THE TRUSTY STRAY

HE WAS EASILY BEFRIENDED

JUST AS EASILY BETRAYED;

A TRAIT THAT STILL 

STAYS WITH HIM

AND HAUNTS HIM

‘TIL THIS DAY.

V

THE BAD, BAD, BALL GIRL

Tell me about yourself.

Oh. Okay. I enjoy receiving the gift of cunnilingus much more than enduring fellatio, but in any given situation, I am willing to negotiate.

Well that was straightforward.

Time limit. Your turn.

I can’t match that…I…

Time limit. Spill it! Do you like your balls fondled or not? Rough stuff or puffy?

I can’t. What is this? Are you serious?

I have five minutes…4:18…to help you get your shit together and half-way appeal to me!

Ah! I get it! So either I throw strikes or I’m out of your zone! How many pitches?

It’s a fairly simple game. You know the score.

Disagree. It’s a subtle, and sometimes complex, game. And, I am willing to bet you’re having a perfect night…

Hardly.

No. I’d be willing to bet you’re throwing a perfect no-hitter. How many batters have you faced? Eight? Nine?…

I lost count, but, so far, you’re at the bottom of the order.

Then why are guys volunteering to move down?

Fuck you. There are men I need to see, not some pussy mama’s boy.

The fleet could come in and they’d still sail by…

I could bring the fleet to their knees.

Yeah. That makes sense. But, since you offered the info, I gather you seldom assume that position.

AS I said ‘…depends on the situation.’

Negotiation. Sad. Such a simple gesture and it has to go into Negotiations. (tsk-tsk). Are litigators involved? …because, stating right up front - I’m a litigator, so if there’s a conflict  of interest I should know about it…

Is that what this is?

What’s that?

A conflict of interest…?

Oh. Are we conflicted?

I sense we are.

In what way?

In a conflicted way.

Thanks for clarifying…

You know what I mean. And…by the way? You’re moving up in the order. I got a call from upstairs. They want to see what you can do under pressure.

Piece of cake.

Whatever you want to call it.

Are we presently ‘negotiating’?

We’re ‘in discussion’.

How far up? Middle of the order?

You have to earn that spot.

You mean ‘Clean-up’ !? …really?

I’m the field general, I’ll decide.

You mixed your malaprops, missy…a ‘field general’ is a quarterback.

Not what my Pop used to say, and he coached his whole life. And don’t dare call me ‘missy’…

So you’re a jock sniffer.

Okay that’s it….Pulling you out of the game. Hit the bench.

Why don’t we just hit the bed and see how the ball bounces?

Just as I suspected…

What’s that?

You’re missing one.

Only one way to find out.

Not true.

I throw some nasty stuff. How we doing on time?

Huh? Oh. Twenty seconds…

Still benched?

Hate to say it, but…

Go ahead.

Your bench or mine.

Yours.

Alright, but I’ve gotta’ warn you - there’s peanut shells on the dugout floor…

Now you’re just talkin’ dirty…

…and, all this time I thought we were talkin’ ‘baseball’.

THREE SHIH-TZUs TO THE WIND

Salvatore took the shih tzus for a walk

around two. He liked this walk. His last chore of the day. The dogs were mellow and spent from a day of yapping, napping and luxury and knew their mission was simply to shit and get home...while providing Salvatore, a stroll and a smoke. They had a good understanding at this hour, and each appreciated the other, and the quiet in the neighborhood. Sprinklers hissed, their mist fills the air…‘spspspspspsp’…the wide lawns and gardens, so wet and sweet, mixed with the Jasmine from up in the canyons…peace drifts to sleep on the back streets of Brentwood.

As they approached their favorite tree and patch of green, Salvatore, was ready with the bags. Predictably, each did their task. The First, The Second, and The Last. But as Salvatore bent to perform his task...snap!...just that fast!...he felt a Yank!..then Two!!…then Three!!! -  spinning him, flailing, right off of his feet! His head spinning while searching...what?...where?...but there down the street ran a band of coyotes with three tasty treats. Stunned, he rose to run, but slipped on the bloody berm, then fumbled and tumbled onto the asphalt. When, finally, firmly afoot, he chased in pursuit, jumping hedges, roses, and old tree roots, he started to close…

Then they veered off the street across a sprawl of yard, wide and open, to the hillsides beyond. While flood lights triggered on, the pack yipping with glee, instantly disappeared in the night - Poof! - gone. As Salvatore, in his panic, was obliged to follow. No dogs, no job. Came the 'crack!'...the dull thump in lawn. He stopped cold, but the man with the gun did not, and the next sound he heard, was the round that he got.

