next table to take a customer's order, leaving Joe deflated. That's entertainment. I got to meet Joe on a regular basis. It wasn't just an escape from the job, I actually liked him. I left the merriment and had an early night waking with one thing on my mind. Excitedly I ran to my car to pick up Natasha. I had called earlier and they said she was ready. Arriving at the hospital I found her in the waiting room wearing a big albeit tired smile. She was a welcome sight. "Let's get you home babe" I said reassuringly then escorted her to the car and drove us back to Cieaga Shores where I put her to bed. She went straight to sleep. Natasha slept for hours, either from the drugs they had given her at the hospital or a sign of depression. I was in the living room when I heard her rouse, she was doing something important in the bathroom. I knew we needed some relief, so I opened the bathroom door to my naked cohort and said, "Let's go to the dock, Natasha relax for awhile." "Good idea babe," she retorted with a fake air of calmness. When I spoke her name, "Natasha," in a nasal Liverpool accent as I often slipped into the vernacular, I didn't do it justice. I find it a very romantic name, yet from my lips it seems as though I have bastardized it, like John Lennon quoting Mac Beth, but she didn`t seem to mind and that`s what mattered. And so, we dressed like tourists, both wearing t-shirts and slides. Me, with a pair of black soccer shorts and her, with her signature pink sarong, straw hat and huge sunglasses.

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The Cieaga Shores dock is perched on the intracoastal river, a narrow estuary flowing past the peninsula we live on. It has all the trimmings of a tourist trap: fauve Victorian lamps and plastic rails. The resident fishermen use it, plus the Snowbirds, just to sit and gossip. Yet it wasn't these factors that made us decide not to use it very often, much preferring the seclusion of one further down the river. There was an incident just months before my arrival, which was well reported, yet considering its importance, hardly ever talked about amongst the community. An English couple who spent six months each year here in what they called their "vacation home," to fit in with the American style of English language. They were in their late fifties, yet still an energetic and vibrant pair who took to diving off the dock each evening around six o'clock for a quick swim. On one fateful evening they stood on the edge of the dock in their bathing suits when the wife noticed baitfish acting in a very excited manner. They were jumping out of the water, sometimes as high as a foot, then plunging back into what they considered dangerous territory. It was a sign that there was something big out there looking for prey. Legend has it that the woman reneged on the swim while the husband, whether it was to show off his manliness or he just didn't want to be denied his daily ritual, dived into the ominous looking waters onto a very aggrieved bull shark, one of the more aggressive of the species. As the sun set behind them, onlookers, including his wife, could only watch in horror as the green water turned crimson in an excited fury of torn flesh that ended as quietly as it started. It was something out of a Hitchcock movie and we didn't trust it. So, with that, we chose to relax on another dock just a few hundred yards away. It was parked behind a caged baseball field named Egan Park, used by kids for softball. The rails were made of real wood nailed onto eightinch posts driven into the seabed. Unlike the resident dock, there were no trimmings, bar a bench

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on one side and a triangular wooden plate in an adjacent corner for the use of an occasional fisherman to slice up his bait or catch, next to this stood a solitary trashcan. No frills here. Yet, across the water stood such opulence: two story houses with their terracotta roofs ranging in colors from yellow, blue and even pink. Huge boats in their slips and, like the houses, hardly ever used. They were like fat, neglected children. We had packed a cooler full of essentials and drove the short distance to the parking lot behind the baseball field. Only one spot was reserved just for cars , the rest were exclusively for visitors with boat trailers. Walking the boardwalk I carried the cooler while Natasha followed me with a newspaper she had purchased from a stand on the way. I placed the cooler on the edge of the bench we now called ours. We sat as close to each other as possible in our self-made seclusion. We could see Ciega Shores clearly to the right of us, it`s umbrellas hung over the tables surrounded by gossiping residents. From our vantage point we could observe the wants and ways of the river. The water would wake up and decide its own color ranging from grey to turquoise. Today it had chosen green. Boats of all sizes and shapes would pass by slowly, due to the fact this was a wake zone. This prevented boats from traveling through the estuary at a greater speed of a few knots so as not to cause a wake that might bring heavy damage to the boats harbored in the adjacent slips. This gave us great access and proximity to the passing vessels; enabling us to view not only this variety of sea going water sports boats but their occupants. Natasha had a vast knowledge of the different types. They were a different breed in the daylight without their festive lights; you could see their souls. "That's a cigarette boat," she would exclaim as a muscle bound object would float past shaped for power and speed. It was a torpedo-like caged animal waiting to surge into the open sea, it`s captain itching at the throttle. Then there would be a boat straight from a James Bond

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movie, very 60s, generally black and white, definitely one of my favorites. You could imagine spies on board, Ursula Andress seducing the British agent for information. Just wonderful. There were the working boats. The river police were there, looking for any infractions upon the local river laws. For instance, just a mile away was Treasure Island, and the beach where you could drink alcohol to your heart's content. Yet here on St. Pete Beach, it was not allowed, punishable by a heavy fine. Just as important in the general scenario of authority were the red and white tugboats, special patrols, to help out the mere inept or just drunken sailors left adrift through their failings. Every now and then a boat would sail past, more resembling a ship. Some fat cat at the wheel, a mere toy to him. Beautiful barely clad women would be sunbathing at the stern. Strange how a great many of these vessels were named after women, yet nearly always piloted by men. Women taking not so much a subservient role in the proceedings but more an added decoration to the captain's fantasy. This one was called the `ISIBELLA`, I wondered if the lovely Isibella was on board or he just hadn`t had time to change the name, which unlike tattooing say ''Iris" on your forearm would be a relatively easy change to make. I asked Natasha about a curious looking flat craft manned by two burly sun weathered men, surrounded by machinery and a huge pylon. She informed me that it was a pyle driver. They used the driver to pound holes into the sea bed in order to implant the poles like the ones surrounding our dock, then slotting the huge logs into place surrounding them with concrete in the scorching Florida sun. This sounded like odious work. Just fifty yards away from our resting place was a boat ramp. This enabled vehicles, mainly trucks, to offload their boats from a trailer. The boat would be slowly slid down the ramp then unhooked, generally by a woman in a small bikini bending down to perform all these menial

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tasks in a manner I found sensual in a degrading way. Then to my utter surprise a huge brightly colored bus rolled down the dock with an insignia, "THE PARROTS OF THE CARIBBEAN," a marvelous little enterprise created by a local entrepreneur. This was no ordinary bus, though for all shapes and purposes the only clue that it had an ulterior motive was the pointed nose affront of the cabin (hence it was named a "Duck Boat" due to its nose resembling a bill). And, if you looked close, you would notice propellers on its stern. The vehicle was based in John's Pass, a tourist jungle. Every trap was set in John's Pass from cotton candy to knick knacks to take home to Grandma in Pennsylvania who couldn't make the trip because of her lumbago. The bus boat simply lunged into the water, filled with excited tourists. On this day, they were lucky. A school of dolphins had arrived for their pleasure. For Natasha and I it was a daily occurrence but for these people who only a week ago were shoveling snow from their doorstep before they went to work at the office, factory or wherever, this was a rare treat. The pilot of this unique vessel made steam towards the attractive family of silvery mammals showing their humps in unison to come up for air giving way to gasps of amazement from the Snowbirds packed inside the cabin of fun. Yet, as the boat chased their trail, I never saw the dolphins resurfacing, as if in a sign of defiance. So, the boat sailed off in search of other pleasures. A yacht passed made of wood and canvas reminding you of an era past, when sail powered majestic Spanish galleons filled with treasure roamed the seas only to be plundered by other sail ships equipped purely for piracy. Sometimes, as in the case of Sir Francis Drake, endorsed by the Crown. Yet, my favorite was the small flat boats manned by local fishermen. I called them smugglers boats. The sailors of these vessels were generally very rustic looking chaps with an air of poignancy, unlike anyone else on the water. As they lay into the back of their small crafts, they wore it like an old coat, it was part of them as they maneuvered the engine and rudder with

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a long handle, accompanied only with a beer or a bottle of liquor in their hands. These renegades of the trade would generally appear just before dusk to start their shady business. First on the roster would be to check out their crab traps. These were illuminated by brightly colored buoys, giving them access to a harvest of some of the most succulent meat of the sea. Then just as another tourist ship crossed my vision, a fake pirate ship filled with drunken revelers, also from John's Pass, I noticed something strapped to a corner of the dock adjacent to us. It was made up of four inch PVC plumbing fittings, a piece of pipe around two feet long with a screw fitting at the bottom, the top fitted with a ninety degree elbow facing our bench. On this side of the pipe was a label stating that any fisherman should not discard his cut of line into the water, rather place it into the opening. I found this very suspicious. They had even gone to the trouble of using rusted strapping to make it look like it had been there for a while. I made a note in my head to bring a pipe wrench the next time we came down to the dock to unscrew the bottom of the infernal thing to check for cameras or microphones. It was pointing straight at us! As I looked across to an adjacent dock, I noted a young boy around thirteen years old baring his tanned chest and sun-bleached hair, casting a huge net. Natasha informed me as the lad pivoted on his heels in a unique manner to flail the huge net in order to catch baitfish, that it took a lot of practice and was, when done correctly, almost an art form. I had actually seen this expertise in Greece. It brought back many memories. Very Mediterranean. A white crane came to visit us as if he were popping into the pub to meet old acquaintances. This was no fool. He just stood on the rail observing everything we did or didn't. As this beautiful creature stood watching, I became aware of the other birds around us, their sounds and sights. The ever present scavenging gulls, their constant screeching. Then, I once again I got to observe the chameleon like pelican, this time perched on a post. His huge beak

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hanging low beneath the unattractive ill-fitting head supporting a huge gullet. Underneath this almost comic array of feathered fancy was a body that seemed to make it the perfect mutant. Yet in flight it became a totally different being. As one of its cohorts came skimming across the water only inches from the sea in search of prey I could not think of a more perfectly built creature for its task as it glided past me, tipping its wings like a Spitfire pilot after a German kill. I was lost in this other world and didn't even look toward Natasha as I slid my hand beneath her sarong. Still looking toward the water, I slipped my hand between her thighs into her vagina. Only the rustle of the newspaper made me look toward her. Her facial expression was not what I was expecting as my finger was still inside her. She pointed toward a headline in the world section of the St. Petersburg Times (actually a very respectable paper for the size of the community). Her face was whiter than usual as I read the bold print, reiterating that the British and Russian relationship was at its worst since the Cold War, due to the discrepancies over the assassination of Litvinenko. My God, it had even reached the local newspaper. I don`t know whether it was fear or a mere bout of seasickness but we decided to go home. After reading the headline my mind first sank into depression. Then as it was so easy to do in this part of the world, drifted off to thoughts of cultural differences between the west and east, in my case Britain and the Russian people. Britain, a bastion of democracy, learned their mistakes early through the centuries. Letting religious despots rule through the years, inner fighting through the War of the Roses, invasion by everyone ranging from the Romans to the Normans had taught them the suffering of servitude built the largest empire in history, then

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through common sense, relinquished it in the 1960s. Even Germany, a so-called civilized country, was by the 1930s just a tapestry of nations and duped into a policy of autocracy and dictatorship by a bunch of sycophantic thugs under the guise of a so-called elected party led by an anti-Semitic failed Austrian artist. At that same time Britain had the same option under the guise of a man named Oswald Mosley who led the black shirt clad fascists through the streets of London. Yet rather than embrace him, the British decided to imprison him for his troubles where he died a sick man, giving great credence to their fight against the Nazis. Russia, on the other hand, had never really known democracy, only royalty and dictators. Ivan the Terrible, one of the icons of their troubled past, was revered by one of their other chosen leaders, Stalin. Ivan killed his own son. Stalin went on to be the greatest mass murderer in history. The Russian people liked to be spanked and tortured. They are a masochistic race. I started to pack up the cooler, discarding empty cans into the garbage. As dusk fell upon us and neon lights started to appear on the passing boats, so too were the fleeing birds replaced by eerie sounds floating across the water emanating from the vehicles crossing the metal bottom of the Corey Bridge. We drove home in silence then upon entering the flat, immediately stripped naked just to please Stanley. I poured us drinks while she put on an oldie CD by the English band Radio Head. We had sex to the haunting melody of this fine group of musicians and fell asleep.

