Bookshelf Battle

The wind-up clock by the side of Mitch’s bed read 6:50 when his head finally hit the pillow.  It was soft and cold on his cheek, a welcome sensation.  His stomach ached and his head pounded, signs that his body was trying to tell him to cut back on the partying, though his mind wasn’t having any of it.

Actually, his mind wasn’t having anything.  He fell asleep instantly, so exhausted that the next ten minutes passed in an instant.  At 7:00 A.M. sharp, the little hammer on the top of the clock pounded those bells incessantly.

Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring!

              The upper half of Mitch’s body shot straight up.  “Arrgh!”  The boy fumbled with the clock for a minute, pressing buttons, turning knobs and switches, only to give up and throw the clock against the wall.  It bounced off, fell to the floor with a crash and then stopped ringing.

Mitch rubbed his eyes and enjoyed the silence, which wasn’t maintained for long.

“That bad, huh?”

The nerd turned to see his sister standing over his bed, a juicy red bloody Mary complete with celery stalk in hand.

“Double argh!” Mitch shouted.  “Don’t you knock?”

“Oh, yeah,” Whitney said.  “That’s a good idea.  Keep making a bunch of noise so Mom and Dad come in here to see what’s going on and then ask you a hundred questions about why you’re in a bell hop uniform.”

Mitch sat up on the edge of his bed and grabbed his head.

“Some hair of the dog?” Whitney said as she passed the drink over.

“Yes, please,” Mitch said as he seized the glass and sipped.  “Oh yeah.”

“Just for the record,” Whitney said.  “I had moral qualms about making that for you. I didn’t want to contribute to your full-blown alcoholism but I didn’t want to see you suffer either.”

Mitch burped.  “I’m not an alcoholic, Whitney.

Whitney took a seat on the edge of the bed next to her brother.  “Says the guy who just said ‘Oh yeah’ to a drink offered at 7:00 in the morning.

“I’m just a social drinker and I’ve been extra social lately.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Mitch took another sip.  “I can’t go to school today.  Tell Mom I’m sick.”

“I don’t want to lie for you anymore than I already am,” Whitney replied.

“It wouldn’t be a lie,” Mitch said.  “I feel like I could hurl at any minute.”

“That’s on you.”

“No,” Mitch said as he rubbed his stomach.  “It’s just like your dumb song.  Sex Barf.”

“Sexual Vomit,” Whitney said.  “And it’s not dumb.  It’s art.  And if you make yourself sick, it doesn’t count.  Come on, get up.  You need to make an appearance at school.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Whitney repeated.  “Because I can’t do this anymore, Mitch.  At first, I thought I’d have to cover for you for a night or two.  Fine.  Whatever.  That’s what siblings do for each other.  Help you get your little disco bug out of your system and you’d get back to normal.  But it’s months now and normal is nowhere in sight.”

Burp.  “Welcome to the new normal.”

“You’ve got me telling lies on top of lies on top of lies, Mitch,” Whitney said.  “So many lies, just dangling in the air, like plates spinning on sticks and I have to run around, spinning and spinning until one day I’m not going to get one of the plates fast enough and it’s going to stop spinning and then the whole shebang is going to come crashing down.”

“Oh, please,” Mitch said.  “Stop being such a wimp.”

Mom’s voice travelled upstairs.  “Kids?”

Mitch freaked and dove under the covers, desperately trying to cover up his stolen uniform.

“Yeah?” Whitney asked.

“Hurry up,” Mom said.  “The bus will be here any minute and you’d better not miss it!”

“OK,” Whitney said.

“I mean it,” Mom said.  “I’ve only got one can of gas to last me a week and I don’t want to waste it driving you two to school when there’s a perfectly good…”

“OK, Mom!” Whitney shouted.  “We’re on the way.”

Mitch removed the covers and sat back up.  He coughed, and coughed, and coughed some more.

“That sounds good,” Whitney said.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you look it,” Whitney said.  “So, I’m the wimp?  You just nosedived into bed to avoid Mom.”

“No, I didn’t,” Mitch said.  “I was just tired.  I still am, so, excuse me.”

Mitch laid his head back and closed his eyes.

“Mitch,” Whitney said.  “You can’t keep going on like this.”

“I beg to differ,” the nerd said with his eyes still closed.

“Fine,” Whitney said. “Then I can’t keep going on like this.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Are you kidding me?”  Whitney asked.  “I can barely keep track of the web of deception I’ve spun for you.  You’re at your non-existent job at the bowling alley.  You’re doing your non-existent volunteer work at the soup kitchen.  You’re across the street, playing video games with Claudette.”

“Aw, Jeeze, Whit,” Mitch said.  “They’ll never buy that.  It’s been sixteen years since the Jenkinses moved in next door and Claudette hasn’t said a peep to me.”

“They bought it,” Whitney said. “Mom’s already worried you’re going to get her knocked up.  Your parents believe in you more than you do.”

“I believe in myself just fine.”

“Good,” Whitney said.  “Because your teachers don’t anymore.  I left all your homework assignments on your desk.  I can’t count the number of times one of your teachers has come up to me to ask what’s going on with you and why are you flunking?”