RUFUS AND THE DUKE

Rufus.

Yes, Madam.

I am the Queen.

Yes, Your Highness.

I AM the Queen, you know?

Might I venture a guess, Your Highness?

I love ventures! Venture on…!!

Did your nephew visit recently?

…UP the Empire!

The Nephew?…Madam? I see he logged in last night. Must have been after-hours, as I closed up quite late.

Why, Yes! …just this afternoon!

Indeed. I also see he brought a “Guest”.

Oh yes! He DID bring a guest! How did you know?

It’s my job to know, Madam. Also, I have noted that they signed the Log at 10:30 PM, but did not bother to sign out. If I may, might I enquire as to whom the guest might be?

Oh! You mean the young Duke ?

Ah. ‘A Duke’ was he? Someone new?

New? Who was new?

The ‘young Duke’, Madam. The last visitor to accompany your nephew was the Rear Admiral, as I recall.

Oh! I had forgotten about him. You are right again, Rufus! He was a bit overbearing for me. Don’t you agree?

Frankly, he seemed a tad young’ish to be an Admiral.

Probably the reason he was in arrears…

And who was it before that?

Would that be the young ‘Cabinet Minister’ ?

You remember him, do you, Madam?

Oh, yes! He came out of his cabinet just to visit Me. His first night out, in fact!

I’m sure it was. Was that the strapping young man with the various tattoos?

Oh. No. That was the Major, just back from the wars overseas!

I see. So many visitors...

The Palace is a busy place.

So it seems. Tell me,while they were visiting, was there any mention of “Weed” between them?

Yes! As I recall we had a rather lively conversation regarding tweed, and I admit, I DO miss the day when a man dressed manly! They seemed to agree. 

Tweed...

As naughty as this may seem, as a precocious teen, I admit to sneaking in and “rubbing the nub” while “sniffing the suede” as they’d say in my day…

Pardon me, Madam?

Oh, yes….I was found curled inside my Uncle’s walking coat, so course, so warm, while drooling on his leather elbow patch! I got in a bit of trouble for that, but, I suspect it was a result of that intoxicating Tobacco! Speaking as a Woman, and not a Monarch, mind you…not to mention, as a pubescent teen...well, I found it to be Ambrodiasiatically orgasmic!

Madam!

Forgive my sinful revelation, Rufus, but snuggled up in that burley tweed weave, reeking sweetly of pipe residue…ohh!….enough to make a young girl’s head spin….and the rest of her, simply tingle!

Measured steps, Madam…measured steps…we don’t want to release too much information, now do we?

I suppose not, but the boys agreed, they too love a burley Swede.

Was it a Swede or a tweed, Madam?

Oh?! Did I make that mistake again? Ooo-hooo…flashing back, it seems I made the same mistake with the boys! Silly me.

Really?

Yes, indeed. My nephew…you know my nephew, Rufus.

Indeed.

The very talk of smoke prompted him to inquire about Reggie’s pipe collection.  He’s grown quite fond of them, and I suspect I may bequeath them to him, once I leave this orb. In fact, he asked if he could take a sniff. He and his friend…the rear…

You mean ‘the Duke’?

Yes. The Duke !… who had, in fact, heard about Reggie’s collection and seemed quite eager to try out an exotic tobacco he recently received from Turkey!…of all places.

“Turkish blends” can be quite exotic, Madam.

As we once were. Oh, how I wish we were alone, Reg’…you and I.

Madam…Rufus.

Hello?

Yes. We are on the telephone…Did you smoke this weed?

Smoke a Weed? OH! Heavens, NO!

I must say, I am relieved…

I drank it in a tea. Leafy…Like dandelion, I believe. Lovely. Really. Serenely comforting…so soothing, and I’m sure you would agree! Would you like to come upstairs for a wee bit of a taste, Reggie?

I-I-I, see. It’s Rufus, Madam, and not Reggie. Now, what about ‘the Boys'? Did they partake?