Melissa As usual, I woke before Natasha and for the first time since I was nine years old it was without an erection, even though the arms of a beautiful body were wrapped around me. Yet another example of how the job was getting to us. Unwrapping myself from her, I clamored out of bed and strolled into the bathroom to relieve myself of a night full of beer and liquor. While

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passing the cabinet mirror I noticed that my hair had actually grown to its regular length. I felt the back of my head and realized that my neck hair had sprouted out of all proportion. I looked like a caveman. I called Melisa's cell phone immediately. To my surprise she answered quickly and seemed very happy to hear from me. I booked an appointment for eleven o'clock. I showered, then left a note for Natasha letting her sleep. Driving down 1st Avenue South to the salon I remembered how long it had been since I had taken this route. Three months. Three fucking months for my hair to grow out of the fucked up mess she had created in the name of Caesar. I was still fuming as I walked into the salon nonchalantly as if everything was normal. Yet my anger somehow subsided slightly as Melisa's co-workers greeted me with welcome smiles and a, "Hello, Nicholas." It soothed my spirits slightly. Melisa was the last person I saw as she greeted me with a hug and kiss on the cheek. I had the suspicion she had something to tell me as she ushered me to a seat facing a mirror that wasn't her usual stable. Melisa issued me the usual black gown to protect my precious clothes from oncoming falling hair. I sat on one of the fake leather chairs in a mixed mood of exaltation and anxiety. I knew she had to get it right this time. The chair didn't feel any different from any dentist's chair I had occupied, waiting for the dreaded drill. So, with that in mind, I went on the attack. Melisa was dressed casually in a low cut cotton top and a short skirt. But my desires didn't put me off my task. Grabbing her by the wrist, I looked her sternly in the eyes and threatened, "How long has it been since you cut my hair, Melisa?" "Why, about three months, Nicholas," she answered in a casual way while fidgeting around with the instruments of her profession, unaware of the seriousness of the situation.

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"Then have you noticed that my hair has only reached its normal length after all this time?" I was building up into a frenzy. "You gave me a damned Caesar cut!" I uttered squeezing her wrist, tightly, and said, "Get it right this time, or I'll fucking kill you." Melisa turned away giggling profusely as if I didn't mean it. She shrugged off my grasp from her arm, then announced her plan."You weren't happy with your haircut, were you, Nick?" "No, bastard," was my stern reply. "Well, we'll get it right this time. No more scissors, just razor. Just like old times." I was led into another chair toward the back of the salon where my head was pushed back by Melisa's tender hands and my hair and scalp were massaged in a frenzy of foam by her soft fingers. After this, I was lead back to my original chair. This was not the same station she had occupied upon my previous visit for reasons I was soon to be aware of. "I've missed you, Nicholas," she announced as she set forth upon her masterpiece. "Yes, I've missed most of my old regulars, Nick," she said in an almost apologetic way. "Since I last saw you I've been in New York." "No shit," I replied in a congenial way. "Yes, I met this really cute artist named Michael from New York. He was here on vacation." She started to razor my hair, not like the last time. She had a precision about her. Then she lamented," I fell in love with him, Nick." I felt for her. For all her self-righteous charm and guile she was still a vulnerable young girl to me, susceptible to the wily ways of the scalawags roaming the streets she walked on. I was all ears when she said; "It's strange that you are the first of my customers since I've been back that I can talk about this to." She adjusted my seat to a lower level with her foot while

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moving my head into the face of the mirror. "Well, like I said I've been living in New York," she said almost squeamishly "Well, not exactly New York, but Brooklyn. There's a big difference. I met this charming beautiful looking artist from New York in a bar down town St Pete and he charmed the pants off me, Nick. God, it's so good to talk to you." Like I said, people just can't keep from telling me their stuff. I was listening to this girl's secrets, a form of atonement for my earlier harshness. We had been confiding and she was confessing. I was back in the box with the black curtain. "I left my job, Nick. Then was absorbed into the thing that was New York. You've been there, right?" she asked while holding the blade of the cut throat razor to the sky "I was totally in love with not just this wonderful artist, but the city itself." Intrigued, I said, "Carry on," as she started to razor the back of my hair. "Not too short," I reminded her. "Don't worry, Nicholas," she reassured me as she carried on her story. "He didn't live in the city," she said, almost in tears."We stayed in Brooklyn. It was horrible. Yet, the sex was great. We lived illegally. Other artists rented apartments above us for working space, yet Michael, that was his name, Michael, not fucking Mike, he had to be called Michael because he was a fucking artist." I looked in the mirror and caught tears in her beautiful sad eyes as she turned the chair around to deal with my sideburns. "I want them to be long and pointy like the European soccer players you see on TV," I mentioned this as what I considered the only form of reference I could think of towards my palate. "The place was a dungeon Nick. There was only one bathroom for the whole complex and because we were illegally staying there, we were the last in line. My only way of bathing was in

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a stainless steel 8-foot-long sink from a restaurant kitchen Michael had dragged in from the street to the rat infested corridor across from our apartment. Then I had to use maracas, because it sounded like a snake, to scare off the rats. Then, wrapped in a towel, I would have to climb those steps to our loft apartment he had created in his own crazy head." She was almost crying when she announced that she had only just got back and I was one of her only patrons, most of her clients had gone to other hairdressers in her midst. She carried on with much admirable composure as she carefully razored my fringe, making sure it continued the 60s look I preferred. "He was working on these paintings of mass murderers. He had just finished one of Bonnie and Clyde. But his last was a sketch of a picture of the Manson girls, all three of them in their prison garb." She paused again as she turned the swivel chair around for a better vantage point to my head. "The only thing wrong with the picture," she said, holding the razor at an inquisitive angle, "was that none of the girls had feet." She left this statement hanging as if it had a definitive moment in history. "So, do you know what he did, Nick?" "No," I replied, nervously. "He made me model and painted my feet underneath the fucking freaks with their swastikas tattooed on their heads." She sighed then put the razor down and spun me around for reflection, not just for her handiwork but I think her life. She said in an almost relieved tone, "Well, that was bad enough for me, with the rats, my feet on killers. Fuck that. You're one of my first old customers Nick. It's nice to have you back." And I felt a newfound maturity about her. I looked into the mirror and saw a piece of art. She had done a marvelous job. Not only had my murderous thoughts been abated but also I had gained a renewed affection for this girl. She had grown up at a cost, but don't we all.

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Taxis I arrived back to an empty apartment at around 5:00 then drank and smoked, listening to music very loudly until Natasha came home dressed rather formal but sexy and in a very chipper mood. "Hi, babe. Guess what? I've got a job. It's at a college in Tampa. Didn't tell you, did I? I have a degree in art. You don't just live with a witch, but a professor." She said all this in a very excited manner and I found it hard to take in at first. We didn't need a job, we already had one. I was shocked and dismayed. Yet I felt for the first time a pang of distrust, but I believed her because I wanted to. Little did I know this was her Trojan horse into my inner sanctum, my walls had been breeched. She informed me that the college had told her she could start immediately and we celebrated through the night. Suspicious, I made my toasts to the occasion with the greatest trepidation. I awoke the next morning to the unusual sight of Natasha already showered and dressed. "Morning, babe," she said in a giggly way. Like the night before, she was dressed smartly but very sexy, her long blonde hair brushed to perfection. Arising from my pillow, I sat upright naked on the edge of the bed, whereupon Natasha gave me an over enthusiastic kiss goodbye with the parting words, "wish me luck Dahl ink'" in a very Marline voice. For two days I caroused the beach bars after the daily regimen of seeing Natasha go off to a supposed job in Tampa. I tried to hook up with Joe Lyons to no avail. After a mixture of boredom and frustration had set in I started to think that Natasha was on to something. Maybe a menial job would be the thing to do. After all, we hadn't had a lead in weeks and if we both had "jobs" we would fit into this community in a more conducive manner. Stop the gossips, so to speak.

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I sat on the couch watching something inane on TV while thinking of what I could do around here that would be acceptable. After all, the only jobs available were of a tourist compatibility nature. I drove the streets looking for inspiration, passing the resort hotels and bars. I wasn't skilled in the restaurant business so that was out of the question. The many shops selling beach equipment, bait shops for fishermen. None of the retail stores attracted me. Then, like a bolt of lightning, I passed then turned around again to greet it: a checkered sign reading "Cat's Taxis." Why, this would be perfect: roaming around the beautiful streets of Florida, picking up tourists and given pocket money for the inconvenience. So with a feeling of excitement I marched in with conviction and entered a small office with a "no smoking" sign on the wall very prominent to the eye. As I slid the glass window open to a series of middle aged bored looking dispatchers, I was greeted by a man with a full head of hair and very blue eyes that had the vision of the future. "Can I help you, sir?" asked this charming man. "I was wondering if you needed any drivers," I inquired, feeling almost like it was a prison visit through the intrusive window. "We always need drivers," he replied in a very Clint Eastwood way. Passing me a form, he informed me that I would have to go down to the police station in St. Petersburg and apply for a cab driver's license: the precious medallion, as it is called around here. I took the form home and filled in all the appropriate questions I thought would be needed to pull me through this torture then turned the form around to reveal another task. Listed was a series of challenges to the recipients as to their geographical prowess about the area. Something I was rather inept at due to the fact that Natasha drove us everywhere and that only covered a five-mile radius. I had to think.

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I came up with a plan on the way downtown with my filled-in application form. I stopped off at the retail store, Hi-Fi Buys, then purchased a GPS system named Tom-Tom which assured me that I could travel anywhere in this city or even the USA and Canada with ease. After sorting my geographical disorder, I traveled to the police station downtown and after a short wait in line, a nice lady took my fingerprints and mug shot, informing me that I was not on their most-wanted list (a relief) and that I could pick up my cab license in the morning. Leaving the police station with a feeling of accomplishment, I drove up First Avenue North to the beach. This way you caught every green light from downtown as long as you were driving the speed limit and it was one way. First Avenue South offered you the same luxury, going the opposite way. This was the route I took the following morning parking the car in the same spot as the previous evening and walked into the police station. After a short queue I approached the window passing them a slip I was given on my previous visit. The lady behind the glass didn't even make eye contact with me before rising from her chair and took my crisp piece of parchment through a door behind her. She returned within seconds and once again, without even looking at me, passed a laminated card with a clip attached to it through the metal shelf under the window, shouting, "Next." I took my precious license out to the street and eyed it carefully. The photograph wasn't a bad one. I thought while I was here of asking to join the witness protection program, giving me a new identity and a hiding place from my pursuers. But, having thought the matter through, the mere fact that I couldn't possibly tell them of my crimes deemed the possibility of compliance on their part very unlikely. It was a desperate idea and I dismissed it. Besides, what would Natasha do?

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I drove back to the cab company with apprehension; after all, I had never had what could be called a "real" job, the only thing I knew was the situation I was trapped in. So, with that, I parked the car outside "Cats" amongst an array of cabs and marched into the musty office presenting my precious "medallion" to the same blue-eyed man. He took it from me, and then walked around the L-shaped desk behind which several dispatchers were answering calls to prospective customers and logging them into the computers facing them. They all had a very stern look. He opened the door from the office and greeted me with an affable smile (something I was to learn was a rarity around here). "Hi, I'm Terry, welcome on board." He ushered me outside and lit up a cigarette. I could sense this was a good excuse for him to partake of his habit. Just to be congenial, I lit up one myself while Terry explained a few basics of the business. It was yet again another beautiful day in Florida and I could tell he was glad to expose his ashen face to sunlight, away from the confines of the prison-like office. We both leaned against the wall facing around half a dozen empty cars. Two of them were vans and the rest sedans. I made my mind up, I wanted to drive a sedan. I didn't want to go around looking like a suburban househusband driving his kids to the beach, it would be bad for the image. I wanted more of a Robert De Niro look in the movie "Taxi Driver." Who knows, I may come in one day sporting a Mohawk and several weapons up my sleeve. After his third exhale, Terry said, "When you pick up your cab in the morning, check the oil in case the mechanic has been drinking too much and forgot to fill you up. Check your lights and blinkers. The last thing you want is a ticket. Then you have to be fired." He shook my hand and said, "Show up for training at 8:00 in the morning. Park your own vehicle at the restaurant

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up the street. Then Thursday, come here at 7:00 to pick up your car. Don't hit anything. Go out and get your nose bloodied and make your fame and fortune. Good luck." And with that glorious speech, he once again shook my hand and left to enter the confines of the office. Myself, I climbed back into my convertible and drove straight to the liquor store to buy vodka and beer in the safe knowledge that I was possibly approaching normality. Yet, I knew it couldn't last. I arrived home to the sight of Natasha, naked as usual ( I'd forgotten she told me she had the day off ) sat on the zebra skin with her left leg wrapped around the back of her head to background music I'd never heard before. Her eyes were closed yet the lips of her vagina were open. This was Yoga. Aroused, I didn't even put the vodka in the freezer, just placed it on the kitchen counter while frantically stripping. Reentering the living room naked, I grabbed the upturned leg then rolled her over and had sex. "Hey baby," she said after her orgasm woke her from a transcendental sleep "that was lovely." I withdrew from her and pecked her on the lips then strutted to the kitchen to organize the liquor situation. I placed the new vodka into the freezer while pouring two shots from the residue of yesterday's bottle and grabbed us two beers from the new case while dispensing the rest into the refrigerator. "Guess what, darling," I said in an excited manner as I approached her in her new position on the couch. "What, baby?" she asked. "I'm going to be a cab driver." "Wow," she blurted while sucking pot from the now famous pipe. "That's a great idea. That will give you acceptance and help you fit in. Great idea, Nick."