“Tell them I come from an abusive home,” Mitch said.

Larry’s voice travelled upstairs.  “Kids!  I made pancakes!”

“Somehow I don’t think they’ll buy that,” Whitney said.

“Tell them I’m just another statistic in the never-ending cycle of unwanted children who fall victim to years of emotional neglect.”

“I put blueberry smiley faces on them!” Larry shouted.  “Come on!  Get your butts down here before they get cold!”

“They won’t buy that either,” Whitney said.  “I told Mrs. Spaulding that you have pneumonia, Mr. Klugman that you have mono and Mr. Daniels that you have the flu.”

“Couldn’t you have just picked one and told them all the same thing?” Mitch asked.

Whitney threw her arms up out of sheer exasperation.  “I’m not a professional liar, Mitch!  I’m doing the best I can but I’m telling you, sooner or later, and I don’t know if it will come from you or me but one of us is going to screw up and you’re going to be caught.”

Mitch snoozed.

“Grandpa knows.”

Mitch shot up.  “What?  How?”

“I don’t know,” Whitney said.  “Maybe because some asshole werewolf is beebopping all over public access television!”

“Bah,” Mitch said.  “That could have been any asshole werewolf.”

“I could tell by the look in his eyes, Mitch,” Whitney said.  “He knew.”

Mitch was quiet for a minute.  “OK.  Well, he’s not going to tell anyone, is he? He can’t, so, problem solved.  Don’t worry about it.”

“I bet he’s disappointed in you,” Whitney said.

“I bet he thinks he’s a moon man from Uranus,” Mitch said as he laid back down.  “His mind is shot.”

Whitney stood up,grabbed the covers and yanked them off the bed.  Mitch remained still.  “Get up!”

“Can’t,” the pesky brother replied.  “Sleepy time for Mitchy poo.  Night, night.”

Whitney stood up.  “Fine.  If you want to skip school again and keep flushing your life down the drain then good for you, but I’m not going to lie for you.  Not when I don’t have to. You want to play hooky, fine, but you’re going to have to lie to Mom yourself.”

“But all you have to do is…”

“Nope,” Whitney said.  “I’m only going to tell the bare minimum amount of lies necessary to keep this charade going and right now, it’s not necessary.  You’re here.  Your mouth works.  You want Mom to be lied to again?  You do it.”

“Ugh,” Mitch said as he stumbled out of bed.  “Fine.”

The cab reached Seacaucus about a half hour later.  Mitch directed the cabbie to Sussman’s Drycleaning.  The cabbie pulled up to the curb and kept the meter running.  Mitch hopped out, laundry bag in hand, headed into the store.

Meanwhile, the Rolls Royce idled down the block.  Big Daddy’s driver had stayed close enough to the cab to keep a tail on it, yet far enough away so as to remain, well, as inconspicuous as a pimped-out ride could be.

The back door opened.  Ruby exited and walked down the street, slurping on a grape lollipop as she did so.  About a minute later, as she was headed into the store, she passed Mitch while he was on his way out.

Ding, ding!  A bell attached to the door clamored as Ruby stepped inside.  The counter was empty, but Mrs. Sussman’s voice carried from out back.  “Hold on! I’ll be right there!”

Even some of the old buzzard’s grumbling traveled.  “Oy gevalt.  I try to get here a little early to straighten up a little and all of a sudden it’s Grand Central Station around here.  Everyone so busy, busy, busy.”

Ruby looked around.  She spotted it.  A white suit that was so long it scraped the floor, despite being hanged from a tall rack.  The prostitute stepped around the corner and looked at a tag that had been pinned to the sleeve.

“Bingo,” Ruby whispered to herself.

Mrs. Sussman’s ears were impeccable for a septuagenarian. “You say something dear?”

Ruby kept her cool.  “No.”

“Sorry, to keep you waiting.  I’ll be out in a jiffy!”

“That’s ok.  Take your time.”

Ruby searched the counter until she found a pen and a notepad.  She jotted down the customer information that had been scrawled down on the tag moments earlier:

Mitchell Lumpkiss

              52 Periwinkle Drive

              Seacaucus, NJ 07097

Big Daddy’s operative took down Mitch’s phone number for good measure, then ripped the paper from the pad.  She set down the pen, then made a beeline to the door, only to stop with her hand on the handle when Mrs. Sussman’s voice grew louder.  She was at the counter now, but Ruby didn’t bother to look back.

Mrs. Sussman was a big, pudgy woman.  Solid and sturdy, like an NFL linebacker, but with saggy tits, not to mention a mole on her chain with a hair growing out of it.  Many a Seacaucasian had wondered over the years why she never just snipped that hair off, but no one ever actually vocalized the sentiment because overall, she was a nice enough gal and did her job well. “Aw, come on, bubalah, I didn’t make you wait that long did I?”

“No, I, uh…”

“You don’t want to go to Mrs. Cavendish’s, I’ll tell you that,” Mrs. Sussman said.  “She’ll charge you double and you’ll be lucky to get have your stuff back and what you do get, well, it’ll be dirtier than when you brought it in.  Trust me.”