Oh! They were giddy! So thrilled to partake! You must realize that some of these pipes have significant historical value…China…India…the trade routes! They were absolutely thrilled to partake!

I’ll bet. And after they became ‘thrilled’, what did they do?

Oh! Well! My handsome Prince gave the Duke ‘A TOUR’!

They took a tour of the building? Really?

Oh, no, not so much the building, but the grounds…the estate…the gardens…the topiary…the maze…gone for hours, those two…

Hours?

It’s no small Estate, Reggie!

Rufus.

May he rest in peace.

Indeed. And what time, if you can recall, did The Boys happen to leave?

Why…I thought it was just this afternoon, but now?…I  simply can't say. The Duke did leave with an attractive young lady, I remember that! She came by to give the Duke a lift home. I assume my nephew joined them. No idea what time...

I see. 

Oh, yes! At one point, I remember waking...my canary was tweeting...I suppose I had dosed off for a spell. I found them just giggling with glee! They were having a gay old time, just back from their tour! All tussled and spent. The children always did enjoy the grounds. Did you see the trout pond? It brings me such joy…

Yes, I did, Madam. Breathtaking.

Does your heart not smile when they leap UP into the waterfall?! So anxious to spawn, yet getting nowhere. Such frisky fellows! So driven!

Indeed. May I ask…?

Yes?

Have you drunk all your tea?

Why, yes, I believe I have. (sip) Is there more you can bring me?

I’m afraid we’ve run out of that particular Variety.

A shame…

A Shame, indeed.

I have no shame, Reggie. I will await your knock on my basement door, then sneak you in, as I have before.

Please don’t drop the knickers until I do…promise me.

Anything…

Madam, we’ve reached the point at which I must say that I am not comfortable with this conversation…

Reggie! Damn it! "Reggae Reggie" wherefore-art-thou!!?? Get your ass up here and Make It comfortable, you wild and foolish man!

Please…

Please, my Ass !!!, Reginald!!

Rufus…

What have I always said to you, Reg’?Aye? Like it or not - LIFE! - As we know it!…was not MADE!…to be Comfortable, nor NICE! So come get some before it passes you by!

Damn you, Madame…you are some crazy bitch…you are.

You tease me, so well, you wicked man. Good night, my Reggae Bear.

Sleep tight, Darling.

w h y t w o p l y ?

                              E   e   E   e   Y   y   Y   y   E   e   E   e   E   e

The Bookkeeper

Drew met the bookkeeper in the hallway and pulled him aside.

The bookkeeper, a simple, pimply, contract player, who, up to this gig, was lucky to do tax prep papers for seniors, now finds himself in over his head, and realizing that fact, had hoped to avoid Drew altogether. But there was no ‘exit’ without passing Drew’s door, and he pounced : 

Wait up!

"I'm on a short lunch break...” the bookkeeper said.

I'll buy. Give me a minute. How do we look?

You can't afford it…the Lunch…

Tell me.

You won't meet your projections, not even close…but I'm still crunching...and I really don't have the time. You want it by Friday? I've got to ‘move myself in’ and plow through this, out of  sheer necessity.

Anything you need. Name it.

An office for a couple of all-nighters, maybe a sofa for short naps, close to a john, and some room to spread out.

Take mine. Small conference table, Private john. Sofa, pillows, blanket. Use it often myself, for…’all-nighters’. I'll be useless here for the next couple of days…just be pacing, and annoying, anyway. I think I might take a hike tomorrow…pitch a tent…sleep under the stars. Perspective – that’s what I need. Take the office…give you some room to work.

I think that's a great idea...you getting out of the office, if you don't mind me saying…

Not at all. What's that?

Read out.

Will it mean anything to me?

Not yet. I'm looking at the regionals. North Central, won't make much of an impact to the bottom line, but I thought I'd better review it over a burger...save some time.

Fine. But, not downstairs…don’t eat there.

I was...I thought it easier…quicker.

It's handy and it's crappy. For the next few days order in, or take a short break, and walk over to Ray's.

I don't have a Ray's budget. I'm a brown bag guy...

Take this. I need those numbers to work. I need you focused and on top of your game, not running to the toilet with ptomaine.