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"I thought you'd like it," I replied, proudly patting myself on the back. "I mean, we haven't had any leads for weeks. It'll also take your mind off the job.' "Just what I thought," I whispered into her ear, then bent down to the coffee table to present ourselves with the two vodkas I had poured earlier. We downed the drinks then she said, "Well, I have some news myself." I didn't like this. It sounded ominous. "This week was just a trial period even though I have the job, but the college has given me next week off to prepare. So, I booked a flight to Atlanta to see my dad, I haven't seen him in awhile." I was stunned. "What if something turns up?" I blurted. "Oh, I'll call every day. If you need me, I'll fly back straight away. But don't call Dad's number." Not like I had it. "He gets very jealous of boyfriends." I thought of the strange connotations of this statement. For a start, I didn't believe she even had a job in Tampa yet I refused to follow her in the mornings due to either suspicion or jealousy. I had to trust her, whatever her motives. But the Atlanta trip to see a father who is jealous of male friends, the same man who paid for her fake tits, I have to wonder about. I went back to the freezer and poured more drinks then slugged one before smoking pot. I needed to calm down. "Do you want me to take you to the airport?" I inquired. "Of course not, baby. You'd expect a tip." She quipped. "I leave tomorrow morning. I'll miss you but I'll be back before you know it." I went back to the freezer with a feeling of impending doom. I awoke the next morning to the alarm clock I'd set for seven then shook Natasha for farewell sex. She responded in a daze then wearily slurred goodbye as I dressed and left the apartment into morning dew for my new 'job'. As requested by Terry, I parked behind a

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restaurant just two blocks from the office then walked to the building where a tall gray haired man was waiting for me at the entrance. "You Nick?" He asked in what I thought was a facetious way. "Why, yes," I answered rather put back at his assertiveness; but it wouldn't end there. "Well, get in man," he ordered in a guttural accent as he opened the door to a van parked nearby. I opened the passenger door with mixed feelings then sat next to him as we sped off onto the high street in search of prey. He turned his attention from the road towards me and offered his hand. "Hi, I'm Tommy," he said as if I was supposed to be privileged to meet a celebrity. He was a very excitable man from Boston. Being a Bostonian obviously gave him his Northern bossy accent and I guessed the origin of his over zealous nature. But I knew one thing: he was very happy to be a cab driver and he wanted so much that I be an apt pupil. He was to be severely disappointed. He handed me a small gray cell phone like-object that had been clipped to the dashboard. "Now, that's your GPS radio. They know where you are all the time." This perturbed me immediately and I ran through my mind thinking of ways to block it. Then he handed me sheets of paper. One was describing how to operate the radio, the other was a map of St. Petersburg, splitting it into numbered segments or "zones," as they affectionately named them, just as Churchill and Stalin had done with Eastern Europe at the Yalta summit. In his mind it was a lot of information he was handing me. So out of politeness I pretended to be confused and baffled to give credence to his profession of which he seemed very proud. Yet it got worse. Between his incessant talking and erratic driving, I was not only becoming insane but carsick. He did U turns in front of old people trying to park in a disabled space, he would pass

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police cars beyond the speed limit, run red lights and stop signs. It was a lesson in vehicular suicide. Then just when I thought it was over came the real lunatics. Apparently, "Cats" had a deal with several establishments who took care of mentally challenged people of all ages. Our next port of call was one of those. We pulled into a series of buildings Tommy seemed very familiar with. Then we screeched to a stop into a scene of the "Night of the Living Dead," there were mongoloids, people in wheelchairs, and the plain dysfunctional, anyone God had chosen not to be "normal." Moving en masse towards our cab, I felt I was a part of a cult horror movie and would never get to see the premier feature. Tommy, on the other hand, took it all in his stride. "Sit in the back, will ya, Nick. This old guy has to sit in the front." I obliged and opened the slide door to sit in the back seat where I was immediately joined by a mixture of mentally retarded people of various ages. It all seemed to happen so quickly. At one moment I was being driven through the calm, beautiful streets of St. Pete Beach, albeit at a frantic pace. Then, in the next, I was amongst a gaggle of retards exhibiting their freedom from the confines of their oppressors in ways ranging from touching each other's genitals to just plain screaming and waving their arms in frustration. I was immediately reminded by my self about the reject button on the radio, enabling yourself to not accept a call. I swore to myself I would never answer to one of those locations. There was only room for one crazy in my cab. After we dropped the unfortunates at their respective homes and the day wore down, Tommy had time to tell me of his coke dealing past in Boston and the fact that he came down to Florida to escape it all and hadn't touched it since, that's why he had put on so much weight. Typical Florida escape story. At the end of the day, I was exhausted and glad to walk into Natasha's empty flat barring Carravagio. I was already getting used to being alone again. It was

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a reminder of my training that I shouldn't put my trust in anyone. The answering machine was blinking and I pressed a button. Natasha's familiar voice sounded, "Hi, Baby. I miss you already. Hope you're cabbying went well. Love you. Talk tomorrow." I played it at least six times and still had a feeling of unease. Thank God, she left me the pipe. I smoked and drank vigorously then set the alarm for 6:00 and slept soundly. I awoke the next morning into an unfamiliar world of darkness and neglect. It had been a long time since I had felt so feeble. I was alone in unfamiliar territory with my main contact out of town. I just had to carry on with my own plan. I parked my car behind the restaurant again and walked the same two blocks as the previous morning this time without sunlight. It was a completely different stroll. Entering the "Cats" office I was greeted at the side window with an air of indifference. I attracted one of the dispatchers with a cough to which he looked up and recognized me. Without a word, he handed me a radio and a set of keys with number 29 on both. I collected the paperwork I had been instructed by Tommy to fill in at the end of the day then went to find my vehicle. I didn't check the oil or the lights. I just drove to Natasha's flat, parked the car outside and cracked open a beer but left the vodka alone, after all, this was supposed to be a proper job. While drinking I studied the map to find the "zones" where the retards were and made a note to avoid them. Around 10:00 I turned the radio on. This implemented an immediate response from the office. "We were wondering where you were, 29," barked an irate dispatcher. I'd upset them already. "I had trouble getting a signal," I lied sheepishly. "Well, address this issue earlier in the future," he said, tersely. Without pressing the signal button, I said, "Fuck off."

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I had a feeling I was going to enjoy this job. My first day on the job went rather well after that, I thought. I was issued calls on my radio, instructing me to go to various destinations ranging from the beach resort hotels picking up tourists wanting me to take them to Tampa airport where they were to fly off to a destination much colder than here or to grocery stores picking up old ladies too frail to take their groceries around the corner. The day went rather quickly and by the time 4:30 came around I was ready to celebrate and indicated on my radio that I was finished for the day. I drove home to do my paper work while watching an English soccer match on TV. I smoked pot. then slipped the money into the provided envelope and sealed it driving back to "Cats." I pulled into the lot. My headlights shined onto the "Cats" wall. Along it was an array of circus freaks ranging from the fattest lady in the world, greatest mutant, dwarves, midgets (with their pedal lifts and cushions), clowns and trapeze artists. These were the night drivers. The only thing missing was the performing seal. But she had left her brightly colored ball amongst the usual suspects with prison numbers tucked under their chins. The murder of the performing seal would never be solved because nobody talked. They only spoke about their job, taking it so seriously, speaking in tongues about being stuck in certain "zones" with such zealousness you would think they were in Iraq. "You're driving a fucking cab," I thought with a feeling of indifference. Yet these freaks and goons of the trade had one thing in common. They all shared a voracious appetite for inhospitality. This was ingrained in their sense of superiority against newcomers who hadn't learned the ropes. There would be no helping hand here, from the dispatchers down to the lowly drivers of this, in their minds, elite club. Yet, I was soon to learn my greatest adversary would come in the form of a middle aged unattractive woman in the office named Janice. Her stern features and cold eyes only extenuated

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this woman's antagonism towards anything fresh and new. From the first glance, I could tell she was to be my nemesis. She knew I was just in it for the ride, so to speak. A former driver, she, through several years of loyal service, had connived her way to the dubious high position of accountant. And now, she looks from a separate office with no windows, bar the sliding one leading to the waiting room, for envelopes of money from drivers who were not on a salary like herself but at least they had the freedom to drive along the sunlit streets and avenues. Her only way of venting was to take it out on the miserable drivers. She reminded me of Fyodor Dostoevsky's despicable character in the wonderful Russian novel Crime and Punishment Alyona Ivanovna, "an inscrutable pawnbroker inflicting misery without compunction upon her fellow beings and never adverse to pillorying the innocent," –John Barth. I only hoped I wouldn't become the author's protagonist, ironically, a St. Petersburg student who murdered her with an axe. Then things started to go strange. It wasn't an immediate thing but then again, it rarely was. It was a feeling that enveloped me, something I have tried to describe to many one night stands. It creeps up slowly into my whole persona, then takes over the entire situation without my control. Everything was fine in the general sense. I was doing the car thing. I even worked the weekend. Why not? Natasha was out of town and I had no leads. Then it started. On the Tuesday afternoon, I had just dropped off a Canadian couple at Tampa airport, telling me stories of how they would have to shovel their way to their own doorstep through fifteen inches of snow, when I received a call to go to a nearby beach bar and pick up a girl named Patsie. I was requested to receive her in the rear, a comment I found rather amusing, especially after viewing the recipient. She was around 26, wearing a short black skirt, a flimsy white top and was very drunk. Instead of sitting in the back as customers usually do, she decided to sit in the front passenger seat.

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Perfect for my ejector button, I thought. As she slid into the seat next to me, her short skirt rode up her tanned legs, exposing a pair of black panties. Her attitude at first was one of drunken belligerence, accusing me of being late. But she soon warmed to my British accent and charm and within minutes was telling me the saga of her and her boyfriend breaking up and other regulars buying her shooters to cheer her up, the excuse for being so inebriated this early in the afternoon. She gave me directions down South Pasadena Avenue to her apartment complex upon which I had to turn a sharp left. Around the curve came a truck and I had to brake suddenly to which upon noticing she didn't have a seat belt on, I immediately clasped my hand to her chest, preventing a windshield incident. Realizing the connotations of this event, I immediately spluttered, "By the way, that was not a cheap feel. I was just making sure you didn't go through the window." I pulled across the road into this one storied complex and she astonished me by saying, "Oh, you can feel them if you like." Not one to leave any unsavoury leaf unturned, I slid my hand down her shirt and caressed her breasts while I pulled up in front of her apartment. She fidgeted for her wallet in the cotton purse on her lap then took a glazed glance at the meter and paid me the fare with a five-dollar tip. Collecting herself and her belongings, she looked back at me and said, "you can feel more than that if you want to come inside." "Why not," I thought. "Fare's fare." I turned the GPS radio off and followed her inside her apartment after she had a struggle with the house key. Her apartment was sparse, but clean. The bed was in the living room. This was where she lay in a flurry of undress. I reciprocated and we both engaged in a brief moment of torrid dirty sex after which she took off the small garment that she wore throughout the incident and stood in

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front of the mirror, looking very proud of herself. Meanwhile I put back on my clothes, wished her all the best, and gave her a very unsexy kiss goodbye. "Can I steal your lighter," she requested. I looked at the pathetic black object in my palm and handed it to her ."Of course dear," I said in the safe knowledge that there was a gas station two blocks away where I could purchase a replacement. I needed a cigarette. Upon entering the car, I noticed that I had inadvertently left the meter running. It came to exactly $49.00, the same flat fare "Cat's" charges for a trip to the airport. As I pushed the radio on, I hoped she had flown to somewhere nice. Once again I finished my shift and was too tired to go to a bar, instead deciding to just stay in the tiny apartment and drink myself to sleep. The alarm clock once again woke me in the dark (I would never get used to this. It was so unnatural.) and I made my way once again to pick up my cab. This day would prove to be no less "normal." It was a Sunday, traditionally a slow one in the taxi trade. My first trip was to take an old lady from Canada to her hotel from the grocery store. Then I immediately received a call to pick up a man from one of the beach resort hotels. After waiting for several minutes outside the office, I left the car and entered the hotel. Approaching the front desk, I asked a very busy lady if there was anyone waiting for a cab by name of Nugent. The reply was negative so I got back into the cab with a feeling of despondency until a beautiful, long-haired blonde girl came running up to my cab followed closely by another blonde and a redhead just as attractive. The leading blonde opened the passenger door and said, "Thank God you're here." "You Nugent?" I asked flippantly as they all clambered into the back seat.