“No, I uh…this isn’t the record store?”

“Oy, you kids and your devil music,” Mrs. Sussman said.  “Two blocks down.  Take a right on Edgemont and you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.  Oh, and if you pass the Price Town, you’ve gone too far.”

“OK.  Thanks again.”

“Have a nice day dear.”

Mrs. Sussman wandered to the back of the store, grousing to herself about wayward young people who were always wasting her time, while Ruby walked out to the street, letting the door close behind her.

She smiled as she looked at the paper.  Success. She looked down the street, where the window to the back of the Rolls had been rolled down.  A pair of oversized binoculars were pointed out just over the edge of the window, with the same purple hat with a yellow feather sticking out of it.

Ruby whipped out her walkie-talkie, from where is anyone’s guess as she’d left her purse in the Rolls and her outfit had no pockets, and hit the call button.  As soon as she did, the hat and binoculars disappeared into the limo.

“Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy.  Come in, Big Daddy.  Over.”

Squawk.  “Big Daddy, here.  Proceed, bitch.  Over.”

Ruby was beside herself with joy.  Big Daddy’s girls did so love it whenever they were able to please the boss.  “I got the intel, Daddy.  I got it right here.  Over.”

A pause.  “Bitch!  You don’t gotta call my ass with a news bulletin on every little thing.  Who do you think your raggedy ass is anyway? The Walter Kronkite of Hoes?  Over.”

“Sorry, Daddy.  I just..”

Squawk.  “I just, buh dah duh, nothin’!  Get back here and get your triflin’ ass in the car or Big Daddy’s gonna have to smack a bitch. Over.”

Ruby’s elation turned to sadness.  “Yes, Daddy.  Over.”

The balding, bearded cabbie looked at the passenger sitting in the back seat as though he had just asked to be delivered to the moon.

“Seacaucus?!  Why don’t I just drop you off in Timbuktu?”

Mitch had faced this very same transportation problem many times before.  He reached into his pocket, pulled out three, one hundred-dollar bills, and tucked them into the cabbie’s hand.

This instantly improved the driver’s disposition.  “That’ll work. You want some music?”

“Nah,” Mitch said as he closed his eyes.  “I’m just going to get some sleep.”

“Suit yourself.”  The cabbie pulled away from the curb, only to become instantly stuck behind a line of cabs, all of which were waiting for a garbage truck to finish making a turn out of a tight spot.

“Aw, come on!” the cabbie said as he blared on the horn, as if doing so would improve the situation.  “Let’s go!”

Ruby, Diamond, and Emerald stood out in front of the entrance to the Swankforth.  Emerald pulled out a walkie-talkie of her very own.  “Spicy Tuna Roll to Big Daddy.  Spicy Tuna Roll to Big Daddy.  Come in, Big Daddy.  Over.”

Squawk.  “Proceed, bitch.  Over.”

“Hunka Hershey, Creamy Miracle Whip and I have eyes on the prize, but that’s about to change any minute.  Over.”

“I’m rolling up on you, now, bitches.  Get your asses in here.  Over.”

Big Daddy’s purple Rolls Royce pulled up in front of the Swankforth.  The back door opened, and the three ladies of the evening climbed inside.  The door was shut.

Up ahead in the trash truck, two hookers in stolen coveralls sat in the cab.  Their walkie-talkie squawked.  “Bitches, Big Daddy, here.  Acknowledge.  Over.”

The truck driver hit the call button.  “Acknowledged, Big Daddy.  Trashy Mamas here.  Over.”

Squawk.  “Cease and desist the diversion posthaste, bitches. Over.”

“Ceasing and desisting diversion now.  Over and out.”

And with that, the trash truck was on the move and traffic flowed freely.

Back in the cab, Mitch snoozed while the cabbie blabbed to himself.  “Finally! It’s like I’m the only one who knows how to drive in this entire city.”

The presidential suite at the Swankforth Hotel in Manhattan had been comped, the manager having realized that whenever Disco Werewolf spent the night, booking rates throughout the rest of the building doubled, as tourists were willing to pay top dollar in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the furry beast with the happenin’ feet.

The room was luxurious, with wide, spacious sitting areas, alcoves filled with priceless works of art, and soft, white couches.  At the moment, it was also filled with women.  Women on the furniture.  Women on the floor.  Sleepy women who were in the process of catching a few extra winks.  Wide awake women who watched television.  Virtuous women who chatted about the possibility of marrying Disco Werewolf and moving to the suburbs.  Golddigging women who feasted on free room service and loaded their purses with complimentary shrimp puffs.  Women who were too old to be there, middle aged women who had most likely told their husbands they were somewhere else, and young women in the prime of their lives, who tended to be Old DW’s favorite.  Fully clothed women, scantily clad women, women who had called first dibs on the free bathrobes.  Women who were so exquisite they were not embarrassed to strut about in their altogether.  Women of all shapes, sizes and colors.  Blondes, brunettes, redheads, white, black, Asian, and every other color of the rainbow.