This card is almost max’ed out, as I recall…the numbers, are the numbers...I’m just a bookkeeper, not a miracle worker. You may need a good accountant….a very good accountant, maybe a legal team, to deal with this…

Oh, that’s Bullshit. Make your own miracle. Put lipstick on the pig...give it a facelift...I don't care how. I’m not about to pay some high-priced ass…

Sir, I can only feed in the data....I can’t …

Data can be interpreted. Assumptions can be drawn. Forecasts can be predicted...decimal points have been know to shift...accidentally. Hell, ‘Government’ does it all the time!

Certainly not substantiated…

Finesse it! Who looks beyond the bottom line? 

Oh, there are legions and legions of those, too.

If we pull this off, there’s a CFO position waiting! C – F – O.  Get that? Now, go. Eat. Do your sheet. I'll have you set-up in my office in an hour and out of your hair, headed for the woods and fresh pine air.

Well...ok, it does sound more workable, if you don't mind.

Not at all.  I’ll  be using tomorrow to clear my head for Friday, and then we figure out where we go from there.

I don’t possess a lot of optimism.

Well, get some, son. I’ve been in tighter pickles. Show me some fight - Courage! “Guts under pressure!”

It’s ‘grace under pressure…”

Fuck ‘Grace’. Has anyone won a war gracefully? Hell no. I’ll shove this mess right up their asses and they’ll kiss my pinky ring for a share. Now, Go! Mangia!

Knowing the task before him was not just formidable, but impossible, and knowing it would drain every ounce of his wisdom and stamina, both of which were in limited supply, he ordered the $18 burger, rare, with bleu cheese for $2 dollars more, a $9 bowl of chili bean soup, sweet potato fries @ $7.25, and hankered for a fine draft beer (for $11), but let that slide for an iced-coffee

(@ $6 ), instead. A beer would be great, but one can’t be nodding off, when the long night ahead calls your name…your name…on the door. As impossible as the task might seem, with a mere AA degree, nowhere near a CPA, he  had just received the shot at a dream – CFO. He wouldn’t be the first to go down that road, as crooked as it might be, many have done so, and so many had deceived and achieved beyond their wildest dreams. Why not he? He ordered a shot of bourbon. Fuckin’ good bourbon, Neat…for the balls he would need to pull off this feat.

He did the math in his head, and left a generous tip. The card just clicked into “maxed-out”. He had advised his client accordingly. He felt no remorse nor pain in putting it down.

She saw the dim light of his office glow, from the street below, and felt a twinge of guilt. Oh sure, he deserved her doubts, whoring about all these years, but tonight he was burning the midnight oil trying desperately to keep the sinking company afloat, and  just maybe, restoring her faith in him, in the process. She felt the pang, and decided to personally pay her retribution, while on her knees, and perhaps boost his morale in the process. She parked in his vacant spot…vacant?…strange, but then, in off-hours, especially in inclement weather, he would, on occasion, park in a ‘Client’ spot, on the opposite side of the building, next to the front doors, and the only entrance available at this late hour – it made sense. The rest of the lot was empty, except for a couple of abandoned compacts, one badly dented, now dripping with dew. Her footfalls echoed off the building walls. She coded herself in at the security station (the code was her birth-date), she heard the door whisper shut and lock-down behind her, then rode the elevator up. Ping. The doors slid open quietly, efficiently, and she stepped onto the dimly lit floor. No one else was working, which made her respect him even more. She was obliged to give him credit; the Captain was going to stay with the ship, the last man aboard.

She took a moment to listen outside his door. What was she thinking? Would she catch him in some lewd act, as she’d done before, or pouring feverishly over overdue reports, like the young driver she married? Yet, it was quiet, so very quiet. She opened slowly, and found the room lit by the desk lamp turned low. Papers and spreadsheets were strewn about the room. There on the sofa bundled under the blanket and pillow that she bought for him years ago, (the one under which they had been so close, on so many occasions, here late at night…). He lay still, snoring softly... for him, anyway. She dimmed the lamp further, down to barely on, and the mood now shifted to romantic, as she stripped down to her delicates without a stir or a sound from the sofa mound. Kneeling beside him, she then reached under the blanket and found her goal. She slowly zipped him down and slid fingers inside, touching him gently, and to her surprise, while still sleeping, he quickly responded…and then responded some more…more than he’d ever responded before.