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"No, but who the fuck cares," she answered in a blaze manner " We're going to the marina by Tierra Verde." I looked into my rearview mirror at the three scantily clad drunken beauties and immediately agreed with her while turning the meter on. I swiftly struck up a rapport with them as I felt on the same wavelength, having suffered a hangover or two myself (one of the girls was carrying a frozen margarita at 10:30 in the morning). "She's getting married next week" shouted one of them, pointing to the anything but coy readhead. "We're renting a boat to Sausage Island," said the most assertive of the trio. "I don't believe I've heard of that," I said with a sense of naiveté. "It's a nude beach," she yelled, much to the amusement of her cohorts. "We are going to measure dicks. Tracy here," she pointed to the redhead to the left of her "Has got the ruler. Hey, you're English. Are you circumcised?" she asked to great hilarity in the back seat. "No," I said in not too much of a shocked demeanor. "You'll have to show it to us before we get out," she demanded, causing even more mayhem in the rear. "You should have seen us last night," came the ominous remark from the prenuptial bride. "We made a lesbian movie in the hotel room. There was licking and everything." "Shit, we didn't bring the camera with us," complained the assertive blonde. And so it went on until I dropped the horny trio off at the marina. They tipped me heartily and promised they would ask for me personally after calling "Cats" for their return journey to the hotel and would show me their video. As I pulled away from the marina back to the beach, turning the meter off, I thought that this job can't be like this for all the other cab drivers or there would be a queue a mile long to apply. Little did I know at the time,

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this was to become the perverse penultimate in my cab-driving career. The next episode was to be the noose that would hang me. It came after two days of relative calm in the form of a trim black man in a white hat who flagged me down off the street on Blind Pass Road after I dropped a very pious couple off at St. John's church. This customer would prove to be anything but a believer. Entering the passenger seat next to me, he gave me a quick glance and said in that inimitable accent of the black southerner, "Let's go downtown. I godda cash ma' check." He was very soft spoken and had an intense look in his eyes. "It's ma disability check from the Army," he explained. Observing him, I told him that he didn't look disabled. On the contrary, he looked rather fit. "Post-traumatic stress syndrome," was his innocuous reply. He tapped his forehead with his forefinger and said, "It's all up here." Yet his demeanor was friendly and we gained a rapport as I drove down First Avenue South toward Amscot (a check cashing service) down town where upon parking, he asked me to wait while he cashed his precious check. After several minutes he returned to the passenger seat and handed me a $20 bill, saying, "This should cover us so far, man. Let's take a ride to see some friends of mine." I could tell he was used to being distrusted, hence the prepayment. He directed me down side streets to darker neighborhoods I had never heard of, let alone visited. Then, he became excitable as we approached a house containing several black kids in the yard in their teens. He told me to stop. Upon seeing him leave the cab, the young entrepreneurs rushed toward their prey like a pack of hounds chasing a fox ("the unspeakable chasing the uneatable"- Churchill, I believe) and a transaction transpired. After the hounds had their piece of flesh, this black fox reentered the car, issuing new directions. "Turn left, man, then do a right on 34th Avenue." I obeyed and he then told me to pull

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into a convenience store. He got out in an agitated manner and slammed the door. The meter ominously clicked on. He returned within minutes with a pack of plastic pens and a bag of bright orange coarse wire wool. "Take a left down here, my friend," he said in a more relaxed tone of voice. I could tell he had the safe knowledge that he was almost at the end of his journey for now. We drove across roads which were paved with red brick making the tires bump and click running over them. Once a sign of affluence in St. Petersburg to stop drivers speeding through the neighborhood, this part of town had seen better days. As we passed houses that were run down through neglect, I could see we were heading into a dead end. Dead end was the operative term. It was a graveyard. "If you don't mind, just pull up here, will ya?" he requested as I pulled to a stop onto the small gravel drive through adjacent to the many gravestones hovering over the dead of St. Petersburg past whose souls were now looking down in disdain and disgust at the act I and my new partner in crime were about to commit. "By the way, my name's George," he said, passively as he went about his business. "You don't want any of this, do ya?" "No," I replied, rather intrigued. He hurriedly unwrapped the pens and grabbed one out then pulled the nib and ink cartridge from its plastic outer casing. Then he politely asked if I would pull down the windows. Which I did as he threw the unwanted residue of the pen to the dead. After this he tore open the cellophane wrapping of the wire wool and ripped off a little chunk of the orange substance, stuffing it into the casing of the pen. With a thousand dead souls looking over our shoulders (let alone the police) he pulled out a plastic package full of small white tablets and placed one at the end of the newly formed pipe. Lighting the end, he inhaled its contents with a look of satisfaction and relief. He asked if I would wind the window up, to which I dutifully obliged, keeping in the sweet sickly smell of crack cocaine.

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"You want some of this, ma friend?" "Why not," I answered. For all the cocaine I had snorted in my life, I had never smoked crack. Yes, why not, I thought, all part of the job. He passed me the makeshift pipe that was hot to the touch and lit the end for me. "Inhale and hold it, man," he instructed as if to a new boy at school. I obliged and immediately felt a cocaine sensation much more severe than I'd ever experienced. It made me shake and nervous as he said, "Let's go home." I pulled out of the graveyard and quickly found 1st Avenue North, taking advantage of the green lights to get me back to Blind Pass Road. I didn't feel safe and wanted out of the cab as soon as possible. We reached a small pink hotel, one of thousands that Florida specialized in, and George invited me in. An act of hospitality I was only too glad to take advantage of. I followed his lead as he opened the door to a sparse room filled with lost dreams and no hope. This GI was fighting a losing battle. Yet I was caught up in the whole seediness of the situation. I was in another world, especially when a knock came on the door to which he shouted through the jam, "Who is it?" "It's Rose," came the female response. George reluctantly opened the door to an intimidating redheaded spitfire, her blue eyes ablaze. She had things to do. "George, do you want some of this stuff?" she asked, frantically. "No, honey, I just got some." "Shit," she said, like her mother had just died. Yet, I didn't think she would care about the demise of her parent at this time. "Who's this?" she asked, giving me a cursory glance.

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"It's ma new friend, Nicholas. He's cool, girl." "He's cute," she quipped, flippantly. "So are you, dear," I said, just to say something. She was attractive in a very used way. Her red hair flowed over white freckled shoulders giving way to a pair of pointy breasts in a small cotton top. She wore a pair of denim shorts, not the classiest of acts but sexy all the same. I was getting enwrapped in the sordidness of this world. It was fascinating. "That your cab outside?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. "Well, I need a ride, honey," she said with a wink to George while grabbing me by the hand and leading me out the door. "Bye, George. We don't need you anymore" she shouted and led me to my cab. She entered the passenger seat as I got in myself in an agitated state. She immediately gave me a crazy kiss and said, "Take me somewhere to do this stuff." I was seriously slipping into their world and the vernacular, when I said, "I gotta drop this cab off first, babe." "Well, let's do it," she was very bossy, but I found it exciting. "Hold on," I demanded as I stuffed money into my envelope to give to the cab company. I drove in a daze and parked the cab in the "Cats" lot, discarding it like a wanted weapon. I strode into the office, unaware that Rose had followed me, and gave the envelope to Janice. Her eyes bulged as she and the dispatchers noticed the ragged company I was with. I turned toward her and led her out of the office door, not even thinking of the consequences. We walked the two blocks from "Cats" to the restaurant parking lot, passing beach resorts with tourists enjoying the Florida life, kids playing miniature golf with their adoring parents on a

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course with clay reptiles, their mouths open with a roar issuing the hope of a hole in one they could tell their friends at school after the vacation, all unaware of the situation I was in. We entered my car and drove to Natasha's apartment. I didn't feel safe and opening the door for another woman felt strange to me and I wondered what the Ciega spies were going to report. Yet, in my state of euphoria, I didn't really care. They are going to kill me anyway, so enjoy life. I went into the kitchen. She availed herself of the red velvet couch whereupon after fixing us drinks, I found her using the same modus operandi as George. Before I knew it, Natasha's apartment was engulfed in the same stench as my cab just two hours before. Carravagio finally came in from his resting place, stood in front of Rose on his haunches and hissed towards her. Rose didn't flinch, but I did. "You gonna buy somma this?" she inquired as she lay back on the sofa and undid her fly, exposing a slide of orange pubic hairs almost identical in color to the same wire wool George had purchased. "Well, at least you know I'm a true red head. Just buy some of this and share it with me man, and we'll get naked." Once again I thought; Why not? "Yes, no problem," as I pulled out my wallet and flipped a $50 bill onto the coffee table, to which she was very responsive as she took off her clothes and offered me a blow on the pen pipe. The drug seemed to be having an adverse affect upon our sexual desires as we fumbled around each other's bodies in the usual exploratory manner. There seemed to be an unnatural urgency about the whole scene, a situation finally solved by Rose shouting (a little too loudly for my liking) "Do you have a vibrator?" "No," I answered, aghast. "Well, how about a back massager?" she blurted in obvious frustration. To my relief and hers, I came up with the goods. Natasha, as part of her Yoga policy, did possess a foot and a half

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long massager with rotating heads. Reaching under the bed in the next room, I found the desirable tool and handed it to Rose, then plugged it into a nearby receptacle. I placed an old Radio Head cd on the player to set the mood then peeled off my clothes, she did the same reveling an abused yet still atractive body. Rose immediately revved up the massager, soon to be vibrator. She lay back on the couch and maneuvered the rotary rubber heads on her vagina furiously. I looked upon her contorted face as we both punished our genitals for two hours with confusion and lack of satisfaction while I sneezed uncontrollably upon her breasts. After we realized this wasn't going to work, she suddenly grabbed her clothes and gave me a look as if I had raped her. "I've gotta get out of here," she screamed in frustration as she slipped on her ragged clothes. "Ok, I'll take you up the street." I said calmly as Radio Head echoed my sentiments over and over from the speakers, "I'm a reasonable man get off my case get off my case." She grabbed the $50 bill from the table I had left and placed it in her purse while I dressed myself. In silence, I dropped Rose at the pink motel and never saw her nor crack cocaine again. But it was a blast. I returned to the flat and the answering machine never blinked. I had never felt so alone. The following morning I showed up at the "Cats" office only to be confronted by a loud tirade from the vitriolic Janice. "Nick, come in my office," she screamed. I didn't deem it necessary as her voice reverberated around the whole building. "Yes, ma'am," I said in a condescending tone as I entered her small domain. "You're fired!" I felt a numbing through my body. I didn't expect this. With a look of incredulousness, I asked, "Why?"

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Then, with a look of authority and justification, she screeched, "You do not bring crack whores into this office. Leave your disgusting habits at home. Go." I felt the axe in my hand. I was Raskalnikov. I could see her severed head as I said to the inquisitive policeman, "Why I only killed an old pawnbroker, officer." And everything would be just fine. But instead, I looked into the observing blue eyes of Terry and moved on. So much for trying to fit in. Back at the flat even Caravagio felt my pain. For the first time he actually crawled onto my lap and started purring. I could feel the soft and soothing vibrations oozing from his body and his fur brushed against my skin. Yet, I still cried. He was such an astute animal and at this moment I felt a rare affinity with him, rare for me. Rare, well, until he pissed all over my pants; the bastard!

Elizabeth I had a psychiatrist meeting and was in the mood. Driving downtown to Elizabeth's plush office, I kept the top up, concealing the beautiful sunshine offering itself, and turned on the air conditioning. I wanted to be enclosed and needed to concentrate. I entered the office with the usual niceties but decided to try a different tack of approach. Sitting across from Elizabeth, my favorite toy, I decided to up the ante. I wanted to give her something to think about. Primarily, I wanted her to feel sorry for me so she could rescue me. "Are you married, Elizabeth?" I asked, surging into the attack immediately. "I'm divorced, actually, Nicholas," she replied. "Have you ever been married, Nick?"

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I paused once again for affect, hanging my head in my palms then faced her with a stern and sincere look and said, "I still am." "Then why haven't you mentioned this before? You act like you are single." I started to sob uncontrollably. "We can call it a day, if you want, Nicholas." "No, no. I need to tell someone, especially you," I blubbered. "It was in Arizona. I was married to a beautiful artist and we had a child, Tommy." I cradled my head for a few seconds, then sat upright to deliver the coup d'etat. "He was four years old and found the gun. Everyone has a gun in Arizona. And, he blew his brains out. The thing is that I'll never know whether he did it on purpose or not. Was I tormenting his soul? Or, was it an accident?" Elizabeth was suitably taken aback by this marvelous yarn, but regained her composure. "So, what did you do, Nicholas?" "I ran. I ran as far as I could, Elizabeth. That's why I'm here. As far as I know I may even be a suspect. I haven't spoken to my wife in months. And the strange thing is, I don't miss her. I just feel so guilty." Still a bit subdued, Elizabeth shifted her pink skirt towards those beautiful knees and asked, "Was it your gun or your wife's?" "It was my wife's," I answered, choking back tears. "She didn't hide it well enough, I suppose." "Then really you have nothing to feel guilty about," she said, reasonably. "It's the whole child thing," I blurted, trying to lure her into another sick avenue. "Did something disturbing happen to you as a child, Nicholas?"

