

### M.B.A.

### Moron$ Ba$tard$ and A$$hole$

By Jeff Blackwell

Smashwords Edition

@copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For my great friend, Charles Giardina, who left us way too soon. I know your humor has the angels roaring and your big heart has their wings a'soaring. We miss you each and every day.

Table of Contents

Prologue - Beginnings

Chapter 1 - Yesterday

Chapter 2 - Eighteen

Chapter 3 - Rock'n Me

Chapter 4 - Somebody to Love

Chapter 5 - Show Me the Way

Chapter 6 - Going Mobile

Chapter 7 - I Want You to Want Me

Chapter 8 - Stairway to Heaven

Chapter 9 - Learning to Fly

Chapter 10 - Love Hurts

Chapter 11 - What's Your Name?

Chapter 12 - Whole Lotta Love

Chapter 13 - Free Ride

Chapter 14 - I Fought the Law

Chapter 15 - Changes

Chapter 16 - New Kid In Town

Chapter 17 - Communication Breakdown

Chapter 18 - Don't Ask Me No Questions

Chapter 19 - Miracles

Chapter 20 - Take it to the Limit

Chapter 21 - Ready for Love

Chapter 22 - Fire

Chapter 23 - Highway to Hell

Chapter 24 - Won't Get Fooled Again

Chapter 25 - Maybe I'm Amazed

Chapter 26 - You Really Got Me

Chapter 27 - Who are You?

Chapter 28 - Double Vision

Chapter 29 - Love the One You're With

Chapter 30 - Bad to the Bone

Chapter 31 - You're My Best Friend

Chapter 32 - Fortunate Son

Chapter 33 - Jumpin' Jack Flash

Chapter 34 - He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

Chapter 35 - Now You're Messin' With A Son of a Bitch

Chapter 36 - Killer Queen

Chapter 37 - Uptown Girl

Chapter 38 - The Logical Song

Chapter 39 - Over the Hills and Far Away

Chapter 40 - More Than a Feeling

Chapter 41 - Back Door Man

Chapter 42 - Cat Scratch Fever

Chapter 43 - Sultans of Swing

Chapter 44 - After Midnight

Chapter 45 - I'm Free

Chapter 46 - Blinded by the Light

Chapter 47 - Sledgehammer

Chapter 48 - Can't Get Enough

Chapter 49 - Born to Run

Chapter 50 - Who's Crying Now?

Chapter 51 - Midnight Confessions

Chapter 52 - Walk of Life

Epilogue - The End

Acknowledgements

About the Author
**Prologue**

Beginnings

Did you ever have one of those mornings when all seemed so right with the world? You're still mostly asleep but just starting to dip a toe into the pool of reality. Your pillow is snuggled in a perfect cocoon around your ears and the blankets are at that just right toasty temperature. Your feet are comfy and happy as warmth flows all the way up your body to the ends of your ears. A hint of fresh brewed coffee wafts around your head and gently creeps into all your senses. Your wife has slid back under the covers and fits perfectly against your soft downy filled backside. You want to go back to sleep, yet you want to stay awake, just a bit, to continue to experience this wondrous state of being.

As the dawn of consciousness begins to break across your synapses, your heart rate speeds up and your eyelids, oh, so slowly, begin to part. Your brain starts to boot up and warm thoughts of the wonders of the coming day help you maintain that perfect state of bliss.

The first sign that maybe this is not one of those mornings is that nagging voice in the back recesses of your cotton filled mind that goes from a soft caressing whisper to a head splitting shout. "Mick, when in your fucking life have your have you EVER used the word 'waft?' And what the hell is a 'soft downy filled backside?' Next thing you know, you'll be seeing thinking about sugar plum fairies flying out of your ass." My nagging voice is very profane.

Ah, man. My gummy eyes ease open and I hazily gaze through a sticky goo impairing my vision. However, I can tell that this is not a Walton Mountain morning and Grandpa has definitely left the building. I'm alert enough to take a fuzzy read on the situation. I realize that the cocoon shaped around my head is my sweat soaked Panthers Super Bowl XXXVIII T-shirt. The warmth I seem to be embracing is the breath stealing oppressive North Carolina summer heat. The smell "wafting" around me is more like burnt forty-weight Pennzoil, not a tall mocha with a vanilla shot. And when the hell did I walk down the aisle? You'd think I'd remember something like that. The pleasant thought that it's the perfect woman of my dreams spooning against me is shattered by her hot smelly breath on the back of my neck followed by a rough tonguing behind my left ear. She also seems to be in desperate need of an industrial strength depilatory.

I try to flip over on my back to check out the size, state of cleanliness and relative temperament of my unknown snoring companion. This proves problematic as I am trussed up like the proverbial goose. My hands are bound with duct tape. Damn, so are my ankles. There is more duct tape connecting the two behind my back. Was it buy one get one free day at the duct tape store? My brain is just clear enough to guess that I probably did not do this to myself. Not much else is penetrating my cranial cumulus. C'mon, it's time to kick start the mental engine and try to remember who I am, where I am, and how the hell I got here. I think I'll close my eyes again for just a minute as I go tripping down memory lane. Would you care to join me for the journey?
Chapter One

**Yesterday**

My name is Mick. Not Michael or Mickey. Mick.

I had what I would guess to be a normal midwestern upbringing in a (semi) normal family. Dad (Ralph) was also raised in the Midwest, corn fed and had a rock solid set of down to earth values (as you will see, "rock" is the operative word here). Mom (Faith) grew up on the East Coast. It's miraculous that they met because they are the perfect match for each other. They had two great kids, me and my big brother, Jagger. Yeah, Mom and Dad were huge Stones fans in the day. They were also Led Zeppelin fans. To hear Dad tell it, he wanted to name me "Page" and name Jagger "Plant." I think he also briefly considered "Pink" and "Floyd." Luckily, that was just another in a long series of discussions with Mom where she carried the day. Thank God Jagger and I came along a few years before Lynyrd Skynyrd hit it big.

My folks pretty much love all "classic" rock. In their minds, the majority of rock music from the mid-sixties to the end of the seventies is considered "classic." Jay (what Jagger quickly morphed to) and I learned not to use that phrase within their hearing distance. It's not classic rock, it's the only rock. That point was driven home by our first (and hopefully last) fatherly ninety minute lecture on the total domination of the AC/DCs and ZZs of his day over the Duran Durans and REMs of ours. The fact that we weren't particularly REM or Duran Duran fans didn't slow him one iota. Jay and I got the only spanking I can recall the day we were playing Frisbee with Dad's treasured Triumvirat album and it somehow wound up on the roof.

We lived in the small town of Fairview on the outskirts of Akron, Ohio. We had what I now think of as a modest Marcus Welby home (white wood siding, blue shutters, small picket fence, two dormers, not enough bathrooms, neat as a pin, etc.). I guess it could be described as a very Norman Rockwell type upbringing if Norman Rockwell had included golf courses and Stratocasters in each of his works.

Dad stood about six one and weighed about one sixty soaking wet with steel toed boots on. Why he'd be soaking wet wearing steel toed boots, I don't know. He was a kind, gentle, fair man and a true hoot. With his small round plastic rimmed glasses, crew cut, button down shirts and skinny ties, he looked like a cross between Arnie the Accountant and Eddie the Engineer. But just as one should never judge the proverbial book by its cover, one should never assume that Dad was conventional or boring. For one, he loved to tell highly entertaining (to him) stories about his exploits in the sixties and early seventies before he settled down and became "Mr. Family Dude." I think he tended to embellish just a bit. I understood about half of what he told me and believed even less. Of course, he knew this. It was why we got along so well. But, strangely enough, most of his advice was priceless and sticks with me to this day.

"Son, I don't want you thinking that everything I did was the right thing to do. In fact, most of it is just the opposite of what a great kid like you should do. But I tell you these things to teach you a lesson about life. I had to learn the hard way."

Dad was definitely blessed with the gift of gab. Fortunately, he also had an enormous sense of humor and a very high level of tolerance for two smart-assed boys.

"Dad, you're sounding like Ward Cleaver again. So what's the story and moral this time? And if I have heard it before, I'll let you get near the end then blurt out the punch line before you do...again."

"I'll take that deal since my sage wisdom is never repeated twice."

"What about the same stories you tell me every six weeks regarding the evils of fast women and sloe gin?"

"Those are fundamental tenants of life, not sage wisdom. So, as I was saying, this was back when one of the two greatest decades in the history of the world was coming to an end. It was late sixty-nine and I had not yet met your mother. I was dating the tour manager for the Kinks..."

"Uh huh."

"Ok, her cousin went to school with the sister of the tour manager for the Kinks. Anyhow, she was a stunner. Nothing like your mother, of course, but a stone cold fox none the less."

"A what cold what?"

"Sorry, I sometimes forget you were not a member of the 'hep' generation."

"Which is now the 'try not to break a hip' generation."

"Whatever. Anyway, one night we were cruising in my new cherry red Vette..."

"Rusty Vega."

"Ok, my Vega with more Bondo then metal. She wanted me to scout out a local supplier so she could score some happy juice..."

"Find a 7-11 where you could buy her a Mountain Dew."

"Yeah, like I said, happy juice. So I pulled my hotrod into this skanky looking place. It was so bad that it had been demoted to a 6.5 -10. I mean the rats in the parking lot were so big that they had Chihuahuas for pets. It was..."

"Ok, Pop, I get the general picture. Let's try to keep the narrative in a forward gear."

"No problembo. So, being the suave and cool dude I was back then, I left the motor running with some Zep cranked up on WMMS and dashed in the store to buy her some liquid love. When I come back to the car, you won't believe..."

"She switched channels and was grooving to some soft jazz?"

"Nothing that bad. No, she's outta the car leaning on my sort of shiny chrome engaging in a major lip lock with Dewey 'Moose' Mankowitz."

"The starting center for the Fighting Weasels?"

"The one and only. And this guy is bigger than the house that fell on the Wicked Witch."

"I also heard he had some real snap between his legs."

"Hey, while that is very funny, I don't work with a partner. And wash your mouth out with an Ivory bar when we get home."

"Whatever you say, Pop."

"So, anyway, my hands are rolled into balls of anger – note the Eyebrow Plucker's rock lyric reference. I let out my best lead singer, Curt Roadscraper, rebel roar and charged like a crazed gazelle right toward them."

"I think Curt Roadscraper was more into diaper rash and wheeled walkers then rebel roars in this story's timeframe. So anyway, you tackle him, punch his face in and give him an atomic wedgie?"

"No, Son. He could kill me with his little finger while smoking a cigarette and reading the complete works of Shakespeare. If he could read, that is."

"So, what did you do?"

"That's the point of the whole story. I threw the bottle of Mountain Dew as high up in the air as I could. As they both lunged out to catch it, I coolly slid into the Vega like James Bond on steroids and peeled out leaving them standing in a puddle of broken glass and sticky pus green carbonated fluid. So the moral is..."

"Wait, let me try this one. Ahem. Cue the music. Do do the Dewey dude with the Dew before the Dewey dude do do the deed to you?"

"Geesh. Once again this proves you are my biological, not adopted, son. The acorn falling near the tree thing and all that. While that is very clever and makes little to no sense, the actual moral is to always think before you swing. Since this is such a great tale, I am also throwing in a bonus moral at no extra charge."

"Wow, thanks Dad. I can't wait to hear it."

"So, listen up. Here goes. Unless you are sure she is the one, there is always another drop dead dynamite babe waiting for you just around the next corner."

Some pretty sage advice from the old man. Maybe that partially explains why I'm not married today.

Dad wasn't always one hundred percent right about everything.

"Mick, don't waste your money on those new CD music things. They will never replace good old vinyl records or cassettes. You can't even record music on them. So how would I ever make a great mix tape to seduce that lovely lady we live with?"

I hate it when Dad says things like that about his and Mom's love life. I prefer to think I was the product of a very quiet immaculate conception. I'm sure Dad knows this but that just eggs him on. I usually refuse to give him the satisfaction of a disgusted reaction.

"I don't know, Dad. The sound on those CD's is pretty darn good and they don't get jammed up in the stereo."