By 4 a.m., Disco Werewolf’s private bedroom was filled with the crème de la crème of women.  Supermodels, bikini team members, aspiring starlets, and hot babes galore.  Those who came late to the party found spots on the floor.  The ones who considered themselves lucky filled the large, stately bed to capacity.  Some laid over the covers, some under.  Some snuggled together.  Others preferred their space.

Disco Werewolf was long gone.  In the center of the action laid a scrawny, goofy looking, pencil-necked dweeb with unkempt black hair.  The teen was a couple inches under six feet, barely had a single muscle to his name, and his ribs could be played like a xylophone.  Even worse, he had a cowlick that, try as he might, never stayed down, no matter how much spit he applied.

On either side, he was snuggled by a couple of blondes with copious bosoms.  Even better, the aforementioned bosoms had been allowed to go free range.  Mitch stared at the ceiling, trying his best to etch the intricate details of the carnal experiences that he, or rather, Disco Werewolf, had experienced that evening.

Soon enough though, he came to his senses and realized that all of these women would never have anything to do with a dweeb like him without large sums of money having been exchanged and even then it was questionable.  He got out of bed, being careful not to step on any of the women on the floor, and made his way to the closet, where he pulled out a full laundry bag.  He was about to rummage through it when a female voice startled him.

“What are YOU doing here?”

Mitch dropped the bag and turned around, but not before cupping his hands over his man business.  There was little he could do about his cheeks, so he allowed them to flap in the breeze.

He found himself staring a pair of double-d breasts, but after realizing that was rude, he looked up to acknowledge their owner, a woman who was wearing nothing but a headdress fashioned out of golden beads, similar to what Cleopatra would have worn in the days of Ancient Egypt.

Oh, and her bush was so lush that one required a weedwacker to navigate through it, but she wasn’t alone in that regard.  It was the seventies, after all, and that was the prevailing style at the time.

The lady held out her hand.  Mitch didn’t have any recollection of Disco Werewolf engaging in a tryst with her, but then again, the night was just a blur of boobs and butts and assorted private parts, more than an eighteen-year-old lad should have been exposed too, though technically, it was DW who did the exposing.

Mitch wasn’t as suave or sophisticated as his furry counterpart, which was odd, really, because they were one and the same.  However, confidence is everything when dealing with women of great beauty.  Mitch had known and it showed.  Boy, did it show.  He removed one hand from his Johnson, shook the lady’s hand, then returned it to his crotch.

“Were you born in a barn?” the lady asked.

“Oh,” Mitch said as he kissed the lady’s hand.  “Sorry.”

“It’s quite alright,” the lady said.  “Juniper Dew, legendary star of the adult film industry.  Highlights include Aporkher Tits Now, Creamer vs. Creamer, One Flew Into the Cuckold’s Breasts, A Cockwork Menage, The French Erection, All the President’s Sluts, Annie Hole, Taxi-Drive-Her, Close Encounters of the Third Behind, Doggiestyle Day After-Poon and last but not least, everyone’s favorite underdog story, Cocky.  And you are?”

Mitch had been in situations like this before and had a fake name in mind already.  “Mulligan.  Brett Mulligan.  Esquire.”

“Charmed, I’m sure, Mr. Mulligan,” Juniper said as she looked the lad over.  “Hmm, I had heard that Disco Werewolf was into some rather exotic kinks but I had no idea that men were on the menu, and rather bizarre looking ones at that.”

“Huh?” Mitch asked.

“Disco Werewolf’s a bisexual!” Juniper said.  “Oh, but don’t worry.  His secret’s safe with me.  I know he has a reputation as a ladies’ man to uphold.  I just wish I hadn’t come so late to the party. I surely would have enjoyed getting my hands on that fur.  Have you seen him?”

“You, uh, just missed him,” Mitch said.

Juniper pouted.  “Drat!  Oh well, if our paths and genitalia are meant to collide, then I’m sure they will.  I suppose I’ll go out and mingle so my excursion here won’t be a total waist.  Ta ta, darling, the pleasure was all yours.”

Mitch watched one of the most delectable keisters he had ever seen as it and its owner left the bedroom.  “Yes,” the kid said.  “Yes, it was.”

He was about to leave as well, when he noticed an envelope on the night stand.  He picked it up.  “DW” was scrawled on the side.  Inside, there was three thousand dollars and a note.  It read:

DW Baby,

              Too many eyes snooping around the club, so I’m going to leave your cheese in your room from now on.  More where this came from as long as you keep stopping by.  Don’t wear yourself out on the ladies.  You need your strength for the dance floor.

              Catch you on the flip side,

              Sweet Johnny

It was a thousand more than usual.  Mitch took this as a sign that Sweet Johnny was trying to make sure he had Disco Werewolf’s undivided attention and as far as Mitch was concerned, he did.

Mitch returned to the laundry bag, removed a bell hop uniform he had previously pilfered, complete with the little hat, and put it on.  He tucked the envelope full of cash into his pocket, then pulled out Disco Werewolf’s iconic white suit, pants, and black shirt.  He folded the extra-large pieces of clothing neatly, then draped them over his arm.  He looked around and, convinced that none of the other ladies had seen him, left the bedroom.