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I could see the hook in her gorgeous mouth as I gave my false confession. "Well, I did catch my father in my mother's clothes one time." Once again, stunned, my pupil took a deep breath. This was stretching her capacities to the breaking point. But, fair play to her, she stuck with it. "And what was your reaction to seeing your father in your mother's attire?" She was resorting to professionalism but I wasn't finished yet. By the end of this session, she'll need a bloody shrink herself. "It wasn't my reaction I was worried about," I exclaimed in a fake exasperated manner. "It was his. He just smiled and said, 'So, what do you think, kid?' I was in shock. It's a sight I'll never forget Elizabeth, I can tell you." I went back to sobbing. Elizabeth came round the desk and held my shoulders, the perfect response. I, in turn, grasped her thigh for relief, at last! I pushed my hand further up her skirt in fake mourning, then she pulled away. Ah, well, at least I felt her, the untouchable. Ha! "Why don't you go home and rest, Nicholas," she said, getting back into her seat, scribbling something on a pad. "I'm prescribing you some medication. They are antidepressants. I think they will help you immensely. I also suggest we meet again soon. Schedule an appointment as soon as you can and we'll talk more." And with that, I walked out of the office a happy man. A call came on my cell phone from the now familiar voice of Ms. Highsmith. "Doctor?" she inquired in a rather submissive voice. "Yes, Ms. Highsmith," I answered in my most Yiddish accent. "I wonder if I could trouble you for a minute of your valuable time?" "Anything pertaining to my son is valuable time, my dear Ms. Highsmith. Please carry on," I answered in a demure manner.

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"Well, Doctor. We have a program here at the school that I wondered if you would like to participate in," she sounded flustered and at pains to comply with my wishes, yet alone hopes. "We ask parents to come in and give a speech to the children on a subject of their choice and I'm sure you being an eminent doctor would have ample things to inform the children about. But I do understand if you are too busy right now," she stuttered, fumbling for excuses that weren't needed. "Why, of course, Ms. Highsmith," I replied, surprising even myself and the principal was even more aghast. "Well, well! We generally set these things up for eight o'clock on a Tuesday morning. It normally lasts for an hour and we`ve found that it doesn't interfere with people's work schedule too much." She was very excited when she asked, "Would next Tuesday fit in for you, Doctor. And would it give you enough time to prepare a speech?" "It will give me ample time, my dear, and I will look forward to meeting you and your pupils," I answered in reassuring manner. "Oh, how wonderful," she answered in a very excited tone. "We shall look forward to your presentation. We will be in class fifteen at the north end of the building. If you have any problems, reception will help you. Look forward to your speech." "You're welcome, my dear," I replied as I hung up the phone.

Book Meeting The icy corridor of the library was a welcome respite from the ever-warming Florida climate. I think that apart from the tall man, every employee was suffering through menopause and agreed to keep the temperature at sub-zero to help them with their hot flashes. As I walked

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into the book meeting the cold air was matched only by the icy glance from Roberta. Her robotic head had switched from stun to kill. Yet I was so ready for her. She didn't stand a chance. The meeting started with the usual greeting from Sarah and her introduction to the book, "Lolita", by one of my favorite writers, Nabokov. The usual suspects were in attendance as I sat in my reserved seat next to my Sarah. Roberta hated every minute of it as I expounded on the excellence of my favorite Russian author. I used a quote from the book to ensure my case, "Why the author himself said that Humbert was, no doubt, horrible. He is an abject shining example of moral leprosy.' And I have read," I said in conclusion, that Nabokov intended Lolita as a symbol of art itself with all of its allusiveness and not just another precocious pubescent tart." I waited with the utmost patience as Roberta (or Robota as I had named her in my mind due to the mechanical like device dividing her head from her shoulders.) responded with, "Humbert Humbert was a pervert and Nabokov was promoting the idea of older men's affiliation with young girls." Her mood was getting worse by the minute. "Well, I think Humbert was definitely a pervert, but it was damned well wrote," screeched the biker from the back of the class. He was obviously stoned again. Tom remarked, "Well, I thought it was maybe the best book I've ever read. His use of the English language, especially for a damn Russian, was unparalleled." Homeless Jim's timing was wonderful as he took the vacant seat next to the aggrieved Roberta and availed himself of the offerings of coffee and doughnuts provided by this public establishment. The lack of support from the audience was really pissing her off and her face was full of blood. So, I decided to stick the dagger into her spine. "Roberta," I announced dramatically. "We all know you are of German descent. And considering the atrocities your race has projected on the Russian people, I suggest you are a

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Germanic philistine, not fit to judge the brilliance of this author's book." I knew Nabokov had written the damned thing tongue in cheek yet I wasn't going to give Roberta an inch. Then just when she thought her suffering couldn't get any worse, Homeless Jim announced, "Oh, this is the book about the perve fucking the twelve year old," while spitting doughnut crumbs over Roberta's finely dressed bosom. She stood up, kicking her plastic chair behind her and left the room full of scorn. What a victory. For the second time in a row the enigmatic Sarah announced we could leave the meeting early and to drive safely. She grabbed me by the arm and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Well done, Nick. I hate that bitch." "So do I, darling," I replied and gave her an adoring hug and went in search of Joe Lyons. I drove to Ricky Bee's and lo and behold, he was there in his usual seat and suit. "Why, there you are, old boy." His greeting was, as usual joyous, yet I sensed an uneasiness about him as he prescribed my usual cocktail from the bartender and advised, "Never trust a man who dislikes cricket, my friend." He didn't look me in the eye and I felt this was a standby speech for when he was uncomfortable with a situation. The hairs on the back of my neck were stood up. I didn't know what was going on, but I didn't like it. Then I noticed in the opposite corner of the bar a pair of piercing blue eyes staring at me from a stout casually dressed (like everyone on the beach) chap with blond hair, rather good looking in a portly kind of way. It suddenly occurred to me that he had been staring since I got here; a plant. As he noticed I was on to him he paid his tab and to my surprise walked directly towards us and announced "Ello, I'm Charlie" in a broad Yorkshire accent "a noticed you were English, Leeds meself, arrived yesterday. Are yer on yer ollidays?"

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Joe came to my rescue and shook his hand and said "Sort of old boy. Joe Lyons, this is my wonderful companion Nicholas" I too shook his soft chubby hand thinking that this man had definitely never been down a Yorkshire coal mine, but he had such a wonderful way about him and I almost felt guilty thinking he was one of them. "Anyway, nice meetin yer. Weather's a lot better ere, it's pissin' down at 'ome. Got to go, the missus wants to go to the beach". And off he went, also another needless scare. So Joe carried on talking in tones that could have emanated from a barrister defending a case, yet I had the horrible feeling he was defending himself in some incriminating way. "Two shooters for me and my friend please barkeep" he boomed and two small glasses of our usual were duly poured and presented "To the regiment " he said while raising his glass then downed it quickly almost choking in the process. "Good God I`ve shot a beater he" spluttered " this will ruin my shooting for the rest of the day." It was a quote from Oscar Wilde`s "The Picture of Dorian Gray" during the hunting scene. Funny stuff but I still had a gut feeling it was all an act. At that, we had a congenial leaving hug and not feeling too tipsy, I drove my way back to Ciega Shores with the uneasy feeling that things were not going well.

Elizabeth I was early for once and eager. I sat with a feeling of sexual anxiety in the waiting room of my beloved psychiatrist's office for her attendance. The door finally eased open, Elizabeth giving a cursory smile to her last patient, a skinny woman, she was probably suffering from some eating disorder. Elizabeth on the other hand looked ravishing. I so wanted her.

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She noticed me immediately and ushered me into her room. "Come in, Nicholas." The words were smothered by my lips. I just couldn't help myself. Her mouth was luscious and delicious just as I always imagined it in my dreams. Yet her reaction didn't fit the plan. Her beautiful body went limp as I held it in my desperate arms. She looked me in the eyes. We disengaged our (in my eyes) passionate kiss and said, coldly, "I find you very attractive, Nicholas, but this is not professional." "Screw professionalism," I screamed. It wasn't like me to vent like this. "Can't you just let go for a while?" The job was definitely getting to me. She pulled down her skirt (I didn't realize I had pulled it up in my moment of bloody passion.) and recomposed herself while taking her usual place behind the desk. "Please sit down Nicholas, and let's talk about this. I was shaking uncontrollably yet I took her orders obediently and sat across from her in our usual position."Well, Nick" she said, trying to take the high ground. I could see her strategy immediately and wasn't going to let her get away with it. "Can I ask an explanation for your actions just then?" she said, trying to look unfettered. I needed to alter my approach. A new form of attack. Never despondent, I decided to build on my old approach. "I have a date tonight with a guy who I think wants to have sex with me. And I just thought that . . ." I stopped for a moment. "that you are my closest friend and I find you so attractive that I could get out of this situation." I did the sobbing bit again but not quite so dramatic as the last time. I didn't want to overdo it. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth but I'm just so lost." She looked at me with real concern and said, "Nick, just follow your instincts and please don't do anything you don't want to do. I'll always be here for you." "Promise?" I asked.

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"Promise Nick .I think it would be best all round if we cut it short for today. Book an appointment for tomorrow. I think it would be a good idea. I would like to see you." "Okay Elizabeth. I'll Look forward to it" I said with a smile, in fact I had that same smile all the way to Paddies. Pulling into the sand parking lot I paid the attendant and settled myself on a seat in the outside bar whereupon I drank the afternoon away with vodka and beer, occasionally slipping into the bathroom to snort cocaine from my car key I stayed there until sunset and decided to head home. Fumbling with my coke encrusted car keys I finally managed to start the vehicle. I crossed the Treasure Island Bridge when I noticed the flashing lights in my rear view mirror. My immediate thought was one of ambivalence. After all, I could just show diplomatic immunity. And so it went. Gay DUI "Just get out of the car, sir," said the underpaid and badly dressed police officer from the Treasure Island correctional center. He looked concerned as I slammed the car door shut and gave him a look like I wanted to kiss him. But, I thought, let's see how this plays out. "Why did you pull me over, officer?" I asked in a very alluring manner with a smile to kill for. He looked ill at ease and was very reassured by his pal, equally badly attired, and holding a camera videoing the whole hideous event. "You pulled out in front of another vehicle, sir," he retorted. "Why, isn't that how one gets on in life?" I questioned, throwing him off with a wink. I never looked at the camera. "And what's your name, officer?" I purred. This film is going to go down well in the police station.

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"I'm Officer Trimble," he quavered. The squad car's red and blue gleam continued as the game shifted. Officer Trimble was trembling. I licked my tongue to my nose and shot him a sexy look. "I have reason to believe you have been drinking, sir, and it will be in your interest to do a sobriety test," blurted Officer Trimble. For the first time, I faced the camera. "'Sir!' That's not what he called me the other night," I exclaimed in my most camp manner. I sensed the tension between the bungling policemen yet they kept up their quest. "Would you walk in a straight line, sir, toe to toe?" asked the now quivering Trimble. "Why of course, darling," I proclaimed. "I can do straight if I have to." The light from the camera beamed on my body as I performed "Swan Lake," with a mastery Mikhail Baryshnikov would have died for while never taking my eyes from Trimble. My lips were permanently pursed. Where was my lipstick when I needed it? Trimble had had enough and I was almost relieved because my toes were hurting so much from my balancing act, when he drew my arms behind my back and handcuffed me. "Oh, kinky, eh," I said in a suggestive manner--the officer didn't seem to appreciate it. I never did get to see the face of the cameraman, just a squat silhouette. But I'm sure he found amusement from it. "Wait, don't you want me to blow your thing?" I slurred while pointing to the Breathalyzer test Officer Trimble's partner held in his grasp. Hands behind my back, a blushing Officer Trimble bundled me into the backseat of the squad car. I, the manacled victim, was taken in the gay patrol car and transported to a holding cell in Clearwater for some reason, (I'm sure there was a more convenient jail nearby) by the aggrieved officers.

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The holding cell was packed full of Florida drunks, yet was heaven compared to my North Korean incarceration. We were all let out and allowed to sit in a room with a TV, which reminded me of an airport waiting lounge, very congenial I thought. I was sat next to a good looking lad who was also in for a DUI. We compared our breathalyzer readings. He had blown a 1.7. I beat him with a resounding 2.9, almost paralytic. Thank God for diplomatic immunity. They couldn't touch me. Yet, I knew I would have to drive on my international driver's license from now on. The lad next to me was obviously gay with that serious lisp they seem to retain (it reminded me of the opera singer) and we passed the boring hours with banter about how nice the jail was compared to others we had visited. We were allowed out of the cell after an eternity of waiting and were released at the same time. I ordered a cab from my cell phone and we shared it, swapping numbers, promising to keep in touch. I entered the flat and it was comforting compared to the cold feel of the jail cell, yet it felt empty without Natasha. I missed her dearly. I drank with vigor, putting me into a stupor and giving way to a massive sleep, only broken by brief jolts of awakening, calmed away with another vodka, putting me back into heaven. I slept on and off all day after being up all night in jail without the help of any substances and decided to just stay in for the evening remembering my heavy schedule for the next day.