"Songs you don't want to hear can sound fantastic, but you still don't want to hear them. And, if you spend a little effort and keep your heads clean, cassettes won't jam up very often. There is nothing wrong with a little old fashioned preventative maintenance."

"Ok, Pops. Time will tell."

Dad was absolutely right when he taught me about hard work, honesty, honor and the rewards life brings to those that color mostly within the lines. As usual for Dad's teachings, he demonstrated this in his own convoluted, but highly effective, manner. These lessons were delivered mostly through the game of golf.

The first time he took me out was my eighth birthday. He had taken Jay out for his first links adventure at the very same age. If only he had taken us out at four or so, we might not suck so bad at the game today. But that's beside the point. So, anyway, we get to the first tee and Dad pulls out what he calls his muscle mallet. It was an old wood headed Wilson driver that had more nicks and grass stains then actually ball hitting hickory. He took what seemed to be a dozen practice swings, lined up with the ball, waggled the club a trillion times, then stepped back off the ball and went through it all again. The first lesson I learned that day was to never play golf with Dad unless the course is empty and you have about seven hours to kill. He finally took a slow backswing and then dove at the ball like a kamikaze pilot over a slow moving aircraft carrier. The ball flew high and far and right and higher and then even further right. After it cleared the tall pines lining the fairway, we heard a loud thunk and what sounded like glass breaking.

Dad hung his head for just a second. He straightened up, came towards me with a glint in his eye and pulled another ball out of his bag. He strode to the tee, plopped the ball on the ground and, with no hesitation, hit it in a blur. It flew straight down the middle of the fairway about two twenty-five.

"Ok, Son, here's the deal:

  * While planning and preparation are important, it's easy to practice and think too much. Sometimes shutting down that quivering jelly between your ears and relying on your instincts will carry the day. I know that, but can't seem to follow my own advice until I have already messed up.

  * A real man never ever cheats. The second shot I hit from the tee will show up as my third shot on the scorecard according to the rules of golf. Some golfers would call that first shot a practice shot, or a mulligan. Well, life does not recognize a mulligan and neither do I. When you cheat at golf, you only cheat yourself. And for many people, that's taking advantage of an idiot. Where's the challenge and fun in that?

  * Conventional wisdom may state that the number one rule in golf is 'Never put your name on your golf ball.' Well, that's the weenies' way out. I put my initials on each one of my balls. Everyone living on Fairview Fairways knows who they belong to and doesn't hesitate to call me if they find one in their living room. A man needs to take responsibility for his mistakes."

A few years later, Mom told me that if Dad had not been the owner of Fairview Siding and Glass, the cost of his golfing miscues might have forced us to compete with Scraps, the dog, for his kibble dinner. While he did many free window replacements, he never failed to sell a few window upgrades or some siding along with it.

When I got old enough that Dad felt he could toss a few "naughty" words my way, he shared his three "head" golf rules with me. "To play great golf, there are three things you must do with your head:

  * Keep your head down

  * Keep your head still

  * Keep your head out of your ass."

Now that I think about it, that's a pretty good lesson for life as well as golf.

Mom was a bit more mysterious. Think of a mixture of Mrs. Cleaver and Pat Benatar. Her once flaming red hair was now a smoldering strawberry blond. While she had popped out two strapping boys, she was in great shape. Jay and I would sometimes start to discuss what a killer bod she must have had at one time until we would get all creeped out thinking about our mother that way. Mom could bake the perfect apple pie, decorate a room that would make normal mothers green with envy and belt out any sixties or seventies classic rock song with the best of them. I mean she knew every word and every note. Some dudes my age thought she was still hot. A few took that line of trash talk a bit over the top and wound up with my knuckle imprints on their nose. She encouraged my brother and me to follow our dreams and march to the beat of a different (preferably rock) drummer.
Chapter Two

**Eighteen**

The day I turned eighteen, Dad took me down to Di Novo's Pub for my first beer. At least, it was my first beer as far as he knew.

"Hey, Bill. Come on over and meet my son, Mick."

Bill Di Novo had owned the pub since time began. He was a second generation Italian with bright blue eyes and a really cool mustache. Years later, rumors circulated that he was the model for one of the Mario brothers. It did seem that he jumped up in the air quite a bit.

I think Dad was his first customer on opening day. They had formed a strong friendship and both played some really lousy golf together.

"Nice to meet you, Mick. I'm not going to have to card you, am I?"

"No, Bill. He turns eighteen today and is legal to do the old three point two brew."

Ah, yes, three point two beer. Ohio used to have a law that stated it was legal to serve minors age eighteen to twenty-one beer with three point two percent alcohol in it. By eighteen, I had consumed copious amounts of real beer, but not the old three two. I believe that law had been repealed before I was eight years old. I'm not sure whether Dad knew this or not. I think he probably did but didn't want to give up the tradition his dad started with him when he was eighteen. I also suspected that Mr. Di Novo had a few cases left in stock that he was still trying to monetize.

"Son, today you officially become a man and begin to find the path in life that takes you all the way through to the clubhouse. It's time we participated in the time honored tradition of father / son hops and barley sharing. And, Son, no matter where your life leads, I will always support you and be damned proud of you."

We quaffed a healthy share of our time honored brew. Dad had a real one, I had the three two. Supposedly it tasted like weasel piss when it was freshly brewed. Imagine what it tasted like ten plus years later. It took all my will power not to spew it across the table. I could never embarrass Dad like that in front of Mr. Di Novo, so I choked it down.

"Pops, this is not too bad. Think I could have a taste of yours?"

"No, Son, your time will come. And speaking of which, I think you are now mature enough to hear the true story of how your mom and I met."

Oh, Lord. Bill knew Dad was cranked up for one of his stories and suddenly had to go check his inventory in the back. I swear he hopped over a few tables and did some midair spins on the way. Or maybe that was just the beer goggles.

"I was a little older than you are now. I had decided that a good looking upwardly mobile young man needed to set a direction for himself in life. My folks didn't have much money, but I'd saved up enough to give a local college a try. I went to the University of Akron. My brother, Alton, had a small apartment next to the campus and let me stay with him. It was our swinging cool dude bachelor pad. It was the seventies so I'll say no more about that."

"Groovy, Pops."

"Alton was out one night and I was there alone. He was a guitarist in a very unsuccessful garage band named Vomit Velocity. They tried mashing together many of the emerging rock songs with songs from earlier decades. Some of their titles were ' _Smoke on the Danube', 'Brown Sugar Plum Honey Bunch', 'Riders on the Stormy Weather_ ...'"

"C'mon, they didn't really do those songs."

"Well, not maybe those exact songs, but something close. And they were really bad. Anyway, that night he had left his guitar and amp behind. I was still on my voyage of self discovery. I was pretty sure my skills weren't quite good enough to make it as a golf pro..."

"Good self awareness, Dad."

"... but the jury was out on rock star. So I plugged in and started to wail away. I thought I sounded pretty tight. About twenty minutes later, I heard a gentle tapping at the front window. I looked out and saw an angel."

"That would be Mom."

"Eventually, but that was the first moment I laid eyes on her. My heart did a few flip flops. I opened the window and invited her in with some pick up lines you are still too young to hear. I panicked briefly when I spotted my _Playboy_ collection out in plain sight, but then realized she'd just have to accept that I was a worldly man."

I was afraid if my eyes rolled any harder they would pop right out of my head.

"She came in and stared deeply into my eyes. She asked if I was the one producing those hot licks. I said I was. She then said that she'd like to kiss the lips of the man that could make that kind of music. And, Son, we have been making beautiful music together ever since. The moral of the story for me was to 'Keep the Faith.' And that's exactly what I did."

"Thanks for that, Dad. I think I need another beer (even a three two)."

The next morning, after Dad left for work, Mom plopped down beside me at the breakfast table.

"You smell like a brewery. Did Ralph take you out for that stupid time honored three two beer thing like he did with Jay?"

"He sure did. And can you try not speaking too loudly? I feel like I have the Italian army doing marching maneuvers in my head."

"So you have the old weasel piss hangover. Well, I'm all out of kids. Mr. Di Novo is going to have to flush the rest of that awful crap. I suppose Ralph also told you that tall tale about how we met?"

"Yup."

"You want to hear the real version?"

"Not particularly."

"I was sitting in my off campus apartment trying to study. Suddenly, from the apartment below, I hear the most god awful sounds of small animals being tortured. I flew down the steps and pounded on the front door. The horrid noises kept up so I kept pounding louder until my hands were raw. I think I started screaming too. The door finally cracked open. I said something along the lines of 'What the free bird are you doing?' This tall skinny dude with stringy hair and coke bottle glasses stood there and just stared at me. To break the awkward silence, I asked if I could come in. He nodded his head, so I did. I noticed _Mad Magazines_ and _Superman_ comics were strewn about the place. I told him, with a voice maybe a teensy bit too loud, that I was trying to study and asked him to keep it down. I also told him that if he was a music major maybe he should try another course of study. He turned about ten shades of red and I began to feel bad about being so hard on him. The cat finally released his tongue and he began apologizing profusely. He didn't realize he was so loud and never wanted to bother anyone, especially anyone as pretty as me. I found that kind of sweet. I sat down and we began to talk. I found myself beginning to be attracted to him. And I still am today."

"That's it?"

"Yup"

"That's pretty different than Dad's version."

"But both wound up with the same ending. I guess, for me, the moral of the story is to not let first impressions cloud your judgment, even if they make you want to 'Ralph.'"

That was pretty funny, for Mom. Even though the tales were pretty dorky, it made me realize that most people get the overall big picture right when telling their stories. It's the details that might be a little fuzzy.
Chapter Three

**Rock'n Me**

Oh, my aching head. My recollections are veering somewhat off the less than straight and narrow path of how I got here. If I can concentrate, let's try to get back on course lickety-split. Lickety-split? Who (under eighty-five) says that in 2013? Damn, these fumes are messing with my mind.

I loved my parents and they loved me. I still do. All this past tense probably has you thinking they moved on to the great rock arena in the sky. But, no, they are very much still with us. They are getting to the upper reaches of the maturity scale but not slowing down much. I guess my fear of aging forces me to think mostly of them in their parenting prime. Ok, let's get back at it and learn some more about the ole Mickster...

So, by now, I'm sure you are wondering about me and how I got to where I am. Believe me, so am I. You are probably also wondering what all this has to do with MBAs. In the words of Confucius, "Patience, little ones. Great rewards await those that that move more steadily like the tortoise than those that charge headstrong like the lion." Or was that Keith Carradine?

Ok, about me. I went to Fairview High and was a pretty level-headed kid. I was three years behind Jay who had blazed a mighty wide path with his surfer looks and big personality. He was voted most likely to be a rock star. That made him a tough act to follow. It also made me try harder than most and forged my tough mental attitude. My mantra was (and remains to this day, despite my current predicament) that failure is not an option.

I was relatively normal in that I chased the outrageously pretty girls and caught the average (and slower moving) ones. I smoked a few illegal substances but never got into exotic pharmacology. I did other stupid typical teenager things (e.g. toilet papering the Assistant Principal's house), but rarely got caught. I was told by a few that I was rather quick witted. I was told by many more that I was a real smart ass. I managed to keep my grades up mainly through street smarts and charm. I was not real big on studying but somehow most "learning" came pretty easily for me.

Like many of my decade, I tried to pursue my passion for rock music. We actually didn't know that the current rock back then was destined to be classic rock today. All we knew was that we loved it and we lived it. In junior high I got a few of my like-minded buddies together and attempted to form a band. Since we had no idea what we were doing or if we were going to be any good at it (although we just knew we were going to kick ass), we didn't want to spend any actual money.

"Please, Mr. Johnson. Can you just loan us the instruments for the weekend? We will be very careful with them."

Rolynn Johnson was our Fairview Jr. High band director and a pretty cool dude. He did get caught up in that bestiality thing years later, but he wasn't like that when we knew him. I knew that he played in a forty's swing band on the weekends and had access to electric guitars, amplifiers and drums.

"Just why do you want these instruments, Mick?"

"My friends and I want to see if we have what it takes to be a band. And we can't afford to buy instruments right now."

"What kind of a band?"