Out in the suite, the party was underway and showed no signs of stopping.  Women in their underwear held no-holds barred pillow fights, while three unwashed hippy chicks in tie dyed shirts painted flowers on one of the walls.  Disco Werewolf’s parties inevitably left the presidential suite trashed and Mitch usually felt bad for whoever the sap was who had to clean up after them, but not enough to leave a tip, naturally.  He figured one of the babes would just grab any and all unattended greenbacks anyway.

Across the room, three women sat on a couch.  They went unnoticed by Mitch, but they noticed him.

“I’ve had eyes on that room all night and I never saw a bell hop go in,” Ruby said.

“Me neither,” Diamond said.

“Ditto,” Emerald added, rather unnecessarily.

“That’s got to be him,” Ruby said.

“Damn,” Diamond said.  “Disco Werewolf’s human side is ugly.”

“He couldn’t get beaver if he went to Canada,” Emerald noted.

“Isn’t that always the way?” Ruby asked.

“Sure is,” Diamond said.

“The ones who get it the least become insatiable whenever they get a little power,” Emerald said.

“Mmm hmm,” Ruby said.

“Tale older than time itself,” Diamond said.

Mitch strolled across the room, admiring all the babes that had turned out in the hopes of getting a piece of Disco Werewolf, trying his best to remember who had and who hadn’t.  As he became preoccupied with two lesbians who were making out furiously in the breakfast nook, he neglected to watch where he was going and crashed into someone with a familiar face.  In doing so, a glass full of red wine was spilled all over Disco Werewolf’s duds.

“Oh my God,” the young lady said as she tried in vain to wipe the stain out of the jacket with her hands, the glass having already fallen to the floor.  “I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mitch said.

“No,” the female said.  “I should have been more careful and…”

She looked up at the faux bellhop’s face.  “Mitch?”

“Wendy?” Mitch asked.

“Hi,” Wendy said as she noticed the uniform.  “You work here?”

“No,” Mitch said.  “Sometimes I just like to walk around in a bellhop’s uniform because I find them to be so fashionable.  They’re all the rage in Paris.”

Wendy laughed, then frowned when she remembered the stain.  “Oh, no.  Am I going to get you in trouble?”

“Not at all,” Mitch said.

Wendy snapped open a clutch and searched for her money.  “You have to let me pay for that.”

“That’s…really, it’s fine.  Don’t worry about it.  It was dirty anyway.  I was, uh, just picking it up so I uh, could send it out to be cleaned, so, yeah.”

Wendy took a closer look at the jacket.  The size sunk in.  “No way!  Are you kidding me?”

“Huh?”  Mitch asked.

“I’m dying,” Wendy said.  “I’m absolutely dying.  Is that Disco Werewolf’s suit?”

“What?” Mitch said.  “This old thing?  Uh, yeah, I suppose it is.”

Wendy flashed a devilish grin.  “Can I smell it?”

Mitch chuckled.  “Oh, I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.”

Too late.  The young beauty, who just so happened to be the most popular girl in Mitch’s class, had already lowered herself far enough to shove her nose into the fabric.

“Mmm,” Wendy said.  “Smells like wet dog…and sex.  And just a hint of vermouth.  Interesting.”

“Right,” Mitch said.  “Well, it was nice to see you.”

The girl grabbed Mitch’s arm.  “Mitch!  Do you know him?”

“Who?”

“Disco Werewolf! Duh!”

“Know him?” Mitch asked.  “Uh, no, not really.  Just in a, uh, you know, a professional capacity.”

In his mind, Mitch cursed his inability to be cool around the fairer sex.  He just wasn’t able to string a sentence together around them without sounding like a tongue-tied imbecile.

“Can you get me his number?” Wendy asked.

“His number?” Mitch asked.

“I’ve got to meet that werewolf, Mitch,” Wendy said.  “He picked me and like a dozen other girls out of a rope line last night but I’m pretty sure he picked them just to be nice and he was really focused on me.

At this point, it dawned on him that this interaction was the most communication that had ever transpired between Wendy and himself in the twelve years that they had attended Seacaucus public schools together.  It saddened him that none of it had to do with him and all of it had to do with Disco Werewolf.

“I don’t have it,” Mitch said.  “Sorry.”

Wendy shook her head.  “Darn it.  OK, bye Mitch.”

“Bye Wendy.”

“Oh, and Mitch?”

“Yeah?”

“If you ever happen to get his number…”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.  You’re a doll.”

Mitch smiled and walked out into the hallway.  Across the room, Ruby, Diamond and Emerald rose to their feet.  They each placed a pair of shades over their eyes, then snapped their fingers in unison.

“Let’s roll,” Ruby said.

“Yes,” Diamond said.

“Let’s,” Emerald said.

Ruby pulled a walkie-talkie out of her purse, turned it on, then pushed the call button.  “Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy.  Hunka Hershey to Big Daddy.  Come in, Big Daddy, over.”

A few seconds passed.  All the women in the room were too busy with their own escapades to notice or care that someone was using a communications radio.

The walkie-talkie squawked.  A squeaky, high pitched voice answered.  “Big Daddy, here.  Proceed, bitch. Over.”