“Huh…” he muttered and started to stir.

“Shhh. Quiet now. Lie still and let baby do the work…”

The woman’s voice was throaty…grainy, but soft and fine, as if it were poured. The kind of voice that sounded smokey and sultry in one’s ear, spoken low, whispered in the dark… but could be harsh and grating over a PA system, or in the throws of verbal confrontation. 
But this? This, in fact, had become a rather pleasant 'oral confrontation', like he’d never experienced, yet readily welcomed. “ohhhhhhh….ohhhhhhhhhhh….’kay.”

I’ll take it from here, dear, you just keep it ‘at attention’. It’s been so long, I forgot how ‘alert’ you could be…and I must say you’ve exceeded my expectations, estimations, and memory…now…allow me...mmmmm….

I…aye…….

When it was done, they sprawled, fully spent, half on the sofa and half on the floor, breathless in the darkness, while all else was still. As their heart-rates became normal, and they heaved their satisfied sighs, she whispered, “You’re not him.”

No, M’am. Sorry.

Don’t be sorry. I’ve never been so satisfied.

I’m glad I…

Who are you?

Bookkeeper…

Aahhh…I see. And where is he?

He said he was going camping…

Hahahahaha….are you shitting me?

No, M’am….sleeping under the stars…

He is so full of shit. More likely to be sleeping under starlets…

I couldn’t say.

But I can. You know that blonde?

Blonde?

The ‘office bombshell’? Miss Grey?

Oh. Yes. Sorry.

Stop apologizing. How could you not notice? That’s boy candy. I hope he gets his licks in, because his days are numbered.

Yes, M’am.

Don’t you ‘yes M’am’ me, bookkeeper! I’m not some matron looking for a mercy fuck. It’s ‘Mona’…you can call me ‘Mo’…and don’t you dare apologize again, hear me?

Sorry…Mo.

So how bad is it?

Me?

No, The Company? Is it over?

I would say so, Mo. There’s nothing I can do to…

This is not on you, what’syername?

Oh. It’s Mike.

Well, Mike, I’ll tell you this - after this all goes down, Miss Grey won’t be…

Sorry to break the news.

Don’t be. This isn’t his first failure, by a long-shot, and I covered my ass and protected my assets long ago. Ten years to clear myself from his fuck ups. I own the house, the cars, the cottage, and an off-shore account. His ass is grass, not mine. In fact, I am one of his creditors, but he’ll never know that. Too many fuckups, and too much fucking around… what am I ‘chopped liver’?

No, Ma’m…er…Mo, not at all.

So, Mike, when I do take over the business and throw out the Boss, along with the assorted garbage, how’d you like a new position?

You just taught me two…

You’ve so much more to learn. But I was talking 'professionally', here…in fact, right here, in this very office.

Are you kidding?

Nothing would give me greater pleasure … present company excluded. In fact, Baby craves reciprocation. Want another round?

I have spreadsheets…

We’re on the same track. But leave this shit right here. You’re coming home with me. Fuck me in his office, fuck me in his Bentley, fuck me in his bed. His day is done. Come Friday, he's the one that's fucked and none of  this will matter. Michael, you’re now 'The One'.

Okay.

How does it feel to be on top?

I don’t know. We haven’t tried that yet.

THE ARGENTINE TANGO

Travel has once again sucked the life out of me. Eighteen hours in the air, another 4 hour delay in departing Buenos Aires, including two on the runway, and the extremely tense fourteen-hour pressure-cooker I had endured leading up to departure…now finds me spent.

The company, my client, was going under, and there would be nothing I could do to save it. The economy was going down the tubes and the government was once again clamping down. Time to leave, and hastily – they weren’t taking too kindly to the likes of me.

My head was splitting, and I felt weakened to the point of accepting defeat, and a pact with the devil herself - whichever virus chose to take up residence in my gut was fine with me, as long as I could suffer in my own bed, foul my own toilet, and cleanse in my own tub. I simply needed to get Home.

It was almost 3:30 A.M. and the arrival line at Customs was especially long and slow for this hour, due to a combination of a minimal staff performing the processing and clearances, and the near-simultaneous landing of two delayed international jumbos stuffed to the wings.