"Well, I was thinking of a throwback swing band doing great songs like _Sentimental Journey, Take Five,_ or _Pastel Walls."_

"Really? You were thinking about _Pastel Walls_?"

"Sure. That is an excellent tune with a great swing beat."

This technically was not a lie. I just wasn't exactly answering the questions he had asked. I was thinking about a throwback swing band (his). I wasn't saying we would or could play that kind of music. No way. We would be laughed all the way back to elementary school. And I was thinking about Pastel Walls knowing the obscure fact that Rolynn wrote it and recorded it. It sold about fifteen copies. His daughter, Jolynn, who I dated briefly, told me it was his pride and joy. It wasn't really a horrible tune. "I live in jail since you went away / All color is faded, turned to grey / I roam these bland lonely halls / Searching for your pastel walls." Ok, it was really horrible.

"Well, isn't that impressive. It's encouraging to see that some of our youth appreciate real music. I'll tell you what. How about I bring a few guitars and amps over to your house along with a drum kit this evening? Unfortunately, I won't be able to stay. I'll bring some cool charts you guys can practice. I'll pick the instruments up Sunday night. But, be careful, I will need them back in pristine condition."

"You got it, Mr. Johnson. You are one swinging cat. Thanks!"

As promised, Mr. Johnson brought the instruments to my house on Friday. Dad loaned us the garage and warned the neighbors. We had fun setting up most of that night and agreed we would jam the weekend away starting Saturday. First, we needed to come up with a bitching name. We kicked around some hormonal fueled names ( _Cleavage Divers, Tan Line Tracers, The G-strings_ ) but concluded our Moms might ground us of we used any of them. We thought about _The Toe Jammers_ and _Fingernail Fungus Finders_ but decided those were a little too gross even for rock and roll. Since I was the one that procured the instruments and provided the garage, we agreed on _Mick's Cool Licks_. By noon on Saturday, three out of the four of us knew that a life of touring, groupies, and adoring fans was not in the cards for us. We sucked and didn't really enjoy trying to play. Those guitar strings hurt my fingers. The drummer almost poked his eye out. That left one of us. His name was Edgar. He was very pale and could play the guitar pretty damn well. His last name was Winter, right? No. He wasn't that pale and couldn't play that well. I think his last name was something like Sickenfuss. Whatever. For one weekend, he was a rock god to us. Between watching the Buckeyes and the Browns on Dad's old black and white, we listened to Edgar do a decent job of tearing through the Stones and the Who.

It was early Sunday evening. Mr. Johnson was on his way to get the instruments. All but one were only lightly used and carefully packed away.

"C'mon Edgar, we've got time. Do that Townshend thing again!"

Edgar was really in the zone by now. He loved the Who and had seen them in concert. He was ripping through power chords and doing the helicopter arm twirl as we cheered him on. He began spinning in circles, jumping up and down, power flinging his long white blond hair and making really painful faces. He finished in a near rock orgasm. Unfortunately he got a little carried away at the climax and lifted the guitar high above his head.

I shouted, "Nooooooooo!" It was too late. Still lost in his fantasy, Edgar smashed the guitar down onto the garage floor where it shattered with a final dying minor chord. The garage went silent as we all stared at him. He wiped his hair back off his face, looked at us defiantly and yelled, "Rock and Roll Rules Forever!"

Well, yeah, it does. But I wasn't sure Mr. Johnson was going to let us see forever. We might be lucky if we saw the sunrise. Eventually, he and Dad worked out a deal. I mowed and trimmed Mr. Johnson's really big yard for free for the next three years. Why me? Well, I was primarily responsible. Plus, Edgar would die under the Ohio summer sun. I think Dad might have thrown in his preferred customer discount on some siding too. While I did build up some great leg and arm muscles pushing that old rusty mower around, I did not gain any musical chops. Even today, the only musical instrument I excel at playing is the stereo.

After my junior year in high school, I figured I had pretty much worn out Ohio. I thought about Florida or Texas. Good schools in both and little snow as a bonus. I had been an all district wide receiver at Fairview when we won State. Even though I was beginning to think football was kind of a stupid game and was starting to tire of playing, it did present potential scholarship opportunities. So, like any eighteen year old all American boy, I chose my future based on a girl.
Chapter Four

**Somebody to Love**

We met when I knocked her into the next millennium on the gridiron. Say what? Yeah, what indeed. It was the last regular season game in my senior year. We had won State the previous year and the expectations of the student body and hot toddy fueled alumni were running high. The season to date had been up and down. Our starting quarterback had been caught smoking a non-tobacco product with the assistance principal's sixteen year old daughter at the Homecoming dance. Back then, those types of things were frowned upon. Needless to say, he had been put in an extended timeout. His replacement, Zack Landrum, was high on enthusiasm, energy, Jesus, and academics. Unfortunately, his throwing arm was about as accurate as an Ohio winter weather forecast.

We were down by five with twelve seconds left in the fourth quarter. It was raining cats and icing dogs. The fog was thicker than my Aunt Ethyl's cataracts. The football felt like a hockey puck. Visibility was down to about a gnat's ass. Any part of my outer or inner wear that wasn't soaked was frozen. The heat of the locker room and the cheerleaders therein was beckoning like the Sirens of Pereshpone (see, I stayed awake a few times in English class). The only thing driving me and my fellow Fighting Weasel Warriors was our collective abject hatred for the Whitehall wussies across the line of scrimmage. With the exception of football, they beat us year after year like the proverbial red headed step child in every competition from basketball to ping pong to yodeling to the spelling bee. Ok, we didn't really yodel. But if we had, they would have beaten us by one tenth of a decibel and never let us forget it. Oh, we hated them. Football was the one thing we had over them and we never wanted to let it go.

Our last play had been a thirty yard rumble by Tom Butrall, our two hundred and eighty pound fullback. We, at first, called him Tom Brutal which eventually got shortened to Tank. The name Tank accurately described his running speed and style. I think Tank more passed out than got tackled after about twenty-five yards. The wussies on his back actually held him up for about five more before they all fell into a brown heap of snarls, wheezes and cussing around the Whitehall thirty-five. I grabbed the closest zebra shirt I could find and bellowed, "Time out, dude" into his ear. We quickly huddled up to plot our last attempt at what would result in either the sweetest of victories or total humiliation. No pressure.

"Ok, ok, we got this in the bag. Everyone pumped and ready to bring glory to Fairview and God almighty?"

"C'mon, Zack. I'm frigging freezing here. Just heave the frigging ball somewhere in my frigging direction one frigging time? Don't throw it to the frigging coach, the frigging water cooler or somewhere into Bum Frigging Egypt. Ok? Just throw it the frick to me. And the rest of you pussies, knock those ugly frigging dudes on their frigging backsides. Let's win this frigging thing and get the frick out of here."

Tank looked at me like I was a frigging Martian. "Frigging? Really?"

"Look, I reserve the real "F-word" for real men and the real times that deserve it. The way you girls have played so far, you should be happy you got 'frig' instead of 'fudge.'"

"Dude."

Without warning, Tank took a mighty swing with one of his outsized ham hocks and bitch slapped Zack right between the weasel's eyes on the side of his helmet. Ice flew and I could swear I saw the helmet crack. Then the most amazing thing happened. A glassy eyed Zack stood straight up, walked to the line and in the strongest of voices that I still hear crystal clearly in my dreams to this day proclaimed, "On one. Let's win this frigging thing."

I managed to find the one yard of good footing left on the field and was off the line like a stuck pig at the snap. I heard, more than saw, the defensive back slip as he tried to back pedal. I suddenly found myself running toward the end zone with no one in sight. Had it been a clear seventy degree fall afternoon, Zack would have missed me by fifteen yards. But the combination of him having his bell rung and not being able to see beyond the icicle at the end of his nose miraculously enabled him to throw the ball on a rope right to me at the five yard line.

In full stride looking over my shoulder through the soupy muck, I spotted what was either a large bird or the football about ten feet away dropping from the heavens right on top of me. I didn't give a crap about what it was, I was going to catch it or die trying. That frosty pigskin landed perfectly in my hands. My heart soared as I snapped my head around toward the goal line. My soaring heart and time stopped as I stared into the biggest, bluest, most beautiful pair of fully panicked eyes that I have ever seen. Before my brain could process this new input, I ran full on into some soft creature in a god awful uniform and literally fell head over heels. To avoid killing this delicate being, my cat like reflexes kicked in as we headed toward the turf. As my one hundred eighty-five pounds of pure muscle forcibly melded with her one hundred ten pound soaking wet tight hot frame, I stuck my right arm out in the best Heisman stiff-arm fashion, planted my palm in the muck, and managed to land on top of her without crushing her like a bug. Her Whitehall band hat had flown off. She had half a flute stuck in her hair, her eyes screwed shut and the damn football clutched in her hands. She moaned, opened her lids, dialed up a million watt smile and, with a killer twinkle in her eye, quickly shoved that Wilson pigskin under my arm. She then whispered in my ear perhaps the sexiest thing I have ever heard, "Touchdown." Before the hoards descended, I helped her to her feet.

"Are you OK?"

"Never better."

My teammates were about ten yards away in full gallop. I quickly glanced at the ball in my hands and asked, "Why?"

As we both started to disappear under a mad pile of wild Weasel Warriors and fans, I heard her shout, "Because Whitehall is a bunch of wussies."

I may have been teetering a second earlier, but now, even buried under a bunch of sweaty hollering crazy maniacs, I fell completely and utterly like a ton of bricks hit by a wrecking ball. For the first time, I was hopelessly, with no hope of redemption, in love.

Juiced by adrenaline and the sting of Cupid's arrow, I channeled my best Incredible Hulk, threw bodies off of me, jumped up, did my end zone boogie and spiked the ball while bellowing, "Touchdown!" The love of my life joined me in a mud spraying dance of pure joy. It was certainly one of the top ten best moments of my life to-date. My teammates settled from bedlam to rowdy craziness just enough for me to look at them and holler at the top of my lungs, "Fucking A!"

After the screams from the crowd, my teammates, the press, my love (more like moans), the Whitehall players (more like crying – those wussies) had long faded away, there were several things I learned:

  * The Whitehall band had gotten confused in the fog and yuck and had lined up on the goal line a tad bit early for their victory march (such wussie nerds - with one exception, of course).

  * The name of my princess was Cindy Copeland. She was really a good moaner. More on that later.

  * Cindy had broken up with the starting Whitehall half-back a week earlier. This was a major contributing factor to her sharing the Whitehall wussieness vision held by one hundred percent of Fairviewians.

  * Dad's "golf as life" lessons taught me that honesty is the best policy. But, when God has an angel perform a miracle that totally grinds your most hated opponent into the dust, Dad's advice takes a very rare day off.

  * When surrounded by your teammates in the end zone, never shout out what you feel before checking to be sure that no one in the general vicinity is holding open live microphones for both the stadium public address system and WESL – the 10,000 watt AM Squealing Voice of the Fairview Weasel Warriors.

After my six week parent imposed house detention for public potty-mouthedness, Cindy and I began dating hot and heavy. The separation had certainly made our hearts and "horns" grow fonder. As you can easily guess, this was the start of a beautiful relationship. Of course, she was the beautiful part. She loved playing flute in the band (Fluter? Flutie? Flutiest?). Seeing her blow across it with her steady but soothing warm breath issued from her full pink lips as she crinkled her perfect button of a nose and half closed her big blues in seductive concentration all framed by her honey golden blond locks cascading around her gorgeous face and flowing down around her soft shoulders to gently caress her bursting to be free... _Ok, enough of that. You get the idea. If I achieve bonedom in this damn position I'm in, I'll probably sprain something._

We dated (kids, we called it "going steady" back then) for the rest of my senior year. I'll spare you the details. If you are truly interested in reading about holding hands during moonlight walks in the park, see the latest in romance trash (I only know that because Cindy had every one ever written). If you want to delve into the intricacies of hormone fueled back seat groping in a Ford Wagon, see the complete works of Hugh Hefner or the advanced version by Larry Flynt. While I don't believe either are available in a Cliff notes version, you can definitely get them on video or DVD.