“The package is on the move,” Ruby said.  “Repeat, the package is on the move.”

Squawk.  “10-4, bitch.  What’s your location? Over.”

“Swankforth,” Ruby said.  “We’re in pursuit with no time to waste. Over.”

Squawk.  “Expect an extraction in T-Minus five minutes, bitches.  Until then, don’t let the package out of your sight, you dig? Over.”

“Mission dug, Daddy,” Ruby said.  “Over and out.”

When you’re in love, you’re in love and I’m in love with Disco Werewolf.  The words have come quickly and things are lining up.  There are mistakes galore as with any first draft and things to be changed in the second, but just as a runner doesnt stop to change his socks until the marathon is over, so too do I keep going.

I was iffy at first.  The set up has been fun and when it dawned on me too make his sister a punk rocker who drives the neighborhood crazy with her bad singing I knew I had something.  I know the arc i.e. how he will have to save the world with his disco skills but still a little iffy on getting it together but so far it seems to be going well.

And I didn’t expect it but there are some underlying thoughts about the responsible use of power.  Should people not do X because some people abuse X?  Should monsters not be allowed to use their powers because some use them for bad?  Maybe some would use them for good.

Anyway, I’m enjoying it.  Anyone want to check it out and maybe drop some notes I’d appreciate it.  I do believe this will be the next project I will bring to completion if all goes well.

Whitney approached the Jenkins household, her heart in her throat out of fear that the numerous fibs she had given to her parents about brother’s whereabouts would somehow be exposed.

Calvin looked up from his whittling.  He wore a newsboy cap, a pair of black pants and a red shirt that he’d left unbuttoned, revealing a white t-shirt underneath.  He put down his piece of wood, folded his pocket knife and smiled at the girl.  “Good evening.”

“Hi,” Whitney said.

Anita had been attempting needlepoint, though in actuality, she was just using the needles to stir the pile of yarn in her lap like a pile of spaghetti.  “Calvin?” the old woman asked.  “Who’s that now?”

“It’s the Lumpkiss girl, baby,” Calvin said.

The old gal put her hand up to her ear.  “Who?”

“The Lumpkiss girl,” Calvin said.

“The tilt-a-whirl,” Anita said.  “Oh, I rode that plenty of times back in the day but I wouldn’t dare get on that contraption today.  It would break every bone in my body.”

“No baby,” Calvin said.  “Not the tilt-a-whirl…why would a tirt-a-whirl even be here?”

“I don’t know,” Anita said.  “You said it.”

“I didn’t…”  Calvin had danced this waltz many times before, and knew it wasn’t worth it to argue.  “Not the tirt-a-whirl.  The Lumpkiss girl.”

“Who?”

Calvin raised his voice, but kept his tone kind.  “The neighbor kid!  From across the street!”

Anita smiled.  “Oh, the Lumpkisses!  Why didn’t you say so?”

Calvin shook his head and chuckled.  “You’re right, baby.  I should have said so.”

“Which one is it?” Anita asked.

“Wanda,” Calvin said.

“Whitney.”

“Sorry,” Calvin said.

“Eh,” Whitney said as she handed Calvin the container full of cobbler.  “Close enough.  My mother made too much and wanted you to have this.”

Calvin looked it over and smiled.  “Well, I don’t know how your mother knew there were a couple of sweet tooths over here but please tell her we said thank you.”

“OK,” Whitney said.

“What’s going on now?” Anita asked.

The young man cleared his throat.  “Mrs. Lumpkiss sent her daughter over with some cobbler for us, baby.  I was just saying thank you.”

“Gobbler?”  Anita asked.  “Is it Thanksgiving already?”

“No baby,” Calvin said.  “Cobbler.  It’s like a cherry pie.”

Anita frowned.  “Who died?”

Calvin laughed.

“You shouldn’t be laughing if someone died, Calvin,” Anita said.

“No one died, baby,” Calvin said.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Anita said.  “I do not have time to go to a funeral.”

Calvin turned to Whitney.  “Thanks again.”

“No problem,” Whitney said.

The girl looked back across the street to her house.  Her parents were inside.  The lights were on.  She couldn’t see her any of her relatives peaking out through the windows.  She turned and looked to Phil’s house.  The lights were out.  The depressed, critically underutilized vampire was no doubt ensconced in his coffin.

“Something else?”  Calvin asked.

Whitney thought about it.  Maybe she ought to get herself invited in.  Use the bathroom or something, just on the off chance that someone was watching and would report to her father if she hadn’t gone inside.  After a few seconds lost in thought, she decided against it.  The likelihood that someone was watching was low and if they were, she’d come up with another fib anyway.

“You OK?” Calvin asked.

“Huh?” Whitney asked as she turned around.  “Oh, yeah.  Sorry.  Just spaced out there for a second.  Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Calvin said.

“Mmm hmm,” Anita said as she rocked back and forth.  “You have a nice night now.”

Anita and Calvin waited until Whitney crossed the street and entered her house before they spoke again.

“Strange family, those Lumpkisses,” Anita said.

“True enough,” Calvin said.  “Boy sneaking out at all hours of the night going God knows where.”