There were some in the surly line that grumbled aloud about opening more queues, government cutbacks, third-world treatment, and so on, but they would learn soon enough, as I had previously, that the officers behind the counters do not, in fact, have deaf ears, are not blind, and they mentally register each complaint and complainer, while maintaining a stoic exterior and focus on their mission. In my case…in particular my suit-case, the contents of which had been dumped ( ...let me emphasize “dump”) on a metal table, rummaged through, toiletries, clean clothes, and laundry, scrambled and scattered, then left for me to pickup.

“Pick it up.” He snarled.

There was a brief moment of tension between us, as the ‘official’ and I held cold eye contact. There was little doubt it was ‘personal’ on his part, yet committed under the guise of ‘simply performing his duty’ - a cowardly abuse of the minimal power he held inside his frustrated life. A schoolyard bully, no doubt, just grown…if not, then a victim of same, seeking revenge. As we stood within range of each other’s breath, he admonished, “…let’s move this along…or we’ll pull you…” and I begrudgingly stuffed my gear back into my bags. “Pulling me” meant going to the ‘interview room’ for questioning and clearance…but only after a long wait. I had seen others face that fate and had no desire to participate – just more time in purgatory.

So, now, while many groused, and the nausea set in, I simply allowed myself to play brain-dead while standing, lifting, shuffling, standing, lifting shuffling, standing…if anyone had the poor judgment to challenge me, and suggest I ‘pick up the pace’, ‘move up’, or allow them to ‘go ahead’ because of some personal sense of self-importance…well, I wasn’t sure I could still maintain the thin thread of patience I was trying to maintain. But, I melded in and no one provoked. I was gratified for small favors. A squabble broke out in the neighboring line, two men and a woman were escorted away, thereby minimizing the customs crew further, and making us all pay for the transgressors’ stupifying stupidity.

Finally I slid into a cab in queue; 4:08 A.M. The sun would be up soon, but even at this dark hour, the air was thick with humidity. My shirt was soaked and clung to my back.

“Christ, feels like Miami…” I said aloud. The cabbie responded, “I know, Mister. Been very, very, humid. They say rain, but no rain, just the humidity. Three days now.”

My bad luck was holding. His AC was out. “Sorry, Mister. Old cab. Tell me about it…pain in the ass, this car…this, the shit they give me.”

Windows all down, and at that hour, the crazy s.o.b. cranked it full-speed onto near-empty freeways, with a welcome blast of air and the familiar whiff of exhaust, we made it out to the valley in 40 minutes flat. He left me on the curb, quite smartly. He’d be back to the airport for the morning rush. A nice bonus gig, on an otherwise dead Sunday morning.

The eastern sky was turning lavender-pink and melding to a dim peach, the horizon rimmed with a yellow crest, soon to burst with light. I did not want to witness dawn, my retinas couldn’t take it – less my head explodes. I craved darkness and solitude. My solitude, Miranda…enfolded in her arms, tangled between her legs, cradled within her hips.

 This job has worn us both down. My erratic schedule…months away…the strain.

She’ll be surprised, and that was my plan. Make-up time…time to reconnect, that’s my only intention now. Both in need of soothing…

Standing in the entry, I set down my bags quietly, so as not to startle her.

“Man shot while returning home unexpectedly…”  

The headline crossed my mind, as I realized I was invading, what had been her space, this whole while.

Then came the music. Muffled, from the back of the house…the bedroom. The CD I brought home on my last visit. She thought it sexy, this Argentine tango beat. It triggered her libido, and the rhythms in her she never felt before, or even knew she had. 
Did she hear me? Was she playing it for my benefit? Was this my welcome home? Did she, too, have a surprise? 
In the shape I was in, I might not be capable of rising to the occasion at that particular moment, but it was certainly a track we would be pursuing as soon as I was clean, rested, and able. Yet, the more I consider it, the more capable I start to feel. I smile for the first time in a month. So relieved to be back home. I slipped off my stank-damp shirt and tossed it to the ground – just more laundry. I continued to undress, belt, shoes, zipper… as I made my way down the hall…then came the man’s low chuckle. I knew the nature of that laugh…understanding the lust inherent therein… there in the dark, behind the door. My door. Dirty things were happening to an Argentine tango.