By the way, our team lost to the Tallmadge High Blue Devils at Districts. Oh well, at least they weren't wussies. Anyway, Cindy and I agreed we would attend Ohio State together, get married when we graduated and live happily ever after. That is until she got a scholarship (full ride) to Our Lady of The Lure.

"Our what of the what? Our Lady of Allure? Is that like Prostitute Prep? What happened to the Buckeyes? Why would you even apply there? What about our little Bobby and Sue and our white picket fence. Why?"

Basically, I was a blubbering mess.

"Oh, Mick. You are so funny. It's Our Lady of The Lure near Lake Lure in North Carolina. If I went to Ohio State, I would be one of many flutes blowing in the breeze. I know I'm good, but I might not get noticed there. Lure has a small well recognized orchestra. I might be first chair. I would get noticed."

"And, I'm sure, your daddy just happens to be on the board at the college?"

"How many times have I pleaded with you not to hate me just because my daddy is rich?"

I will pause here to say that every time she mentioned that, I did act like it upset me. Hard to do when your inner self is turning cartwheels and belting out verses of _We're in the Money_ , but I managed somehow. I'm basically a nice guy, but I'm not an idiot.

"I'm following my passion, Mick. You need to find yours and follow it."

"But...but... I thought I was."

"C'mon on. I know your passion is not football. You told me it was a stupid game and you were tired of it.

"I said 'kind of' tired of it."

Whatever. I know your passion is not Ohio State. You said you didn't want to go to a big school if you had a choice. I know it's not golf, because you suck at that."

Ouch! Ice pick to the heart.

"So what, Mick? Just what is your passion?"

When it comes to the language of love, I never pretended to be in the class of the greats like Shakespeare or Austin Powers. But on that rare occasion, I do get it right.

"Cindy, I thought you knew. My passion is you."

He swings. He connects. It's outta here. Send the roaring crowd home. It's a walk off round tripper. I think that was probably the sappiest and most romantic thing I had ever said or ever will say. Those big blues welled up with tears. Her smile illuminated the tri-county region. And her next words set the course of my life from that point forward.

"Well then, you have to follow me!"

So I did.
Chapter Five

**Show Me the Way**

I am nothing if not a man of my word. Actually, I may be a sarcastic smart ass, but my word is my bond. Seriously, no fooling. I think it had to do with the all the sense and nonsense Dad drilled into me.

After having a mild cardiac infarction while looking at the out of state tuition costs in North Carolina, my only thought was, "Holy crap." At most schools, it was about three times the amount of in-state tuition. Excuse me for not being born in the colder of the Carolinas. That plus some other slight details (like a place to live and beer and pizza coin) amounted to a pile of cash I could never climb. God bless Mom and Dad. No matter how harebrained my scheme, they were willing to help finance my education to the extent they could. Unfortunately, that extent barely extended into the foothills of this cash mountain range. After talking to my coach and a couple of scouts he knew, I came to the realization that my gridiron exploits were not as world class as I had hoped when compared to the environs outside of Northeastern Ohio. Coach put my odds at getting a scholarship on the same level as Cindy Crawford accepting my invitation to the senior prom. My next brilliant idea was to talk to my real Cindy.

"Baby, I have thought long and hard about this. I think I have decided that I would like to go to Our Lady of The Lure too."

"Mick?"

"Yeah, I know it is not a big football school. But maybe I would enjoy the game more in a smaller conference. Like you, I could be a bigger fish in a smaller pond."

"I am not a fish! And Mick..."

"No, baby, you're a fox." Now that was a great recovery. Thanks, Dad, for the somewhat dated, but effective, terminology. "That was just an analogy. And, even though I hate to ask, maybe your dad could put a good word in for me with their athletic scholarship department."

"I really don't think that would help. You see..."

"Hey, I know my senior stats don't look all that great, but..."

"Quiet, silly. I have been trying to tell you. Our Lady of The Lure is an all-girls school."

"Damn."

Dad often said that your ball is not always going to land in the middle of the fairway. You should always have a plan B. So I made up plan B on the spot. Glad I put so much thought into what set my future course. _Great decision? Well, right now I'm wrapped up like a baked potato. And I need to pee..._

"Maybe I should think about getting a job near your campus. I could save some money and wait a while before I go to college."

"Now that is something Daddy can help you with!''

As girlfriends' fathers go, Mr. Copeland was not the worst. I've seen the extremes from a dad offering to help me shop and pay for engagement rings (run for the hills) to a silent but meaningful dad demonstration of how to castrate a bull (back away slowly and then run for the hills). Speaking of bulls, Mr. Copeland was built like one. He was about five eight with short thick legs. He must have had a fifty-two inch chest with just the hint of flab around the middle. His arms looked like he had once been into heavy weights but gave it up later in life. He had virtually no neck. His eyes were a startling blue like his daughter's but, unlike Cindy's, they were squinted and piercing. He was pretty scary but more normal than abnormal (hopefully).

Mrs. Copeland was a real estate agent and the head of numerous volunteer activities. Every time I went over to Cindy's house, she was out on business or at some charity function. I saw pictures of her, but never met her in person. Cindy had a two year old sister, Darlene. That meant Mrs. Copeland was home on at least one occasion. I was introduced to their nanny, Rosie Gomez, who was very good looking for a lady over thirty. I think it really irked Mom that I was dating a girl who had a nanny.

After some deep breathing exercises to calm my nerves, I managed to put on my big boy pants and venture into the bull ring to tell Mr. C. of my plans.

"Now let me get this straight. My daughter has a bright future ahead of her and wants to pursue her dream using something she is quite talented at."

That very dangerous voice in the dark crevices of my cranium was whispering how funny it would be to tell him I knew something dreamy that she was quite talented at. However, in a rare moment of clarity, I opted to just keep my yap shut.

"And you. You're a kid barely out of high school with no clear educational or job prospects who wants to follow my sweet daughter out of state and live in close proximity by yourself because you think you are in love with her."

"Yes, sir."

"And you want my help at getting a job near Our Lady of The Lure so all this can happen."

"Yes, sir."

"Normally, I'd throw you outta here on your ass faster than you could say 'Jackie Robinson.'"

Cool old dude baseball reference.

"However, you're very lucky in that you have several things breaking in your favor. First, I trust my daughter completely. I've raised her to make her own decisions. And she has always made good ones. Second, in case this is the one time she hasn't, a good friend of mine is quite adept at castrating bulls, if you get my drift."

Huh, small world. "Yes, sir."

"Third, I'm a very successful businessman. I didn't get that way by being soft or a bad judge of character. From what Cindy has told me about you, you seem loyal and hardworking. Someone I can trust and she can trust. Even with a fruity name like Mick. Am I right about you, boy?"

Double huh. "Yes, sir."

"You ever see the movie _The Deer Hunter_?"

Triple huh. "Yes, sir."

"I'm giving you one shot. I'm going to make a phone call. I'll set you up an interview with a new start up business a friend of a friend of a friend has formed just outside of Asheville. I think he is looking to hire a smart young buck to help get things rolling. So, that's it. It will be up to you to impress upon him that the buck stops with you."

Now, I'm pretty sure the dude in that movie blew his head off with that "one shot." But this sounded like the best deal I was going to get. So I very smoothly and cleverly responded, "Yes, sir."
Chapter Six

**Going Mobile**

The next big step in my Harlequin romance type adventure was breaking the news to my parents. I thought I would try the time tested divide and conquer technique by first telling Mom and gaining her as a strategic ally. This idea collapsed under the weight of a world class motherly eye roll and the June Cleverish "talk to your father" passing of the buck.

"Come again, son. You are going where to do what?"

"'I got to roll it straight and I got to roll it great before it be getting on too late.'"

"Son, that's a classic rock line from the _'72 Live in Fresno_ album by the Rolling Thigh Rash. I'm proud that you can quote it verbatim but that doesn't tell me a darned thing about what you are doing."

"Right, Pop. Cindy means everything to me. It's a new beginning in a new place with the girl of my dreams."

"Ok, those sound more like Broadway lyrics than rock lyrics, but I'll let it slide. So, let me get this straight. You want to give up becoming part of the Buckeye nation and getting a great education to go somewhere you've never been to try to get a job you know nothing about."

"Dad, 'you're roaring when you're scoring.'"

"Stop that or I will disown you. Country music? Wasn't that Hick Hucklespoon? Where have your mother and I gone wrong? Let's get back on subject. Son, have you really thought this through?"

"Dad, I know this must seem three kinds of crazy to you. You know I have always been the type to carefully choose one less club to be sure the ball lands in the fairway. This may be the one time in my life I need to take a big swing and go for it. If I land in the rough, so be it. At least I'll know I gave it a shot."

"But some guys lose their balls in the rough."

"Dad! He shoots, he scores! That was really funny."

"Don't tell your mother. Son, I know this is all for Cindy. Do you love her?"

"I think I do. What a great way to really find out. And if it doesn't work out, I can always come back with my tail between my legs and go to Ohio State next year."

"Mick, you're a great boy. You have always had a good head on your shoulders. Up to this point, I've fully supported all your decisions and they have been the right ones. Well, maybe with the exception of TPing the Assistant Principal's home with black crepe paper the night before that big storm. But, that's ancient history and, somehow, you never got caught. Plus, I got a big new siding contract out of it. Anyway, let me sleep on this North Carolina thing. We'll talk again in the morning."

"'Sweet dreams on slippery ice creams,' Dad."

"Flying Taco Shells from the '68 _Gastronic_ tour. Geesh, I've created a monster."

I awoke the next morning and cowered under covers for about an hour. Without his support, the love of my eighteen years to-date life was probably heading out forever. If he did support me, my life was about to change rather dramatically. I finally got up and snuck downstairs to an unusually quiet household for this time of summer. Normally Dad would be loudly talking back to the Fairview Journal's editorial page. Jay would have something guaranteed to drive Mom and Dad crazy cranked to cat in heat distortion levels on his Tandy thirty-five watt quadraphonic system (i.e. Prince, John Denver etc.). The only indication of normalcy was the sweet aroma of blueberry pancakes floating out of the kitchen. I found Mom in there happily stirring and flipping away.

"My, Mom, what a beautiful dress you are wearing today."

"Shut up and get the syrup."

"It's not Saturday or my birthday, so why the special breakfast? And where are Dad and Jay?"

"They had an errand to run. And it doesn't have to be Saturday for me to make my baby boy his favorite breakfast."

Alert. Leg hairs tingling. "Yeah, it does. So since when does Jay go with Dad on his errands? Did Dad say anything to you this morning? Did he seem like he was in a good mood?"

"He told me I look ravishing as usual and gave me a hotly erotic pinch on my bottom."

"Ah, Mom..."

As I was attempting to not barf in my mouth, the sound of two laboring internal combustion engines rumbled up the driveway. Two? I rushed outside in time to see Dad getting out of a hideous looking two tone green 1972 Chevy Impala. As it coughed to stop, Jay got out of our family Ford wagon behind him.

"What the heck? Was it drive away free day at the junkyard?"

"No, Son. Let me introduce you to Dreamboat. Treat her well and she will treat you well. She is all yours. No son of mine is going to North Carolina on a Greyhound bus."

"Whaaa???? Mine? A car? Mine?"

Suddenly, through a slight misting of tears, I saw her in a whole new light. Did I say hideous? I meant glorious. My first car and my father's blessing sat on four balding tires and a mostly rusted frame directly in front of me. I think I peed myself a little bit.

"Hey! If I run away to Tahiti with Heather Locklear, do I get a Corvette?"

Dad and Mom (leaning out the kitchen window) unanimously responded, "Shut up, Jay."

Yes, Jay was twenty-one and still living at home. While he was a good student and a hard worker, Jay had yet to find his calling in life. He had tried the liberal arts thing only to morph one hundred and eighty degrees into Electrical Engineering. When that didn't charge him up (shocking - _hey- you see how good your puns are when you're ass up on a rancid smelling concrete floor_ ), he briefly dropped out and became his own personnel trainer. This bulked him up considerably physically but not financially. A short time later, he dropped back in to try Criminal Justice with a goal of either becoming Dick Tracy or Al Capone. I wasn't too sure. But, all in all, he was a great big brother.