School Speech Waking, feeling a little too refreshed for my likings I calmed things down with numerous shots of vodka then brought them back up again with a few lines of cocaine after which I felt ready for Ms Highsmith and my school speech. I drove toward the school with the help my new

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GPS system with a mixed feeling of excitement and fear. After all, I had never spoken to a class full of children before, let alone having amongst them my falsely claimed son. The future beckoned as I pulled into the gates of the sturdy brick building, the stern voice of the woman I had chosen to lead me on the GPS announced ominously "You have arrived." As I approached the school, I was surprised at how small it was compared to the one Natasha and I had visited in Atlanta, yet it still had the regal air of a place of learning. I pulled into the parking lot and noticed the definitive yellow buses lined in a row, later driving off to wherever they go after dropping off their precious cargo only to await their return to transport them back to their doting parents after a hard day's learning. Having parked the car, I walked through the main entrance and was greeted by a very congenial young black lady. "Can I help you, sir?" No metal detectors, no police. I could be any maniac with an arsenal of weapons. "Yes, my dear. I'm looking for Ms. Highsmith's class. I'm supposed to be delivering a speech at eight thirty, which is ten minutes from now." She became very excited and stuttered, "Oh, of course. You must be Dr. Weinburg. We've been expecting you. If you follow the corridor to your left, it's the last classroom to your right. You can't miss it. I'm sure your son is very excited. Nice to meet you, sir." "I'll bet he is," I thought as I thanked her for the directions. As I walked through the corridor full of bright colors and things pasted to every wall giving testimony to the children's scholastic achievements, from paintings of animals to essays about their own brief lives, I found my theatre. On approach I realized that I had to get into a mindset. Feeling very Zionist I tentatively knocked on the door and entered a world of past memories. "Ms. Highsmith I presume," I said to an anxious middle-aged teacher. "I'm Dr. Weinburg."

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"Oh, we are so pleased you came." She was almost sobbing with delight. Yet, if she was apprehensive, the twenty odd children sat diligently in their seats were quite astounded. They looked on in amazement as I announced that I would like to start immediately as I had surgery to perform early that afternoon. The subject of my speech would be the Holocaust. The classroom reminded me very little of my own school years. The place was bright, not dour as I remember. The children were dressed casually in their own clothes rather than in a uniform. The whole regimen was much less stringent. And, above all, the kids looked happy. That was the main difference and I was pleased for them. "Please, go right ahead Doctor," Ms. Highsmith announced as she turned her attention once more to the class and said, sternly, "Dr. Weinburg has gone out of his way from his busy schedule to inform you of a special part of history. I want you all to pay attention as his time is valuable and I'm sure what he has to say will be just as valuable to you. So, please sit and listen." And so they did, very attentively for the first couple of minutes of my speech describing Hitler's rise to power in the 1930s and the German people's willingness to accept the Jews as a scapegoat for the disgraceful reparations they were having to pay for their failures during the First World War. Then, just as I was describing the start of internment and the "Nicht and Nable" policy of taking any undesirables to an unknown destination in the middle of the night, I sensed a feeling of unrest amongst my audience. Elbow nudging and tentative giggling, then finally a boy, not as Jewish looking as I had expected, raised his hand and said, "Please, Ms. Highsmith, that's not my . . ." "Be quiet, Jeremy. I know you're excited because your father's here but let him finish," she intoned from her chair in the corner of the room adjacent to me.

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"That's my boy," I thought, as I gave him a wink and a little wave. Yet as I moved on to extermination camps and the final solution, the rest of the class were far from muted. In fact, their stifled giggles turned into outrageous laughter. These kids were laughing at the gas chambers. By the time I had got to Dr. Mengele's torturous experiments upon twins and gypsies, the class was in absolute hysterics. Even Ms. Highsmith's screeching couldn't calm them down. They were thumping their desks in frustration to try to stem their laughter. Only one child had his head down in tears, my Jeremy. Poor lad. I bade farewell to a very confused and baffled teacher with the excuse of impending surgery and left the building thinking of how cruel children can be. Yet on the whole, I thought it had gone rather well. And with that in mind, I drove to Ricky Bees's in the hope of seeing Joe Lyons. Upon arrival I found the establishment empty, so after one drink I decided to go home and head for the dock.

Ravens: Foreshadowing Packing a cooler full of beer with an ice pack and a bag of selected books, I traveled down to the dock perched on the intracoastal river seeking solace and beauty. Arranging my luggage upon the grooved wooden bench overlooking the view of the large multistory houses with their multicolored roofs sat just as the luxury boats harbored in their front yards, unoccupied, more status symbols for the rich owners in New York to enable them to speak of their possessions in Florida. I had only just settled into my surroundings, cracking a beer and in the midst of choosing a book when I was invaded by a flock of ravens. There was no food on this dock and the only reason I could think of the presence of these harbingers of doom was to give me a sign; a bad one.

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They fluttered around the small pier causing mayhem, pecking at nothing in particular. Then they all flew off bar two. As I lit up a cigarette shielding the light from a slight breeze drifting across the rippling water; they left their two malingerers. One perched upon the rail, looking directly at me with yellow eyes etching into my soul. The other picked up a cigarette stump from between the slats of the dock and placed it before me just to make a point. Then, with a last warning glance, they too, flew off to join their macabre tribe. I slumped onto the back of the bench with the unwanted message they had left trying to lure me into a back alley strewn with corpses, it`s walls were old and made of stone. It wasn`t so much dark, but once again that cold wind was blowing from Moscow sending the crisp dead leaves from nearby trees into my face, covering my eyes and making me blind to the foreboding future and what it held in store for me. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into the night It wasn`t just the facts of this ominous turn of events they had presented me with but the reasoning behind it. Why? Yes I had been mischievous in this latest caper, yet it was all to do with keeping my sanity, fighting those feeling that raged through my every fiber. I had tried on every level to do it all right, even when they publicly shamed me during the torrid secretary affair (it was in all the newspapers) which was such a sham to make it look like I`d been kicked out of MI5 : you never leave , you`re in it for life. Yet everything seemed to be going so well. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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Natasha loved me and we seemed to have thrown our pursuers off our trail, so why was I worried? Suspicion ebbed at every corner yet I didn`t know where to turn. I knew there was something wrong and whatever was at the end of that alley, so full of specter, I knew I could fight it. Little did I know. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray, Do not go gentle into that good night, Rage, rage against the dying of the night.—Dylan Thomas Natasha's arrival from Atlanta was a rather uneventful affair. I was listening to something on the radio to sooth my damaged soul and in she whisked in with bags from every department store you could name. "Hi Darling," I said in an excited tone. But she went to the fucking cat Carravagio. She squeezed him without giving me a caring glance. Then finally I got a cursory, "babe," as she departed to the bedroom with the cat over her shoulder and the bags in her hand. Her entrance was to be the start of a decline I couldn't have predicted. We decided to celebrate by going to the Tapas Restaurant down town where we talked about nothing really. She had nothing to say and my feelings were of growing confusion and depression. I knew in that candlelit atmosphere suspicious eyes were upon me yet I wasn't to find out whose until the following day. It all happened so insidiously, starting with a call at nine the next morning from Ms. Highsmith. "You are a sick man, sir!" she screamed in a belligerent tone. "I am going to report you to the police. How dare you parade yourself as a child's parent. You have probably done irreparable damage to his . . ." And the phone call cut out but I got the message.

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It got worse. The event sent me to the freezer for my morning vodka. I took a double dose; that was a shocker. Yet on the whole I should have expected it. It was just about time, I suppose. I watched Natasha's naked body slumbering beneath the bed sheets, thinking about sliding next to her. Then I remembered I had a book meeting. Instead of sex, I stepped into the shower, the water rushing through my worries. I closed the door while I dried my hair so as not to awaken Natasha. As my hair dried I realized I hadn't read the book for the meeting; Roberta would crucify me. I tried to remember the name of the book. Then I remembered I took a notepad to the library and searched frantically for it finally finding it under the bed. All I had written down was "Adams, president." I immediately leaped to the computer at the side of the bed. Natasha was snoring but I found it sexy. Then Googling John Adams I printed a piece about John Quincy Adams, apparently a man who was the sixth president of the United States. After speed reading the piece I got the gist of it and quickly threw on some clothes. I took my supplies in my sturdy black and white cooler and snorted my way to the library in anticipation of the conflict with the Hun named Roberta. As usual she was early. Germanic punctuality and obedience was the order of the day. Her robotic head was on form, it swiveled wildly moving synchronically with that by now familiar pivotal joint. Hair sprayed to perfection by the Gestapo this morning she smiled at me pompously. The woman knew it was to be her day. "Morning, Roberta," I said as sarcastically as possible. The biker had his foot upon the table and Jim had already consumed most of the doughnuts and coffee, the residue expanding on the table, to which he received a look of disgust from Sarah. The phone call from the schoolmarm was a blow and even the cocaine and vodka running through my veins couldn't stop

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this ominous feeling as I sat as usual next to Sarah. Roberta's eyes were glued to mine in a demonic way. Sarah made her usual required introduction with an additional announcement that in honor of Roberta being inducted into the prestigious Daughters of the American Revolution ( DAR ) she had decided our book of the month, it being an election year, John Adams by David McCullough. The adrenalin was flowing yet I didn't feel right. But I was still on the offensive. "So, I guess you goose stepped your way into that little fascist organization, Roberta." It was an opening salvo with no conviction. I felt like an assassin without a gun as Roberta just dismissed the remark without even the slightest of retort. I was nervous about this book especially as I hadn`t even read it. Plus American history was not my forte( there is so little of it) which made bluffing my way through even harder. Still I decided on an opening speech. "This is precursor to the disastrous Bush legacy. Never has such a similar occurrence in American history been so drastically different. Adams' father was a mentor to him. Bush, Sr. sired an idiot." I had stepped on a landmine. "You're the idiot," the manic Roberta screamed. "You've not even read this damned book." Her eyes were bulging like marbles. "You're talking about the wrong Adams. This book is about his father, the second president of this great country, John Adams the second president was George Washington`s vice president , (she was on a role) signer of the Declaration of Independence. And the book, if you ever want to enlighten your self is by David McCulloough. Imbecile!!!!" Her patriotic rhetoric only served to gain allies in the room as the tirade became stronger setting upon my weakness. I had fucked up. Sarah squeezed my hand as I bawled uncontrollably. The pressure was getting to me.

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"What's up, dude," asked Jim as he finished his last doughnut. I tore my hand from Sarah's and pushed back my plastic chair, sobbing. Sarah followed me, giving Roberta daggers as I left the meeting room. It was an act of betrayal tantamount to treason, punishable by death. I had let the side down. For once the Germans had won the war. Sarah hugged me, her pert breasts plunged into my chest when I informed her I had to see my psychiatrist. She wiped the tears from my eyes and I slumped into the parking lot a defeated warrior. Then I drove to the solace of Elizabeth. As I entered her office I could smell tension in the air. It clung to my clothes, hair, skin, my whole persona; something was wrong. "Sit down Nick." She wasn't happy about something. "So where were you last night, Nicholas?" she asked sternly. She was wearing trousers not a skirt ( bad sign), she had caught me off guard and only added to the feeling that this was going to be a bad day, yet I didn't have any idea how bad it was going to be. She had a look of conviction in her eyes as she repeated the question. She was madly in love. "Where were you last night, Nick," Once again I felt the accusation with her soft voice yet this time there was a curt harassing tone to it. This didn't look good, there was no love between us only bitterness. I crossed my legs and went into a tirade of lies. "Well, you remember the guy I told you about," I asked in an imploring way, wishing she would take my hand in hers. "Yes," she hissed. "Well I ended up going back to his place after dinner but all the time I was thinking of you Elizibeth and what you said about not doing anything I would regret. So nothing happened." I thought that sounded rather good, me adhering to her advice and remaining celibate at the same time; yet I knew something was amiss. Maybe it was the trousers. No the look. And then it came.

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"How about that blonde tart you were in the Tapas bar last night, you piece of shit, Nick," she screamed. That's when I really knew she was in love. "What else have you lied to me about Nick? Probably everything. I don't want to see you again" This was serious. "Get out of here, Nick," she bellowed. This put me in shock I couldn't even look at my beautiful psychiatrist. I just slunk out of the office listening to her screaming, berating my indiscretions. I walked to my convertible and thought, what a shame after all we had been through. Yet on the whole I think I did rather a good job, thanks to me she had come a long way. Tears dripped down my cheeks as I drove with the top down, the warm wind drying my face. I couldn't wait to see Natasha. I needed her now more than ever and had never felt so down. I drove through the given lights of 1st Avenue North to Pasadena and then to the welcoming sight of Blind Pass Road where I turned my vehicle into Ciega Shores. I couldn't wait for the welcoming arms of Natasha, yet it wasn't meant to be. My key didn't fit. I thought at first it was my nerves. Fumbling, I tried and tried again but it just would not fit. I banged on the door. No answer. I hammered till my knuckles were raw, screaming her name; then finally a reply. "Nick, go away. I've changed the locks." "Why?" I screamed. "Because I'm pregnant." Shocked and numb I shouted in desperation "Well we can work this out." "It's not yours." "What?" "It's not yours, just fuck off, Nick."

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"Whose is it?" "Your so-called best friend, Joe Lyons. I had to check him out. I thought you were compromising the job. Just fuck off." I scratched the door with my agonized face then drifted off in a haze.