Anita worked her needles.  “Girl in the garage, screaming into a microphone about sex throw up and hobo peckers.”

“You heard that?” Calvin asked.

“Everyone heard that, baby,” Anita said.  “Astronauts flying around in space heard that.”

Calvin held the container up.  “What are we supposed to do with this?  You’re a diabetic and I don’t even like cherries.”

“Take it to work,” Anita said.  “Leave it out on the counter in the break room.”

“I can’t do that,” Calvin said.

“Why not?”

“Because this is good Tupperware and if I leave it out, Mrs. Lumpkiss will never get it back.”

“Oh,” Anita said.  “That’s right.  I don’t know.  Give it to the dog, then, but whatever you do, make sure the next time you see Mrs. Lumpkiss you smile and tell her she makes one hell of a cherry pie.”

“Cobbler,” Calvin said.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s like a pie but you just put the crunchy stuff on the filling and forget the crust,” Calvin said.

“Oh my word,” Anita said.  “If that isn’t the laziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Calvin laughed.

“Stuff like that is why this country’s going to hell in a handbasket.”

“True enough, baby,” Calvin said.  “True enough.”

Calvin rose and grabbed the old lady’s boney hand.  “Come on, foxy mama.  It’s late.”

“Alright now,” Anita said as she mustered up the strength she would need to stand up.  “Don’t rush me now.  I’m coming.”

Calvin grabbed the old woman’s cane and handed it to her.  He then grabbed her hand and counted down.  “One…two…”

On three, Calvin helped his love to her feet.

“Lord have mercy,” Anita said as she hobbled into the house.  “That’s getting harder and harder.”

Calvin followed behind.

“I am bushed,” Anita said.  “I’m going straight to bed.”

“That’s a good idea,” Calvin said.  “I think I’ll join you.”

“Oh, no, Calvin,” Anita said.  “If you think for one minute you’re getting lucky tonight.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, baby.”

“Good, because the last thing I need is for you to throw out my hip again.”

“Your hip is safe.”

“It better be,” Anita said.  “Because last time the doctor wanted to know what happened and I wasn’t about to tell him.”

A moth fluttered around an outside light as Larry and Lorraine snuggled on their porch swing, finally taking a rare moment to be alone.

“Did we screw up our kids?”  Larry asked.

“What?”  Lorraine asked.  “No.”

“One’s a punk rocker who might be a closet Lycan supremacist and the other’s an overachiever who is going to work himself to the brink until he has a heart attack at forty,” Larry said.

“Those are…”  Lorraine struggled for the right word.  “…over-generalizations.”

“I don’t know,” Larry said.  “You work hard.  Do the right thing but poof, before you know it, time is gone and your kids are about to go out there in the world and you just know they’re going to fall flat on their faces.  And all we can do is…”

“…let it happen,” Lorraine said.  “Falling flat on your face is just part of growing up.  It’s how we learn.”

The couple sat silently for a moment, before Larry blurted it out.  “You still glad you married me?”

Lorraine shook her head.  “What a silly question.”

“I’m just saying,” Phil said.  “You had options.  Bob Robinson.”

“Gay.”

“Really?”

“Oh, everyone in our class knew that, Phil,” Lorraine said.

“But he was over your house all the time.”

“Because he was raiding my closet,” Lorraine said.  “Jerk never gave back half the things he borrowed.”

“Carl Campbell,” Phil said.

“Drunk.”

Phil drew another name out of his mind.  “Mike Robinson.”

“Dead.”

Larry was shocked.  “What?  When?”

“Three years after graduation,” Lorraine said.  “You know how he was.  An adrenaline junkie.  Loved to shut his lights off and play chicken with other cars.  It caught up to him.”

“Dexter Wainwright,” Larry said.  “Now that guy was something.  And good looking.  Captain of the football team.  Had his own car.  His parents were loaded.”

“Jesus, Larry,” Lorraine said.  “If you loved him so much, why didn’t you marry him?”

“I’m just saying,” Larry said.  “He was sweet on you…and he could have given you a better life than a shit hauler could have provided.”

“Didn’t you hear the vampire Phil?” Lorraine asked.  “You prevent the plague.”

Larry laughed.  “I do, don’t I?”

“You do,” Lorraine said.  “And you’re nicer to be around.  I went on three dates with Dexter Wainwright and the only thing we ever talked about was Dexter Wainwright.”

“Well,” Larry said.  “Out of all the closeted werewolves in Seacaucus High, Class of 1950, I’m glad you picked me.”

Lorraine kissed her husband on the cheek, then patted his arm.  “Me too.”

Mr. and Mrs. Lumpkiss sat for a while.  Eventually, they noticed they weren’t the only ones outside.  Across the street, an elderly woman sat on her porch.  Her hair was as white as snow and though it wasn’t particularly cold out, she was wrapped up in a shawl.  Her eyes were squinted, as though she could barely see.  Next to her sat a buff, younger man.  He whittled a piece of wood, whistling all the while.  Once in a  while, he would drop what he was doing to tend to the old lady’s needs.  He’d rub her feet or bring her a glass of water, then inevitably return to his whittling.  At one point, he stopped long enough to engage the old lady in a long, passionate kiss.