Jay maneuvered me out of hearing range of Ma and Pa and said, "Hey, let's take her to the lake tonight and split a six pack. This might be our last time to get blotto together. I'll tell the folks we need to put a few fast miles on Dreamboat to blow the carbon out of her pipes. I know they'll buy it." Capone, definitely Capone.

So that night, Jay and I shared a few brewskies at Lake Murphy.

"I'm proud of you, Mick. I don't know if I'd have the guts to do what you are doing."

Having your big brother tell you he is proud of you has to rank in the top five best things a little brother can ever hear.

"Aw, it's no big deal. If things don't work out, I'll come back and we can flip patties at the Burger Barn for the rest of our lives. Although you might not be talented enough to get any further than fry and shake maker."

"Bite me."

So much for sibling pride.

"No, really, Mick. You run into any difficulties down there, you call me. I don't care how old we get, you'll always be my little bro and it will always be my job to look out for you."

Damn. I didn't know how strong this beer was, but it seemed to be bringing tears to my eyes.

The next morning, despite the fact that half my head decided to stay in bed and the other half was pounding harder than the drummer for Sparrow Spit, I left Fairview in the rearview mirror. Counting a junior year Spring Break trip with my then girlfriend's massive brother (not a good idea – "Keep staring at that bikini slut over there and I will not only tell my sister, I will personally rip off your left nut and stuff it in your right nostril."), this was my second trip south of the Ohio river. At thirty, the prospect of loading my entire life in the trunk of my barely functioning non-air conditioned 1972 Impala and heading to a place I had never heard of to interview for a job I knew nothing about might have created a bit of anxiety. But at eighteen, it seemed like a grand adventure. And I was in love. I had my AC/DC, BTO, ELO, etc. Mom and Dad created mix tape all loaded up and ready to (literally) rock. The seats might have been a bit worn and the radiator about to spew, but Dad had installed a bitchin' Pioneer AM/FM cassette stereo and back deck Jensen six by nines. Priorities.

As I was jamming to the The Monkey Doo Tossers singing about the dung heap of love and cruising just south of the Queen City (Cincinnati for you non-Buckeyes), I noted with some interest a series of colored lights coming up fast behind me. When the sound of the siren penetrated the bass line on _Shuck it and Duck It_ , I eased onto the shoulder to get out of the way. Imagine my utter shock when the cruiser eased in behind me.

A crisp uniformed cop sporting mirrored sunglasses sauntered up to Dreamboat's driver side window. "Gotcha doing seventy-two in a fifty-five, son. Please step out of the car."

I opened the door with a mighty metal on metal screech and quickly complied.

"I'm so sorry. Are you sure I was going that fast, officer?" I asked with a sincerely quizzical look on my face.

"Son, I am very..." He stopped, took a step back, and gave Dreamboat a quick visual scan from stem to stern and shook his head. "Hmmm. No way could this hunk of junk could get up over sixty going downhill with a stout tailwind on the best of her days. Must have caught that Olds on radar and thought it was you. Carry on and good luck."

I know DB's feelings were hurt. Mine? Not so much. And he was right about being wrong. Fifty-eight was her top cruising speed.

The cassette hopelessly jammed just south of Chesapeake, West Virginia while I was grooving to the excellent song _Vehicle_ by the Ides of March. There is probably a tinge of irony there. While driving through the rural countryside, I decided that listening to religious programs and country songs on AM should be considered corporal punishment in the civilized world. Maybe that CD thing would catch on. The rest of Dreamboat somehow hung together for the whole trip.

I rolled into Asheville and the rest of my life at around nine p.m. on a star filled July evening. I can recall getting out of the car at the Holiday Inn Dad had popped for, looking up at the magnificent twinkling celestial bodies spread across the clear night sky and asking myself the often to be repeated eternal question, "Now what?"
Chapter Seven

**I Want You to Want Me**

I awoke to a crisp sunny mountain morning with no Northeast Ohio clouds obscuring the sun. I got Dreamboat started and pointed in the direction of Woodland Enterprises per the instructions Cindy's dad provided. I had three short term goals in mind. Get the job. Find Cindy. Get my cassette player fixed. Not necessarily in that order.

I had actually attempted to research Woodland Enterprises prior to leaving Ohio. Unfortunately, the Fairview library specialized more in Sesame Street than Wall Street. Even a trip to the real library at the University of Akron yielded little more than bupkes. Mr. Copeland had given me some sketchy details about it being a new company specializing in polymer coatings or coating polymers or pollywog coats or something like that. My mind was more on his bull castration commentary, so I didn't listen that closely. I anticipated a large glistening office building with lots of serious type grown-ups running around in white lab smocks. Maybe I could be the chief test tube washer.

My first clue that reality was going to bitterly conflict with my mental model occurred when I got to the turn off Highway 74A into the Woodland property. I flew right by it the first time. Actually, in Dreamboat, I more like rattled and wheezed by it. After going what I thought was about ten miles and two Country Louie and the Tweakers songs too far, I pulled over and re-read the directions. Doubling back, I spotted a small hand painted sign directing me towards "Wdlnd Ent." It pointed up a barely discernible dirt road on the right. Say what? It looked more like a cow path than a road. I shrugged my shoulders, apologized to Dreamboat, cut the steering wheel and ventured forward. After severely rattling my molars and her struts, we finally arrived at the end of the road in a huge cloud of North Carolina particulates. When, as the saying goes, the dust settled, I saw a collection of four mobile homes connected by wood walkways with a huge Civil War vintage crumbling barn behind them. A sign on the first trailer said "Woodland Enterprise – No Solicitors." Not a glistening glass or white smock in sight. I half expected to hear a few dueling banjos being plucked as I mounted the steps and headed toward the door beneath the sign. And you can bet I kept my head on a swivel for anyone that remotely resembled Ned Beatty!

I think I may have gotten minor whiplash from the double take I did once inside the door. My feet settled into thick plush carpeting as I gawked at the gleaming (but not glistening) mahogany furniture in front of me. I had limited experience with mobile homes, but this was nicer than most any home of any type I had ever been in.

"Don't worry, Sugar. It shocks most folks the first time they walk in. My name's Victoria and I am the receptionist, office administrator, accountant, purchasing rep and head cheerleader around here. As soon as you pick your jaw up off the floor, why don't you tell me how we can help you out?"

Her voice flowed like smooth mountain honey. Long curly blond hair, deep green eyes, perfect makeup all lit up by a glistening white smile. I finally found my glistening! However, I estimated she was at least fifteen years my senior. I said a quick brief prayer that her last name was Robinson

"Cat got your tongue? Let me guess. You must be Mick. I was told you'd probably be here this morning. But they didn't say what a handsome young man you are. Can I get you a cool drink?"

I think my response was something like, "Uh bluh bluh bluh, Coke bluh bluh bluh..."

"You are soooo cute. Just get yourself on down the hall to the second door on the right. Mr. Giardino is ready to chat with you. I'll bring you both a nice soda water."

"Thanks, Mrs. Robin...I mean Victoria."

"No problem, Sugar. Now you just go on in and don't be nervous. Mr. G. may nibble on you a bit, but he doesn't usually bite very hard."

I think I was sixteen shades of red when I entered Mr. G's office. The décor definitely deteriorated once I left the hallway. Mr. Giardino was talking on what looked like Alexander Graham Bell's original phone sitting behind an Army surplus desk that may not have survived World War Two. A battered file cabinet that looked like it came from the same foxhole as the desk stood against the far wall. I would have taken fifty/fifty odds on whether the chair in front of his desk would support my weight. No mile high carpet underfoot here. The linoleum seemed to crack like Lake Erie ice on a warm March day.

Mr. G. waved me into the chair with his free hand and mouthed, "I'll be with you in a minute." The chair protested, but held.

True to his word, in about sixty seconds he hung up. That had given me enough time to glance at the pictures on his wall and take some measure of the man. He looked about thirty-five, in good shape with combed back hair that was jet black and a face that strongly indicated intelligence and humor but also an undercurrent that said "tread with caution." That was exactly what I planned to do. Was I nervous? You would think I would be with my entire future on the line. And I was. Blow this interview and it was, "Hello Burger Barn."

"Welcome. We don't have a whole lot of folks dropping in here, so you must be Mick."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm impressed that you actually found us without having to call ten to twelve times. My name is Charles Giardino. You just got in last night, I bet."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me sir. My name is Charles. That's what you call me. I know you might be thinking Chuck in your head. But I loathe that name. Don't EVER even think of calling me that."

"Yes, si... I mean Chuc... I mean Charles."

"Almost shit the bed there, Mick. Tell someone that's kind of nervous not to do something and that's usually the first thing they'll do. But you caught yourself just in time. You have fast reactions and you are a fast learner. That's about a half point in your favor. Mick, what brings you to Asheville, North Carolina?"

"The shorter answer is that I followed my girlfriend."

"Ok, Mick, I knew that. So, I'll give you another half point for honesty. I hate when you newbies try to blow smoke up my poop shoot. And, by the way, I am keeping track of the points. I would take half a point away for that being a pretty lame reason for relocation, but my wife would be upset with me for not recognizing your noble romanticism, or some such bullshit. You are up to a whopping one point so far. Hit ten points at anytime during this interview, and the job is yours. Go negative, and you are out of here faster than a Bud turns to piss. "

"Thanks, Charles."

"Being polite and succinct just earned you another half point. It gets harder from here. What do you know about Woodland Enterprises so far?"

Ok. I'd been handed the ball and needed to charge ahead at full speed. "Well, you are a new company doing research into some kind of (run for daylight) polymer coatings."

No turd in the punch bowl look, so I must have got that right. It was time to accelerate my BS through the hole in the line. "Damn the torpedoes," as Pop would say.

"You are keeping a low profile. From the few public records I could find, I deduced that Woodland is a sole proprietorship. Also, your location says you are not seeking much attention. You are not about white smocks and glistening glass. However, given the décor in your lobby, I'd say you want to impress those that you invite here, except for young interviewees like me. We get brought to this office. You probably have a world class conference room where you deposit the high priced prospective talent, budding customers, or potential investor types."

That earned me a slightly wry Chuck smile. I might not call him that out loud, but I was sure I would in my head. I'm such a rebel. While I felt I had knocked over a few blockers and was running for a first down, the little voice in the back of my cranium kept telling me to not push it too far.

"If this is your only location, I would venture to guess that the inside of that old barn out back looks nothing like the outside. I imagine that it is full of pipes and vessels and all sorts of polymer research whatnots. You're a rather small operation given the cluster of four trailers and the multi-tasking Victoria upfront. "

I stopped talking so I could retain my succinctness half point. Chuck stared at me for what might have been the longest minute of my life.

"Sherlock Fucking Holmes. Wow. That's impressive. You got most of that right. Two points! But I'm going to deduct one for mentioning Victoria's up-fronts."

"But I... uh..."

"That's a joke, Mick. Not only am I not going to deduct, I'm going to add another point for you turning bright red. A lot of kids your age would shoot back with some smart ass answer to that. Let me enlighten you about a few things. We do operate independently, for the most part. However, and this is a big fucking however, we have a major investor that owns fifty-one percent of the enterprise. He prefers, scratch that, demands to remain unknown. So we simply call him The Shareholder. I more or less report to him. I am the only one here that communicates with him. The quickest way to get terminated is doing any kind of research to try to find out who he is. Got that?"

"Absolutely."

"Right answer. Another point."

"So why are you called Woodland Enterprises? Who is Mr. Woodland?"

"Beats the ever loving shit out of me. I wanted to call us 'Let's Hope We Don't Blow This Damn Place to Kingdom Come Enterprises' but that was too long to fit on the sign. The Shareholder suggested Woodland and it stuck. I think he thought a name like that might score us points with the fucking environmentalists. That was a good question and it's worth another half point."

I was struggling a bit with the scorekeeping but I knew I was definitely in the game. It was time to go for the end zone.

"Ch.. Charles, could you describe what the job would be?"