From Russia with Love I drove back to my own apartment and chose the bathtub as my deathbed. The tool of execution would be my fishing knife donated by my newfound friend John Glock, the sharpest knife I had ever possessed. After all, if one is to choose one`s own destiny, why make death painful? I would die soaking in my own blood. I undressed then leaned over my own coffin while plugging the tub and turned on the taps, engulfing my last resting space with warm water. Naked, I strode to the kitchen with an air of resignation and left with a large glass of vodka, picking up my cigarettes and lighter and the dead man's pipe (which by chance was in the cooler on the back seat of my car) on the way back to the bathroom. Placing the essentials on the sides of the bathtub I returned to the running water and prepared myself for perennial peace. Yet, slipping into the water, I felt all the painful emotions of the last couple of days: the lambasting tirade from Roberta, Elizabeth calling me a fake, my false son crying in class then, most of all, Natasha carrying a child from what I perceived as one of the only friends I had made over here: it had all served to crush me into submission. The mission must undoubtedly be compromised by now. They would find me soon and want information. This was the only way out. I had always imagined my death scene similar to Beethoven's: just at the moment of passing my last breath, a bolt of lightning would strike across my window. But no, it wasn't to be. Instead, Dickens, not my favorite execution of the English

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language, came to mind. His main protagonist in Tale of Two Cities, before his neck met the guillotine in front of a jeering Parisian crowd, baiting the wrath of anything smelling of aristocracy. It is a far, far better thing that I do, Than I have ever done; It is a far, far better rest that I go To than I have ever known.

"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, Peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, In that England which I shall see no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, Who bears my name. I placed the pipe between my lips and inhaled deeply. The pot surged through my head. Then, I lit a cigarette and drank half the glass of vodka, placing the glass onto the porcelain side of my last resting place. I then grasped the knife with purpose, and, closing my eyes, I slashed both my wrists. Putting my cigarette down momentarily and dropping the knife to the floor with my right hand, I opened my eyes and saw the water turning crimson. Yet it didn't disturb me. I used my left hand to grab the remaining vodka and finished it, then fell into a deep sleep, the cigarette only half smoked,with the safe knowledge that I was hardly going to cause a fire in a bathtub.

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I awoke from a nightmare of screeching sirens and loud voices into a sterile world of starched white sheets clinging to my body. In fact, everything was white. Feeling around for my surroundings I noticed that my wrists were bandaged. No, it wasn`t a nightmare, it was too real. I`d had seizures in my sleep, that along with the loss of blood and what ever they had pumped into me there probably wasn`t a trace of my precious drugs left in my body. I wanted a drink, a line, anything to elieviate the dread I was feeling. I looked further up my right arm at a tube leading to a drip adjacent to my head.Then intruded another color. It was green. An apron wrapped around a cherubic looking nurse. "So, you're awake, Nicholas," she said in my dreamworld. "Apparently," I slurred, wondering if this was heaven or hell. "I'll send the doctor in right now," she said in an accent I now know to be Canadian. I waited in a haze. I'm supposed to be dead, but obviously in a hospital of some sort. This is not what I had planned. I had to think. Some one found me and called emergency services? It must be Natasha. She is the only one who knows where I live. Yet again, it could be them. They know where I fucking live and it's in their interest to keep me alive with all this talk of swapping agents. Well, I'm here and I'll try to make the best of it. The door to my room swung open with a bang and issued the entrance of the eminent Doktor. I could tell immediately he wasn't just the "doctor" he was the Commandant. Your local dictator. What more could you ask for in your community.He marched in with an air of authority and an abundance of assistants, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty. His disciples looked on as their Caesar made his diagnosis upon this latest case set before the Roman senate. He was rather tall with grey shorn hair. Around sixty years old with silver blue piercing eyes. "Hi, Nicholas. How are you feeling?" He asked in what I considered a condescending tone.

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"Rather alive, I suppose," I quipped, still wondering whether I was in a dream. "Yes, you're alive, Nicholas. No thanks to yourself." "Hello to life." "I'm Dr. Vince," he shook my feeble bandaged hand and said, "you have some problems, my friend. You are in safe hands now. Get some rest and you will be fine." He gripped my arm and checked my pulse. There were electric gadgets all around me beeping away, sending signals and numbers that meant something to someone, but not me. I looked at the numbers going up and down, wondering whether it was good or bad or even if I cared. If I thought Dr. Vince was my savior, Dr. Fergeson was to be my nemesis. He introduced himself in a surreptitious way. Dressed in regular clothing, he walked into the room with air of casualness obviously in an attempt to put me somewhat at ease. "Hi, Nicholas, I`m Dr Fergeson" he said, sitting on the edge of my new found bed, making sure he didn't disturb my drip. "Dr. Vince is here to look after your physical health. I'm here to look after your mental health." His eyes were glued to mine, looking for clues. I felt like I was back in the dream of North Korea. I'll tell them nothing."We're going to get to know each other very well Nicholas, I can assure you," he said in an ominous way. Then I found myself in a deep sleep. I didn't even see him leave. Yet, in my dreams, he was still there. I knew he would haunt me and I had to keep my guard up. I awoke not knowing whether it was night or day, the constant light in my room took away that pleasure. Looking around my bleak surroundings, I became aware of two facts: I was alive and I was in a hospital bed. This conclusion was affirmed as a nurse walked through the door. A rather pretty young thing, she introduced herself as Kathy as she tested my pulse and blood pressure.

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"You're going to be fine Nicholas. You're alive. Appreciate it." I tried not to as I fell back asleep. God knows what they were injecting me with. I had never felt so tired in my life. I awoke from a sleep that could have lasted hours, days or even months. I could only tell by the beard I had attained in the duration. My arms were still bandaged yet the drip had been withdrawn. Also the demeanor of the nurse who noticed my arousal from the distant world had changed drastically from a look of constant worry to one of a tolerant nature, "just doing my job" kind of thing. I think they think I'm on the mend. But I don't. She alerted Dr. Vince who immediately came to my bedside and asked how I was feeling. Checking my vitals he patted me on the forearm and nodded to the nurse saying I was ready to be transferred; an ominous act which would transpire within seconds.Before I could even wipe the sleep from my eyes, two heavily built "aides" dressed in the same green suit as the nurse approached me and lifted me onto a gurney whereupon I was strapped to. They pushed me to an elevator and waited in eerie silence while I was transported to another floor. I was unaware of whether it was up or down. Then I was led into a world reminding me of the movie "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest," but this wasn't funny. They unstrapped me and allowed me to sit up in my hideous hospital gown. Then after a formal visit to an adjacent office they issued me with some clothes to wear which were obviously confiscated from my apartment. The paint on the walls was the same color as the one worn by my present guardians. The color didn't issue any form of assurance or hope, only gloom. The populace were no different. A mixure of races, ranging from a huge black woman resembling Idi Amin to a couple of Hispanics and white people. All with a lost look in their eyes. After dressing I was ordered into Dr. Fergeson's office. I entered and was requested to sit on the chair across from his veneer desk.

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"So, how are we feeling?" he asked, tossing a pen from a notepad he was scribbling upon. "Better, I supose," I answered stoically. "Well, let's chat while your'e in the mood." "Ok, what do you want to talk about?" "Why did you try to kill yourself, for starters." Was he with them? What was he after? Was he part of the job? I looked at his hands rather than into the inquiring eyes. They were long and thin with perfectly manacured nails. I would even say they were lady like but for one obvius blemish. His left fingernail and the tip of the finger itself was orange through what I percieved to be nicotine. He must smoke like a fiend. He`s probably doing all the good drugs too, after all he has acsess to them, the hypocritical bastard. "You do realize you are being held under the Baker Act. In Florida we can hold you here as long as we feel necessary under the assumption you are a harm either to yourself or other people. And until I or someone else, family or friend, decides otherwise, we are going to be seeing each other daily to find out the problem." This was the worst feeling in my life. Imprisonment, being interrogated and lectured . It wasn't like with Elizabeth. This guy was in fucking charge and I was going to have to tell him something to get out of this hell hole. "Get to know the place," he said, in a condescening manner. "And we'll talk again tomorrow." I was ushered by one of the "aides" to the communal room full of plastic chairs and a TV set high above book shelves full of inane reading. The residents were a strange lot to say the least. I didn't mingle, just watched. There was a man who kept fighting with another guy who was much bigger than him over the channel on the TV. The skinny man wanted to watch the

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sports channel and the huge black man insisted on turning the box to an evangelical minister spurting out religious instruction. It was an ongoing process. Then came the food cart. The food wasn't as bad as the atmosphere, it was quite palatable Along with my lunch which consisted of Salisbury steak and mixed vegetables, was a sheet of paper describing the situation I was in. Meetings, food schedules, bed time and more meetings if you didn't pay attention at the fucking meetings; I had to get out of here. I was told in no uncertain terms by a burly "aide" in his mid-thirties to start attending the meetings today ! The first of which was starting in half an hour. We were ordered to move down a corridor by more burly "aides" who I could already tell were not chosen for their intelligence but their size as they pushed us unfortunate wretches into line. All these capos were missing was a cattle prod (and possibly Auschwitz.) The inmates, I learned, were an ecclectic bunch ranging from schizophrenics who saw and heard things in the dark and light to your basic drug addicts and alcoholics just sweating it out. Then there were the bi-polar bears, failed suicide attempts (rather like a kamakazi pilot who made it home I thought), perverts or flashers who couldn't live without sex in a strange way. After this you had the self delusional crowd (most famous for thinking they were Napoleon), dementia (mainly Alzheimer's) who were here so at last they knew where they were, to some extent. Depressives, manic depressives, paranoids, those with personality disorders who cut themselves, eating disorders and just your general anti-social bastards who want to rock the boat. But the rule of thumb under the Baker Act was anyone out there who was a danger to himself or other people. The meeting I was being herded to was apparently a lecture on health, fitness and nutrition for which the regular instructor was missing due to a bout of flu. It was an unfortunate occurance

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for the substitute, mainly due to the fact that she was overweight. To call her cherubic would be a compliment. She was just plain corpulent. This gave the patients a much needed humourous relief as we all sat in rows in front of a cinema screen when she announced, "I am Ms. Elliott. Mr. Hartley is sick today, so I will be showing a film first on nutrition. Remember you are what you eat. Garbage in, garbage out." "Looks like you've eaten some garbage in your life babe," shouted a short, skinny man named Ian (drug addict) to everyone's amusement. Then came another heckler Tony (alcoholic) a heavy built man from the Bronx. "Hey, why don't you show the movie on your fuckin' back, Ms." This brought outragious laughter from the class and indignation from the teacher. She lowered the lights and started the mundane film. After twenty minutes of non-information the credits started to roll and the lights were turned back on. "Well, has anyone anything to say about this movie?" asked Ms. Elliott who knew she was in danger of losing the situation. "Yeah, it was crap," shouted Phil (alcoholic). "All right, we still have forty five minutes left and seeing nobody wants to talk about the movie, we will exercise," demanded the agitated Ms. Elliott. "Ya vohl, mein fuhrer," I thought. We were ordered to get off our chairs and move into the main hall, a huge open space with wooden floors. Then she put us into lines and stood in front of us like a drill sergeant giving out orders. "Ok, windmills. Stretch your arms. Come on, stretch them. Ok, to the right side. Right arm to the right foot."

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Groans accompanied the orders like a sick orchestra. "Ok, left arm to the left foot." To which everyone obeyed. "Now, both hands to your feet." It was at this point I noticed a very cute girl at the back of the class bending down and Roger (pervert) was touching her arse while vigorously masturbating. The teacher never said a word. Health and nutrition. The next meeting was to be just as interesting. They called it "group" where everyone had the opportunity to let off steam. After dinner, which was pork chops and mash (I have to admit they fed you well), we were led to a different room, dominated by a huge oval table at which we all sat. It was at this meeting table that I finally got to look into everyone's eyes. I was amazed at the different cultures and races. It was like the UN and as I was about to find out as effective. A bespectled, spindly man in his mid-fifties named Mr. Finley hosted the session and opened it by asking the group, "Now, has anyone thought of what they want to achieve today?" Considering the day was nearly over, I thought it a moot question. "Yeah, get drunk," shouted Tony in his inimitable South Bronx accent. "To get out of here," said a cute girl named Jasmin in her mid-twenties (depressive/Pakistani) who just keeped looking at the table. "Now we`ll have no more of that defetest talk Jasmin, you know it dosn`t do either you or the group any good" scolded Mr Finley. "Oh leave her alone why don’t you?" said Hamid, an unlucky soul from India who had traveled to the States in search of a better life for him and his new bride by a prearanged marrage. Everything seemed to be going fine for Hamid until one night he decided to go to a local bar and celibrate record profits after five years of toiling in the small shop he had

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purchaced. After getting totally inibriated (something he was not accustamed to) he decided to stagger home then made the error of taking a well needed pee against a wall opposite a kindergarden. The fact that it was almost midnight and all the little tykes who resided there during the day were fast asleap held no bearing with the police as they stuck him in jail and booked him for indecent exposure. If the police thought his crime was bad it was nothing compared to the wrath of his long suffering child bride who immediately Baker Acted him as a pervert then withdrew all their hard earned cash from the bank and boarded a plane to Europe and feedom. It was then that I drifted into my own world, thinking of the circumstances of why I was here. I missed Natasha so much. I missed the outside world even more. I was wakened from this dream by a large black woman named Lamonda (bi-polar, sold her medication) who was sat across from me (this was the woman who looked like Idi Amin's twin sister), and had apparently foraged an argument pertaining to race with a Chinaman named Lee (suicide attempt). "Whyaa you lucky you still allowed in this country after Pearl Harbor, you Chinese mother fucker," she screamed with conviction. There was another skirmish ensuing down the table, one of the protagonists being a Jewish man around sixty years old, Abe (schizophrenia) who had a prosthetic arm. Not one of the natural looking ones to blend in with the real limbed general public, but of the metalic type that ended with a shiny menacing looking claw more suited to a `Terminator` movie. His opponent sat next to him, a younger man of Arab descent (obviously not a lot of care had gone into the seating arrangements) named Tom (probably for security reasons), was constantly sneezing.