The Lumpkisses appeared dumbfounded.

“OK,” Larry said.  “I’m just going to say it.”

“If you must,” Lorraine said.

“Those two are weird, right?” Larry asked.

“I don’t know,” Lorraine said.  “Maybe?  To each their own, I guess.  If they’re happy, then they’re happy.”

“How could that young buck possibly be happy with that old fossil?” Larry asked.

“Wait a minute, buster,” Lorraine said.  “Pretty young women marry decrepit old men who can barely keep their heads up all the time and no one ever bats an eye and no one ever says they’re weird.”

“Oh, they’re weird alright,” Larry said.  “But that, I get.  They’re doing it for the money.  Those old men shell out the cash and the young women live it up.  Maybe they’re even doing it as an investment.  Put their time in and maybe the old fart will kick the bucket, leave them all their dough.”

“I don’t think Anita Jenkins has a lot of dough,” Lorraine said.

“That’s my point,” Larry said.  “And those two aren’t even married.  They’re living in sin, so Calvin’s doing all this work taking care of her old, wrinkly hide and he may not even get her house when she keels over.”

“I don’t know, Larry,” Lorraine said.  “Sometimes love doesn’t make sense.”

“You really think those two are in love?”  Larry asked.

“Beats me,” Lorraine said.  “Why don’t you go over and ask them?”

“No way,” Larry said.

“Maybe we should invite them over for dinner sometime,” Lorraine said.  “We’ve lived next door to them for fifteen years and we’ve barely said boo to them.”

“Supernaturals can’t be fraternizing with the humans, Lorraine.”

“We don’t have to reveal anything to them,” Lorraine said.  “You’d have to keep an eye on that temper, though.  One wolf fit in front of them and we’d have to move.”

“I don’t want to move,” Larry said.  “I like it here.”

Larry stared at the odd couple who, at the moment, were holding hands.  Calvin had put down his whittling and was lost in the old woman’s beady eyes.

“I’ve got to know more,” Larry said.

“Then ask Mitch next time you see him,” Lorraine said.

“I barely ever see him,” Larry said.  “And I don’t know if I like the idea of Mitch hanging out with…well…whatever the hell is going on over there.”

“He’s just playing video games with Miss Jenkins’ niece,” Lorraine said.

“Where’s Claudette’s mother?”  Larry asked.  “Huh?  And where’s the father?  Probably a couple of druggies who overdosed in a junkie house somewhere.  Ever think of that?”

“Maybe,” Lorraine said.  “Or maybe they were two nice people who died of natural causes.  Or maybe she died in a car accident and he died in Vietnam.  Just because they’re black, you went and assumed the worst possible scenario, Larry.”

Larry turned red faced.  “I did not!”

“You did,” Lorraine said as she patted Larry’s back, calming him down.  His face resumed normal.

“Alright,” Larry said.  “I did.”

“You’ve got to work on that,” Lorraine said.

“I know.”

Larry sat and sulked for a minute, then stood up.  He walked into the house.  “Come on.  I’ve got an idea.”

Curious, Lorraine followed Larry into the kitchen, where he packed the remaining cherry cobbler into one of his wife’s Tupperware containers, then called for his daughter.  “Whitney!”

The kid entered the kitchen.  “Yeah?”

“Got a spy mission for you,” Larry said.

Whitney smirked.  “What?”

“Take this,” Larry said as he handed over the cobbler.  “Tell Miss Jenkins your mother made too much and she wanted her and Mr. Hill to have it.  Then ask if you can play a couple of games on that new fangled video-game-a-ma-jig with Mitch and Claudette.  Don’t snoop around but pay attention, observe, and report back here in twenty minutes.”

Whitney was flummoxed.  “That’s…but…they aren’t…I mean, they are but…I…I don’t know, Dad.  I don’t want to cramp Mitch’s style.”

“Cramp it,” Larry said as he pointed to the door.  “We’re Lumpkisses.  That’s what we do.”

“Ugh,” Whitney said as she stomped out the door in a huff.  “Fine!”

Lorraine shook her head at her husband.  “Suddenly, Dexter Wainwright is looking better and better.”

Larry smiled.  “But I doubt Dexter Wainwright is half as skilled in the art of amore.”

Lorraine wrapped her arms around Larry’s neck.  “Ooo, I love it when you speak Italian.”

“Molto bene, mon cheri,” Larry said.

“Now you’re mixing languages,” Lorraine said.

“Sorry babe,” Larry said as he picked up his wife and hurled her delicate frame over his shoulder.  “You know me, I’m just a big dumb wolfman.”

Lorraine laughed and playfully slapped her husband’s back.  “Put me down, you big goof!”

He did so and together, the couple ran upstairs, headed for their bedroom.  They shut the door behind them.

“Ahhwoo!” Larry said.

“Oh, no!” Lorraine replied.  “A big, bad, wolfman!  What are you going to do me?”

“I don’t know,” Larry said.  “You look like a mummy to me, so I think I shall have to unravel you!”