"Again, nice play, kid. Another point. You'd be shocked at how many people fail to ask that very important question. We're looking for someone that can take some of the office burden off of Victoria ( _booiiinggg – down boy_ ) and can also be available to learn the operations process. It will require long hours and the ability to learn quickly. It won't pay much to start. But, if you wanted to, we could let you live onsite. And, if you really prove yourself, there is high potential here for upward growth. So, Mick, if I hired you, what would you do your first couple of weeks here?"

"Charles, I see by the autographed pictures of Nicklaus and Trevino on your walls that you like golf."

"Bet your ass."

"Well, my dad taught me to seek out the old guys at the course. Look for the guys that have been playing forever and pick their brains. They not only know what to do, they know what not to do. They know when to go for it and when to lay up. They know how to avoid getting into the tall rough and how to get out of it if they screw up. They know how to play the odds. While it may be a cliché, there is no teacher like experience. And if you talk to someone about what they love, they are more than happy to share. So I would spend my first weeks here interviewing the longest term employees about what they know and what they do. I would try to soak up everything like a sponge starting out dry with no preconceived notions."

"Mick, have you been keeping track of the points so far? Never mind, me neither. But I think you've scored enough." Chuck picked up the phone and said, "Victoria, bring me the hiring package. And clean out the box for him to live in. I think we just found our newest employee."
**Chapter Eight**

Stairway to Heaven

Whoa, man, do I have a headache. My brain seems to be functioning a bit better, but I'm so tired. I need to figure out where I am and how to get out of here. But I think I'll snuggle up against this warm fur blanket and close my eyes for just another minute or two to conjugate some more about how I got here. Awww, that's better...

Ok. The next twenty years relate only obliquely to my current situation. So this recollection will be with the remote on the three arrow fast forward setting with normal speed at the pertinent points. Kind of like the way most guys watch Wheel of Fortune slowing only when Vanna's fine assets are on the move. If you want the details of twenty years of a young man's laughs, tears, romance, drama, successes, failures, and pathos in the Carolinas, grab a book by Hart or Conroy. But I need to get on with it. There's this small voice in my cranial cobwebs nagging about something important I need to do in a rather urgent manner. That is besides taking a piss.

I did take the job. On my first day, I was given the traditional tour by Bob ("call me 'Diddy'") Caddidy, Woodland's Head of Security. Bob was a mixture of Barney Fife and Buford Pusser, if you can picture that. He stood about six three and was twig thin. He wore mirrored sunglasses outdoors and indoors both day and night. I later heard rumors that he wore them so no one could tell if he was awake or asleep.

"Welcome to Woodland, boy. I'm going to give you the nickel tour. You'll have plenty of time to get into the details of everything if you stick around. And you will. This is one hell of a great place to work." He was the head of security and part of Victoria's cheerleading squad, apparently. "Now, I know you've already seen the office trailers. And I know you just walked right in the front door. So you must be thinking that I'm not doing much of a job of protecting the place."

No, I really wasn't thinking that at all. I was actually wondering if he carried a single bullet in his shirt pocket.

"But let me tell you. Victoria, there at the front, has a little red button under her desk she can push in case anything bad goes wrong. It alerts me and the sheriff. And you don't want to be messing with me or the sheriff." He actually hitched up his pants and made a loud sniffing sound as he said this. He was definitely straight out of central casting. "Mr. G. doesn't want security to be too good in those trailers. You may have noticed he's a pretty sly one. He's got some papers laying around in there that look like they'd be plans for our equipment and our top secret formulas. But they're not. If anyone sneaks in and takes those and tries to use them, well, I guess the things might go boom, if you know what I mean."

I kind of did and I kind of didn't. This was one strange plant tour.

"Now the barn here is a completely different story. You got to swipe your employee badge in this reader here to get in. And there is someone here watching over things twenty four / seven. That was me until today. Since you'll be living here, I guess you and I will be sharing that duty."

I might have to buy some mirrored sunglasses.

He badged us in. It certainly was no ordinary barn. Although the outside looked like a storage site that a serial killer might use for bodies, the inside was anything but. It was about a football field and a half long. And just as I had imagined, it had a gleaming clean concrete floor covered by a jungle of pipes, vessels and weird shaped metal whatnots. It was loud, hot and steamy.

"Kind of loud, hot and steamy in here," Bob yelled. "I don't much know the chemistry from a boil on my ass, but I know we're trying to make some super duper new coating. If we succeed, Mr. G. says we will build a real manufacturing plant and I'll get a real air conditioned guard house right out front. Now don't that beat all?"

I guess it did. As I was to find out soon enough, Diddy was mostly right. It was a pilot plant designed to test if an advanced polymer that Chuck and his top notch research team had dreamed up could actually be manufactured at a cost that would allow commercial applications. Whoa. That almost sounded like I knew what I was talking about back then. At that point, in reality, I was much more like that dog looking at the RCA Victrola.

"Well, that about wraps up the tour."

Huh? I think we had reached the end of the tour because we had reached the end of Mr. Diddy's plant knowledge.

"Just one more thing. You see that concrete box up high up there at the top of them stairs? That's the concrete box you'll be living in. They tried to get me to move in there when I first joined. But I got a wife. She took one look and said not only no, but hell no. I'm sure it will be just fine for you. Go on up there and take you a look."

I climbed the seemingly never ending spiral staircase. I knew I would have to be careful not to gain any weight or I might not make it up there again. The apartment was originally built for the pilot plant's construction foreman so that he could be on site twenty four / seven. I understand he never moved in. I guess he had a wife, too. Being single, I moved in with my battered suitcase and wide-eyed optimism that very day.

While it wasn't exactly Trump Tower, it was four hundred square feet of livable poorly air conditioned space with a small kitchenette (ok – hot plate and a Smurf sized refrigerator), some kind of a bed like thing, a mini shower and a seven inch black and white TV. It provided free steam heat from the plant below which was great in the winter but a mama bitch in the summer. It was called the box because that it what it was - four walls and a top. There was a plywood enclosure in one corner that housed the personal plumbing facilities. Overall, it was what a good real estate agent might call rustic. The noise emanating from the plant below required me to crank my Emerson boom box up to a speaker cracking distortion crazed level nine if I wanted to even begin to hear Freddy praise fat bottomed girls. I decorated it in an early American poverty style with an emphasis on concrete block furniture sitting on a concrete floor. To top things off, it was only accessible by climbing seventy-two mostly rusted heart stopping stairs. But, it was a very short and easy commute to work! And it was my first place. I loved it.
Chapter Nine

**Learning To Fly**

For my first few weeks, I stuck to my word and interviewed the entire twenty person staff that Chuck had assembled. Well, maybe pestered would be a better word. I started with the most experienced ladies and gents. That was basically everyone since most of them were hired when Woodland Enterprises formed a few years ago. As my dad had taught me, people's favorite thing to talk about is themselves and what they do. I typically only had to ask a single question which would push a pebble that created an avalanche of information. I think I might have had one of North Carolina's first cases of slight carpal tunnel syndrome from taking so many notes. Since I was hired to primarily assist Victoria, I spent the majority of my time with her learning about accounts payables and receivables, purchase orders, store stock, payroll processing etc. etc. While I paid attention and learned, it did bore me to tears. I think one of the only reasons I stayed awake was Victoria's lust inducing perfume and tight fitting skirts and blouses.

This is a good place to pause to note a few points about Victoria. There is an obvious joke here about Victoria's points but that's too easy and I'm too much of a gentleman to go there. At first, on more than one occasion, I had to create some lame excuse for not standing up until Victoria had left the room. "Oh, I have a cramp in my leg." That was kind of true but a little more north and to the middle. "I'll just stay here and study these pay stubs a bit longer." "I need to use your phone." I don't think she bought any of it. But her patience and sweet smile told me I wasn't the first to have this reaction when in close proximity. Fortunately, on my second day, I was pulled aside by Diddy and given some potential life saving advice.

"Look, newbie. I tell all the horn dogs this. And that is all of us boys when it comes to Victoria Ashley, even the geeks in Research. You can look but don't ever touch or offer to buy. First of all, despite what she looks like, she is old enough to be your mother. Second, her husband, Will, was a starting linebacker with the University of Alabama. He was well known for breaking tackling dummies in half. And that was on his calm days. He is currently our county sheriff. While he's a great guy, he does have quite a jealous streak and could probably kill you with the hangnail on his left pinkie. We had one foolish wannabe stud that made an inappropriate suggestion to Victoria. Some say Chuck fired him on the spot and he immediately left town. Others say Victoria mentioned it to Will and what was left of the guy became part of the raw feed into reactor number six. Third, we all greatly respect and love Victoria. So anyone bothering her would have to answer to us if they survived Chuck and Will. Any questions?"

"No, sir."

The terror those images invoked actually helped me to look at Victoria as more of a person than a candidate for Playmate of the Year. After a few days, I realized she was at least as beautiful inside as out and I joined the rest of the crew in the deep end of the Victoria friend pool. I also quickly caught on to the fact that everyone referred to Charles as Chuck behind his back. I guess I wasn't the only wannabe rebel around.

The one guy that I was having trouble nailing down was Earl Boase. I was told that Earl was only a couple of years older than me and had worked for Woodland from the beginning when he was about eighteen. I don't want to say that he was avoiding me, but every time I scheduled some time to speak with him, he either wasn't there or had to cancel. Most people I talked to asked me the same question, "Have you met with Earl yet?" And then they would either adopt a world class shit-eating grin or chuckle softly to themselves. I began to think that Earl might be the second coming of Rasputin

When I finally pinned him down, my impression did nothing to dissuade my vision of him as the Russian Antichrist. I stopped just outside the door to his office when I heard his voice booming on the telephone, "C'mon, Charles. I don't have the time to teach some snot eared wet behind his ass whipper punk how to count the alphabet on his toes. I got real work to do. Besides, he's gonna come in here, not listen to a thing I say, and then try to tell me how the cow eats the cribbage. I'm not having it. Oh c'mon. Yeah, I know, I know. Well crap on a turd. Alright then..."

So this snot eared whipper punk (?) bravely walked into his office just as the floor stopped reverberating from the phone being viciously slammed down.

"Sorry to disturb you Mr. Boase. Do you have a minute?"

Earl stood up from behind his desk. If they ever revived the old TV show Grizzly Adams, Earl was a lock for the lead. He was bigger and hairier than Dan Haggerty and actually looked meaner than his bear. His mono brow shaded his piercing black eyes that currently had steam coming out of them.

"Dump a load on that chair and tell me what you need. But I only just have a minute. Fifty-seven point three seconds to be exact."

Fortunately, I didn't take him literally on his "dump a load on that chair" comment or his exact timing. I lit up my thousand watt smile and fired off my cleverly worded opening question.

"Can you tell me what you do?"

After sighs, grumbles and groans, Earl launched into a few tidbits about his job as the Operations Analyst. I used all of my and Dad's best time tested tricks to keep him talking ("Wow, that must be hard. How fascinating, tell me more? How do you get that all done in one day? How did you become such an expert?" and so on). It was the single most exhausting discussion I have ever had. But after a while, Earl loosened up and got rolling. Our fifty-seven point three seconds had stretched into an hour. I found out that Earl had a natural ability with numbers. He called himself an idiot slaveont which I didn't quite understand at the time. He was supposed to apply his love of numbers to the plant operations (temperatures, feed quality, pressures, etc.) to optimize production (e.g. get the most and the best output for the least input and related cost). I learned several other things about Earl that day. While he loved numbers, he had no mechanical aptitude and really didn't understand the piping, vessels and whatnots and how they connected or interacted. This was the stuff I loved. But I got the feeling he didn't care too much about it. He also was the all time master of the malapropism. He loved to speak in clichés and analogies but severely bungled every one (e.g. "six of one, ten of the other"). If he was doing this intentionally, he should be performing at Stratford-Upon-Avon. It seemed to be a natural tic he had and it instantly made me like him.

I took a chance and asked him, "Earl, do you like to balance your checkbook?" OMG! He took off like a greyhound chasing a rabbit and gave me a rambling but entertaining discourse on entry level finance. This stretched us into hour number two and planted a seed in my fertile (some might say dung filled) mind.

Before I left, Earl asked me if I would have lunch with him the next day ("How about we bite a lunch tomorrow?"). This turned into lunch together almost every day and we became tight friends.