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"Mr. Finley, can you please tell this fucking towel head to stop sneezing his Arab germs over me before I pick his snotty nose with this (as he waved his claw menacingly). I don't want to catch what he's got." "What, schizophrenia?" shouted Tony much to everyone's amusement. Meanwhile Lamonda`s`s war had widened its boundaries by introducing (albiet rather involunterily) Angelo (dementia) of Italian descent and was sat just two chairs from me who had originally took up Lamonda`s side of this argument and had then inadvisedly taken up with the Chinese man after hearing Lamonda`s tirade. A decision by the look of his olive complexion now a gray pallor he was regretting. "Just like a fucking eyetie, changing sides half way through the war. You chicken shit." Lamonda was obviously well versed, albiete with a little convoluted version of evants, in the history of the Second World War.

It was during one of these insipid meetings where we all had to bare our souls that I noticed a very attractive dark haired girl around 25 who had normally stayed quiet but was required to speak now. And,low and behold, she was from Wales, just a stone's throw from Liverpool. She had apparently come to Florida to seek out her sister, who had abused her during her childhood, then bought a gun from a pawn shop to kill her. The only reason why she was in the institution rather than under criminal prosecution was that she had turned the gun on herself just at the critical moment. Lucky for her the recoil of the gun caused her aim to be off giving her only superficial wounds. Someone heard the shot, found her unconscious and bleeding, then called the authorities and was therefore Baker acted. "I just like weapons," she said in an indelible Welsh accent.

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Wrong thing to say at this meeting, I thought which was endorsed by the response from the supervisor, the oppressive and obese Ms. Winborne, who retorted, "That, my dear, is not the way to get out of here." But I felt an affiliation with her, not just because I was attracted to her looks but her rebellious nature. Also, I wanted to protect her in this jungle. There were predators and she was being preyed upon. Her name was Gwenyth. I even had my own predator, the sick bastard I shared a room with. He screamed during the night and gave me leering looks during his waking hours. On this fateful evening I noticed a huge black man named Jones slipping into Gwenyth's room as I was watching the religious channel. The nurses tended to turn a blind eye to sexual indiscretions and I knew this was going to be the case. I heard screaming and rushed to her room. Jones was on top of her, I pulled him of her by the back of his shirt then grabbed a lamp from the side table and hit him with it in the face. Jones rolled out of the room and went back to his own. Gwenyth grabbed me and hugged me like a savior. We talked mainly about weapons. She was obsessed with them. The first thing she wanted to do when she got out was to buy a Kalashnikov AK-47 and kill her next door neighbor, not her sister but her neighbor. I tried psychology on her by saying, "Why don’t you buy a surface to air missile?" She responded by saying what was the use of firing something into the sky? I said that the Germans during WWII used a 88mm antiaircraft gun as a very effective anti-tank weapon by just lowering its trajectory, therefore she could simply lower the S.A.M. missile launcher and take out a whole house.

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She was pacified for a while and we hugged again. Then, she went into a panic attack and I had to alter my strategy. Instead of eleviating the weapons in her head, I decided to diminish them. "How about a catapult?" I demanded. "Yeah, as long as I've got a grenade in the bloody sling," she answered with purpose, while taking off her skimpy dress. As she took off my shirt, I removed my trousers. She then stuck her feet in my face and asked if they smell. I said no. The sight of her black pubic hair was a strange yet fascinating sight after the usual blonde and bald vagina of Natasha. I had changed from protector to predator and had sex with a sick mind. I went back to my own room and screaming predator. It was a strange sleep, sated yet tormented. I had to escape. The meetings were interminable. Condescending, ignorant people giving lectures to minds they had no idea about. Meanwhile, Gwenyth and I made sure we sat next to each other and held hands under the table. This was my only solace in a world of torment. The next interview with Dr. Fergeson was the turning point. "So, Nicholas, what do you want to tell me today. You do want to get out of here, don't you?" I had to tell him something but not about the job. I was not going to sell out. I decided to tell him about Aunt Peggy. "Ok," I said in a reassuring, pleasing voice. "My guardian, Aunt Peggy, used to abuse me." Looking very interested, Dr. Fergeson leaned over the desk and asked, "In what way, Nicholas?" "Well, after school she would beat me and then make me take off her knickers and lick her vagina."

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"I think this definitely had a massive effect on your suicidal tendencies, don't you think?" I had put him off the trail. I'd made time. "Yes, I think you're right." Then I gave him a tirade of Aunt Peggy's abuses and left the office of a satisfied psychiatrist into the legs of a satisfied Welsh wanna-be assassin. As we made illicit love I made my mistake. I told my Welsh mistress of my escape plan. I had through my photographic memory recalled the numbers to punch into the key pad opening the door to the outside world. I told her, while lying in each other's arms that I was going to escape. She said only that she would miss me. I should have known better. My plan was simple The "aides" in their green scrubs, had such a regimen that it was like clockwork. I was wearing regular clothes and knew the way out. I chose just after lunch to launch my escape. I ate a fish lunch then went to Gwenyth's room to kiss her goodbye and promised I would get her out of this place. Then, calmly, went back into the common room to sort out my ruse. My plan looked perfect. All the technicians were busy collecting the aftermath of lunch and I had my eyes on the keypad next to the door to freedom; my only thought. I walked nonchalantly to the keypad and punched in the numbers I had memorized intensely for the last three days. Nobody looked at me. The door clicked open and I walked calmly toward the elevator, my heart beating furiously. I pressed the button and heard the shift in gear then waited anxiously for its arrival. Just as it snapped open, two burly "aides" burst through the doors from the ward and ran toward me. As the elevator doors opened, the "aides" dropped me to the floor. I fought them back to no avail. They dragged me back to the oppressive ward and handcuffed me to the bed in my usual room,

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injecting me with something turning my muscles to jelly. My body was in atrophy. Then, just as I thought I was in hell, it got even worse. The screaming mental patient from the next bed came to visit. He lay down on top of me and pulled down my trousers. I was too wasted to resist. I didn't actually care about the intrusion. It was like excreting backwards. But more disturbing was the hairiness and heavy breathing, sweat and groaning. I didn't like that at all. "So, that's how it feels, Natasha," I thought as he disengaged and went back to his bed, sated. He, as far as I know, slept the quietest sleep since I had arrived, or come, so to speak. You would think that I would be perturbed by this, yet I wasn't in the least. In fact, I thought I deserved it. The man was just doing his job. And I actually slept a sound sleep only to be awakened at daybreak by a frumpy nurse informing me that I had a visitor and was to see him in Dr. Fergeson`s office in ten minutes. She unlocked the handcuffs and left the room. My roommate was nowhere to be seen. Well, this was definitely intriguing I thought, as I pulled up the disheveled trousers my roommate had torn down the night before. I could hardly walk my arse hurt so bad. Whatever they injected me with had worn off but the injection from my screaming roommate had definitely not. I walked gingerly down the corridor to an unknown destiny. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse I saw Dr. Fergeson and my Russian cohort Alexi. They had found me! He was a heavily built chap, being an ex-wrestler and a very high-ranking member of the KGB. "Nicholas," he bellowed, while hugging me like a friend. Fergeson studied his notepad and while we were hugging (Alexi had dressed the part, suit and tie) and announced, "I assume you and Mr." he looked back down at his pad for reflection and then back at me. "Simms are close associates?" "Oh, definitely so," I lied reassuringly.

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"Well, Mr. Simms is here to get you out. As long as he thinks you are back to your normal self I shall give you a release form." He directed his view back to Alexi, and asked, "Do you consider Nicholas to be of sound mind, sir?" Alexi sat upright and said authoritatively, "He looks fine to me, doctor." And with that, Dr. Fergeson signed the release order and I was allowed to leave one hell into another. An "aide" pushed the same buttons as I in my failed escape and let Alexi and me into the corridor. Then we descended down the same elevator that I had been evicted from not long before and left the building to the parking lot where we walked in silence to his car. He did the usual procedure and circled the block three times to make sure nobody was following us. Then we entered the parking lot of an Irish bar. I didn't even realize we were in Tampa. We walked into establishment where a tired looking, middle aged female bartender asked us our requirements. "Two double vodkas," was Alexi's terse reply. They were handed us in a slovenly way and she was left a measly tip for her efforts as we slid off into a corner of the bar and sat at a very worn table. Alexi looked at me with genial solicitude as he raised his glass. "Чээрс," (Cheers.") I clinked mine to his and reciprocated."Чээрс." (Cheers.") After slugging down the first of the vodkas he gave me the most discerning look and asked, "вхи, сача, вхи? ёу кнэв вэ воулд финд ёу. би тъэ ваи, ст. пэтэрсбург. никэ тоуч." ("Why, Sacha, why? You knew we would find you. By the way, St. Petersburg. Nice touch.") I looked at him with despair. "хов арэ ёу фээлинг?" (How are you feeling?") he asked with what I felt was true concern.

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"ок апарт фром а сорэ арсэ," ( Ok, apart from a sore arse.") I answered. "вхат?" (What?") "ох, нотъинг. ёу арэ гоинг то сэнд мэ бакк, арэн'т ёу?" (Oh, nothing. You are going to send me back, aren't you?") "оф коурсэ, сача, фирст тъинг ин тъэ морнинг. и вилл сээ ёу то тъэ планэ." (Of course, Sacha, first thing in the morning. I will see you to the plane.") "вхат ис ит ликэ овэр тъэрэ, алэкси?" ("What's it like over there, Alexi?") "колд, сача, вэри колд." ("Cold, Sacha, very cold.")

Epilogue

We finished our drinks and Alexi dropped me off at my flat, informing me that he would pick me up at 9:00 in the morning to take me to the airport for my designated flight to London, where I was to be met by another agent. I made him stop on the way to get Vodka and beer. That evening while engaging in the alcohol I formed a plan.

Alexi picked me up right on time. Typical Russian diligence. They are so German. Then we drove across the beautiful Howard Frankland bridge, viewing the beautiful but dangerous waters of the gulf, to our destination. I was flying Delta and Alexi, after parking in the short term parking lot, escorted me to my let off point and handed me my tickets. Having no baggage I went through security and gave Alexi farewell hugs. I sat in the terminal, reading a book I had bought by an amusing gay writer from New York, David Sedaris. I needed some relief. I waited for what seemed an eternity before letting the

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flight leave. Then I left the terminal, making sure Alexi wasn't around. Looking desperately for wandering eyes, I searched my way to the New York flight I had booked the previous evening on my neighbor's cellphone. (I knew they would be tracing mine.) No one. I walked to the terminal, thinking any moment I would be caught. Every part of my body seemed to shake. But nobody came. I handed my ticket to a smiling attendant and boarded the plane. I had a window seat, giving me access to the relieving sight of the disappearing tarmac of Tampa Airport as the plane soared into the beautiful Florida sky. I was free. So I thought. I heard a familiar voice from a middle-aged woman sat across the aisle. She was slurring as she grabbed the flight attendant by the arm and demanded a double gin and tonic. She looked like a used rag doll and was dressed in Victorian looking clothes which hung off her limp white skin and wore a hat at a rakish angle.

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NOTES

Nicholas was last seen in Greenwich Village, Manhattan. Alexi resides in Oxford and teaches Russian studies at the University. Sarah became head librarian and continues to host her popular book meetings. Paulie remaines to be a successful businessman and has become an accomplished race car driver. Stanley shunned his family and decided to stay at Ciega shores, moving from number 325 to 555, the appartment directly above Dominique. Gwenyth was released from the ward and moved back to Wales where she married a mechanic. Eddie the Spot was covicted of forging checks and is now serving a twelve year sentence in a Florida penetentuary Roberta died from lung cancer at the age of seventy nine Melisa is still hairdressing and is engaged to an actor Joe Lyons was last seen in Mexico City and roumored to be dead Natasha gave birth to a nine pound eleven ounce baby boy and named him Sacha. FIN For now

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