A day after my first conversation with Earl, I ran (literally) into Chuck in the hallway outside his office. I was hurrying for my training time with Victoria (the only time I really ever hurried at work) and he was walking while trying to put a lid on his coffee cup. After I apologized profusely and offered to pay for his dry cleaning bill ("On what we pay you? No fucking way."), I screwed up my courage, swallowed my fear and choked out a suggestion.

"Sir, I mean Mr... I mean Charles..."

Chuck grinned and said, "Yeah, I used to be nervous in front of studly good looking VIPS too. Look, I crap one turd at a time like everyone else. Just talk to me like you would your dad."

"Ok, Pop." His grin vanished. I might have pushed a tad too far. "I mean, Charles. I talked to Earl at length yesterday. It got me to thinking."

"We don't pay you for that. But I'm glad you're doing it." The grin was back.

"Earl is excellent with numbers. But he doesn't seem thrilled with real nuts and bolts. I was just thinking that maybe he would be better suited than me at assisting Victoria with the finance and procurement work."

"And who would be our Operations Analyst?"

"Well, I think that is something maybe I could learn to do. I am a bit mechanically inclined, good with numbers and I love nuts and bolts."

The grin exited stage left only to reappear after a few moments of thought.

"Let me get this straight. You'd give up training under Victoria to get closer to the real operation?"

"Gee, I guess I would."

"Now that shows a real passion for your work. And I'm sure you've been warned about not showing any real passion toward Victoria. I've also noticed that Earl doesn't really seem to have his heart in the operations thing. Ok, starting tomorrow, Earl will train you for the Operations Analyst role. After a few weeks, I'll have him train with Victoria to relieve some of her duties. We'll consider it an experiment and give it a few months to see how it works out. That was well played and showed some innovation and courage. I like it."

"Thanks Mr...Charles."

"Don't mention it. And, Mick..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Just don't fuck it up."

Apparently I didn't since I'm the Operations Manager today. I'm trussed up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey in aluminum foil on the floor of some yet to be defined location sweating my balls off, but I am the Operations Manager.
Chapter Ten

**Love Hurts**

Don't think for a minute that I had taken my eye off the ultimate prize, Cindy. In the three months between her starting college and my leaving beautiful Ohio, I called her so many times that Dad threatened to cut the phone cord and ban me from carrying change. Yes, kids, there was a time that you had to pay by the minute for long distance calls. Phones had cords and were not portable and, for some coinage, could be used inside booths on street corners. And, yes, you little smart assess, we did have electricity and indoor plumbing in those days.

Anyway, at first, I called her everyday and we would chat for at least an hour. She was getting settled into the dorm and meeting a few people. She missed me terribly and was counting the seconds until I arrived. By the second week, we talked for thirty to forty-five minutes. She had a made few friends and was getting used to her classes. She missed me and was counting the minutes until I arrived. By week four, we were down to fifteen minutes a day. She had to hurry out to meet her buddies. She thought it would be nice to have me around and was counting the days until I arrived. By the time I left, we were down to talking every other day. She had to go outside to talk to me since her friends were making so much noise in her room. And she kept forgetting what day I was arriving. See where this is going? I didn't.

So right before I pulled into Asheville, my first stop was at a Shell station to use the pay phone and call her. No answer. A bit odd for eight thirty on a school night, but I figured she must be studying at the library.

We finally made connection on day three with all the appropriate hugs and kissy-face type stuff.

"Mick, it is sooooo cool that you are finally here. I really missed you. And you look great. I can't believe you already have a place to live. But, uh, what's that smell?"

"Oh, that's probably G34-x-B2. It's a chemical they use at the plant and it sometimes colors the air in my apartment. Speaking of which, I can't wait to have you see it. It's got..."

"That's nice. Oh, look. Here comes Tiffany. She plays lead oboe. Tiffany, come here and meet my boyfriend, Mick, from Ohio."

"Hey."

I don't normally try to judge people based on their appearance and my first impressions. I fought hard not to do it this time. Tiffany was about five foot two tall and at least as wide. She had a nest of fly away curly grayish brown hair that covered all but the tip of her nose. From a distance, I truly might have mistaken her for a sheepdog. But, I'm sure she had a great personality.

"He smells funny."

Or not.

"Oh, Mick, I'm in a bit of a hurry. We are having trilling practice in a few minutes. Can you come by and see me again real soon?"

"Uh, sure." Trilling practice?

While she seemed happy about my job, pleased to see me and all that, deep down I think I knew that something wasn't quite right. She seemed really busy, even the evenings when I was off (which were rare). Logistics were a major problem. She lived in the dorm at Lady of Lure (LOL). I had to pick her up in the front lobby and drop her off there. There was a strict "no boys in the room" policy which was even more strictly enforced by Beatrice, the front desk resident assistance. My attempts at charming my way passed her ("Surely a beautiful creature like you has had a member of the opposite sex up to her room on occasion. Can't you just turn your head this one time?") were met with a silent steely-eyed glare as she gripped and un-gripped a Louisville Slugger in her Paul Bunyan sized hands. On one occasion, I even tried my best Spy vs. Spy disguise subterfuge.

It was raining hard outside so I had an excuse for wearing the ratty trench coat and turned down fedora. I had even used a magic marker to fashion a slight mustache on my upper lip. My goal was to surprise Cindy in her room where we could progress our physical relationship beyond the public hand holding and kissing stage that we had been stuck in since my arrival.

"Pizza delivery for Room 423," I uttered in my best Joe Cocker type gravel filled voice.

"Excuse me?"

I un-graveled just enough to be understood by Beatrice at fifteen feet and repeated, "Pizza Delivery."

"Just leave it over here on the desk and I'll let have her come down it get it."

"Can't do that, m'am. Last time I did that, the RA ate it and I almost got fired. Not that you'd ever do that, but it's now against pizza company policy."

"Well, then, hold onto to it and wait for her to come down to get it. What was that room number again?"

"No, ma'am, I don't have that much time. I'll just run it up there." I took a step toward the stairs. I had given her a fake room number (Cindy was in 306). I knew that if I could get to the stairs, I could lose her. In fact, if I threw the pizza box at her to distract her, I'd be gone long before she could...

"I can't quite place you yet, but I think I know you. And if you're thinking of throwing that fake pizza box at me and running up those stairs as I try to find that fake room you gave me, think again. I was top of my class in the T.J. Hooker baton throwing school. You break for them stairs, and you'll have a trademark side-up thirty-two ouncer bouncing off your nads faster than you can say William Shatner. And what in the hell is that thing on your lip?"

Damn. Time for Plan B. Too bad I didn't have one. I looked behind her and shouted, "Oh, there you are." She may have aced the TJH baton course but she was absent the day they covered the oldest tricks in the world. As she turned to look, I made a mad dash out the front door into the stormy night half expecting to get cold cocked by some flying lumber.

So, why didn't I just take Cindy to my place? Well...

"Jesus, Mick, this is where you live? I thought I was going to be asphyxiated just coming up the stairs. That's assuming that I lived through the climb."

"Baby, I admit, it's not the Taj Mahal, but at least we are finally alone. Let's take advantage of it."

"I'm sorry, Mick. If I stay here another thirty seconds, you're going to have to have a clean up on aisle three."

So much for my place.

We tried the cliché boyfriend / girlfriend things together for several months, except for the sex thing. At eighteen, that was a pretty major exception in a relationship. She introduced me to more of her friends. Most were music majors and were slightly more polite than Tiffany. However, despite my rugged good looks and finely honed sense of humor, I did not feel completely accepted by them. Perhaps the combination of being a Yankee, not being a college student, and not worshiping at the altar of classical music made for non-congruence in the confluence of our worlds (how's that for a non-collegiate Northerner you tight-assed band bitches?). But I wasn't resentful, was I? They also threw rather strange looks at Cindy when I was around. Whenever I mentioned our plans for future wedded bliss, her band mates would either giggle or go silent.

It all came into clear focus the night I stopped by campus unannounced. I thought I was going to have to pull another night shift at the plant. At the last minute, the schedule changed. I had the choice of either sweating my balls off in a rather odiferous apartment or dropping in on Cindy and, please God, avoiding her band pals.

I tried the dorm first.

Beatrice was her usual charming self. "She's not here. I think she went to practice. What is that? Did something die?"

I was definitely going to have to do something about that G34. I think my nose hairs had become immune to it.

I managed to find the band room. It helped that the building directly across from the dorm had a big bass clef chiseled in stone on its facade and a statue of a drum major in front using his knee to try to knock out his teeth. I entered the building and used my powers of deduction to find the practice hall. Of course, the multiple signs that said "Practice Hall This Way" were of some assistance.

There were no lights on in the practice hall and the fading twilight outside its windows didn't help much either. I could make out lots of music stands and a percussion section. I could also detect a complete lack of occupants. I turned to leave when I heard what I would have described as a "trill" coming from behind a door in the far wall of the room. Ah ha. That must be where the flutists do their fluting.

As I got closer, I noticed the words "Band Director" etched in the small glass window inset into the door. I also noticed that the "trilling" sounded rather odd and slightly off key. One glance through that window probably changed my life forever. And in retrospect, I believe in a good way.

Cindy was practicing her breathing technique. It looked like it was on her band director's lungs. She was sitting on his lap, had him in a major lip lock and was trying to lick his tonsils. The trilling was coming from him. He had his eyes shut and, I think, she did too. Her head slightly tilted my way and, for a brief second, I thought I saw her open one eye as a little smile crossed her otherwise occupied lips. I turned and did my best to make a stealthy escape. I felt an odd sense of betrayal and sadness mixed with an even odder sense of relief. While I knew it was over between us, I did hope that she would make first chair. Well, at least third.

Cindy never called me after that evening and I never tried to contact her again. So, did I turn tail and run back home to Fairview? Not hardly. I liked Asheville and really enjoyed working at Woodland.
Chapter Eleven

**What's Your Name?**

Earl and I started hanging out in our free time. He loved his new position at Woodland and swore he was eternally grateful (which in Earlism's is "eternally grapefruit") to me for making it happen. He lived close to Asheville in a modest one bedroom apartment. While his apartment was not infused with the aroma of industrial chemicals like his new friend's place, it did have a certain canine tinge to it. Earl shared his abode with his best friend, a sweet sixty-five pound golden retriever named Dawg.

"You're dog's name is Dawg?"

"Yeah, I never could come up with a name for him. He doesn't really answer to 'Dawg.' I'd like to rename him something clever. Got any ideas?"

"Umm, I would go rock but Bruce or Zappa don't seem to fit. What is one of his distinguishing characteristics?"

"Huh? I'm just a dumb country boy. Can you use words with fewer syllables?"

"Don't give me that country hick act. I know you well enough to know you're sharper than ninety-nine percent of the tacks around here. So, what does Dawg do that makes him different?"

"Dawg can do some pretty amazing Dawg doo when Dawg wants to do doo."

Told you he was pretty sharp. Not necessarily funny, but sharp.

"But one thing about him is his curiosity. He wanders off a lot. He always comes back but I wonder where he's been. And he won't tell me."

"It's a good thing that you don't hear your dog talk to you, Earl. I have a thought. Why don't you call him the Wander Dog? In fact, name him Bread the Wander Dog."

"Hmmm – I'll think about it. I'm not sure you can throw an old dog new sticks..."

It turns out that Dawg seemed to love the name Bread. I was back at Earl's a few days later and could tell he was itching to show me something.

"Watch this, Mick. Hey Dawg, come!"

Dawg raised his head, looked at Earl and promptly fell back on the floor.

"Hey Bread, come!"

Dawg, a.k.a. Bread, sprang up and shot at ninety next to nothing towards Earl.

"Bread, sit."

Bread (screw Dawg) screeched to a halt, plopped down hard on his rear and wagged his tail mightily.

Earl picked up what looked like a wad of duct tape rolled up into a softball sized mass. He threw it across the room. Bread tracked it but didn't budge until Earl said, "Bread, ball!" Bread flew like a heat seeking missile after the ball of tape. He grabbed it in his teeth and proceeded to shake his head and chew it to pieces.

"Earl, you do know that you can buy a pretty sturdy dog ball at the pet store?"

"Yeah, Mick, but he loves that shiny sticky shit and goes through a lot of it. Richard Winterville in procurement brings a couple of cases of it to my office when they have a surplus. Of course, I pay him for it!"

"Of course you do Earl. You are the type to pay for a company pencil if you accidently take one home."

"Aw, Mick."

Bread looked up at us with strands of tape hanging out of his jowls.

"Whatever. It looks you have a new name for your dog. But as smart as he is, I think I would revise it a bit to Bread the Wonder Dog."

"Thanks, Mick. When it comes to being clever, you are the cat's bow wow."

I often crashed on Earl's sofa after our nights of partying. It was also good to get away from the pipe sweat and plant smells occasionally. Of course, most nights Bread would crowd onto the sofa with me. You might say I felt sandwiched there. Or you might not.
Chapter Twelve

**Whole Lotta Love**

We formed a work related softball team, started a high handicapper golf team, and chased some skirts (ok, halters and short shorts). At first, Earl was a bit scared of women. I sure his looks (think the spawn of Godzilla and King Kong) pretty much scared them too. He was twenty-five and had only been on a few dates.

I, on the other hand, was of more normal earthling size. I was about five foot eleven with curly dark brown hair, penetrating brown eyes, a slightly flattened nose that seemed to widen out my lips, a compact but powerful build and a permanent look on my face that harkened back to Alfred E. Neuman's famous motto, "What, me worry?" I had always been told that I looked kind of like that dude that was the catcher in the movie Major League (the original - which was one of the top ten greats of all time up there with _Armageddon_ and _The Hollywood Knights_ ). Since my Asheville diet consisted of lots of soup and ramen noodles and I was crawling over miles of piping and climbing tank ladders every day, I was in the best shape of my life. So while Earl would repel, I would attract. As long as the attraction of my magnetic pole was stronger than repulsion of his (and, no, I will not stoop low enough to crack any pole jokes here, especially since if Earl is proportionate - whoa), we did all right.

I pioneered the male makeover concept with Earl. If reality shows had been invented back then, I would be a millionaire today. After being turned down by three barbers and having one faint on the spot, we finally found a brave soul in Asheville that would bathe, shave and weed whack Earl. I took him to Sears for some XXXL size decent looking clothes. I taught him some surefire lines guaranteed to work one hundred percent of the time with ten percent of the women we met (not bad considering what we were working with). However, with Earl, even the simplest lines proved to be a tongue twisting challenge. I started with, "Come here often?" Of course, with Earl, that usually came out kind of creepy as in "I like to come often here." Even the all time cliché, "What's your sign?" became "Do you sign?" Great with the hearing impaired set, but we didn't run into them too much. Occasionally Earl would throw out a "You have such big beautiful blue thighs." Instead of getting slapped he sometimes would get a return along the lines of, "Don't be nervous you big cute cuddly teddy bear." So, if the lighting was just right, the alcohol flowed enough to slightly alter visual perspectives, and we found a member of the opposite sex that found Earl's English mangling amusing, we might score. Rare, but it did happen once or twice. Speaking of scoring, that leads straight into the story of how Earl met Jennifer.

Jennifer knew Earl slightly in high school. She knew who he was but thought he was sort of different and a bit terrifying. Earl graduated and went to work at the plant. Jennifer went off to get a degree at Colgate. She returned to Asheville in a rather spectacular fashion on a Chamber of Commerce type North Carolina fall day.

Our team, the "Coats of Arms" (suck ass name for our somewhat talented softball team), was playing the "Raleigh Rangers" in the annual Tri-State Chemical Plant Blowout. We were up by one due to another of Earl's monumental home runs. It was the bottom of the final inning and I was pitching with two outs and the bases loaded. The batter hit a soft roller up the middle which I snagged and quickly flung to Earl at first.

"Earl! Incoming!"

The ball struck him square in the shoulder and bounced away. Normally, Earl was a very sure handed fielder. I could not remember the last time he made an error. While the ball was perfectly thrown (of course), I could see why Earl would struggle to catch it. He was standing at a ninety degree angle to the bag with his mitt by his side. He was staring into the stands like a hungry mastiff staring at a squirrel. The power of his gaze created a gravitational force that caused my head to snap in that direction. There, walking into the bleachers, was a stunningly beautiful blonde young female type creature. And she was committing a heinous crime. She was absolutely, with no sense of mercy, killing a pair of designer jeans. Suddenly everything went silent for just a moment as our entire team stared slack-jawed at this amazing sight. In fact, the Rangers stopped half way down the base paths and gazed in wide wonder. I swear that even the birds stopped singing.

The spell was shattered when someone from the stands yelled, "Stop gawking at my daughter you perverts and play or I'll come out there and stuff your balls and bats where the sun don't shine." It was Will and he could back that up that threat anywhere, anytime. As Diddy had described, he was a tall all muscle scary looking ex-Marine. Thank God he was on the 'justice for all' side of law and order as the county sheriff. I didn't think many men could take down Earl, but I'd put my money on Will in a dust-up. Also, thankfully, he was usually a gentle giant. Just don't stir up his "Hulk" side. A good surefire way to turn him green and mean would be messing with his wife or daughter.

Earl recovered quickly enough from his stupor to throw the runner out at home. But he never fully recovered from that moment. He was still glassy eyed in the dugout after the game.

"That could not have been Jennifer. What happened to her? She's a goddess."

"Well, Earl, I guess she grew up and filled out rather nicely at college."

"And she's done with dental school?"

"Dental school?"

"Yeah, she went to Colgate, didn't she?"

I think he was kidding. I hope he was kidding.

With a ton of cajoling and coaching, he finally got up the nerve to ask Victoria if it would be alright to take her daughter to lunch. One thing led to another and, well, I think Earl is more terrified of Jennifer than vice-versa these days as is the fate of any man deeply in love.

The few girls I dated were not too impressed that I lived in a rather pungent steamy small hovel (according to them) at an out of the way mysterious plant making whatzits. They were also not overly enamored with Dreamboat. When her air conditioning finally stopped putting out, my summer dates pretty much did too. So, in those early days, there were a lot of lonely nights. I filled my time by studying the blue prints and flow diagrams of the pilot plant. There was enough light in the barn at night that I could roam around and compare the drawings to the actual nuts and bolts. As I did with my initial interviews, I sought out the most experienced operators to guide me through the piping the first few times. The plant operated using a lot of high pressure, high heat and caustic chemicals. It was not a good place for the uninitiated to stumble and bumble in low light.

In the mid nineties, the pilot plant had served to prove that we (notice how Woodland Enterprises had shifted to "we" by then) could produce advanced polymers in a commercially viable way. And the Holy Grail that was the basis for the plant in the first place had been discovered (more about that later). So we shut down the pilot plant and built a real honest to God production facility. We had an old fashioned barn razing (never pass up a good pun – if there is such an animal) that included the destruction of my home. I moved into a trailer on the property and helped with the oversight of the plant construction.
**Chapter Thirteen**

Free Ride

On a sunny hot July day, I was summoned to Chuck's office. Yes, he had a real office. Along with the new plant, there was also an office building being constructed. Chuck and Victoria were the first occupants. The offices had doors, carpeting, comfortable furniture, windows, and walls that weren't made out of plywood and paneling. It was at the top of my dream list to also move in there one day. Pretty pathetic set of goals, Mick.

"Hey, boss, everything alright?"

It sure looked like everything was, indeed, alright. Chuck's third floor spacious office was a palace compared to his previous (and my current) accommodations. He looked like a captain of industry sitting in his high-backed office chair behind his brand new desk.

"Yeah, Mick, it's all good. How could I not be good living in this brand new building? Pretty impressive, isn't it? Speaking of impressive, I wanted to let you know that I am quite impressed with you, young man."

"Is it because I let you win at golf?"

"The only thing we need to work on is knocking some of that smart assedness out of you."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not. If you are free this Saturday night, my wife, Rhonda, and I would love to have you come over to the house for dinner."

"I'd be honored."

"You bet your ass you would. My wife is a world class cook. Just smelling her pot roast is an honor that is only bestowed upon the very few. So, here are the directions. See you at six. And, Mick..."

"Yes, sir"

"Try to do something about that odor."

It was rather odd to feel honored and insulted simultaneously. I guess you can take the boy out of the pilot plant but you can't take the G34-x-B2 out of the boy.

I must have showered six times on Saturday until the hot water ran out and my skin was rubbed raw. I sprayed on various amounts of everything from Old Spice and English Leather to some Hai Karate I had leftover from junior high. Dreamboat had definitely sprung a few leaks and was on her last legs, but she managed to get me up Chuck's beautifully wooded winding driveway. Getting back home promised to be a fifty-fifty adventure at best. Thank God for Triple A.

I gasped as I rounded the last bend in the driveway and his house came into sight. It was a large stately two story lodge made out of Carolina Pine logs with a huge wrap-around porch. It sat on a rise overlooking a mile of tree covered valley and a small sparkling lake. It literally took my breath away.

Chuck came out into the circular end of the drive to meet me and read my thoughts. "Kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it? When I come home from a tough day at the plant, one look out over the valley, and all my cares melt away."

"Yeah, Charles, I can see why. It's beautiful"

We both silently stared at the tranquil scenery. It was nice sharing a rare tender moment with my boss. That moment was shattered when he said, "Can you park this piece of shit around back? The homeowner's association might fine me if they see it in front."

Although he was grinning when he said that, I proceeded to nose Dreamboat as far to the rear of the house as I could. As advertised, when I walked in the front door, I was greeted by an incredibly delicious smell coming from the kitchen. I was hoping it would mask any diametrically opposed smell that might be coming off of me. I was slightly embarrassed when Max, their black Chihuahua terrier mix, took a tentative sniff of my pant leg, let out a whelp, and ran off to hide. Chuck, playing the gracious host and country gentleman in his own abode, pretended not to notice.

"Welcome to my humble home. And this is the little woman."

First of all, the house was anything but humble. I'm not an interior designer or anything like it, but I know good style and elegance when I see it. Both Mrs. G. and the furnishings in the house had an enormous helping of both. The feeling of an upper class lodge carried over from the outside to the inside of the house. The family room first caught my attention with its huge stone fireplace, polished wood floors, Navajo rugs and large seating areas with chairs and sofas that were made out of logs but looked like you would fall asleep the minute you dropped into them. The far wall was all glass with a forever view of the valley and lake. After taking this all in, my attention was quickly snatched away by Mrs. G. She was a tall slender blonde that looked like her twenty-nine plus years had been very good to her. Her blue eyes contained a twinkle that immediately put me at ease and made me feel welcome in their home.

"And Charles, I suppose I should start introducing you as the little man?"

"Touché, my dear. I meant to say 'This is the love of my life and the finest and funniest woman God has ever created.'"

"Good save. Mick, make yourself comfortable. I'm going to go fix us all some martinis before dinner. Gin or vodka?"

I wondered if she had a younger sister. Dinner actually exceeded the sterling advance notice put out by its aroma. It was superb. The perfectly cooked bone-in rib eye and mashed potatoes and gravy were a cut above my usual noodles. Strawberry shortcake topped off the meal. I tried not to eat like a starving wolf, but it was a challenge. After dinner, Charles excused himself to make a call and check on the plant. Rhonda poured brandies from a crystal decanter and sat across from me by the fireplace.

"Mick, I don't know if Charles told you that we never had kids. We do love Max like a child and treat him that way. By the way, where did he go? Anyway, I know Charles likes to give you a hard time, but, deep down, I think he views you as the son he never had."

"Rhonda, I'm touched. I think a lot of him, too."

"That's wonderful. But please don't ever tell him. He is the world's nicest guy and best husband, but he hates all that sentimental stuff. He usually shows his affection through his mild insults and teasing."

Wow. He must really like me then.

Charles rejoined us and plopped down on the sofa. "Mick, you and I like to kid around a lot. But I am not kidding with what I am about to say."

Ah, shit. Not layoffs at the plant starting with me, I hope.

"Ok, I will put on my serious face and big boy pants for this one. Lay it on me, Charles."

At this point, Mrs. G. stood and gave me a thousand watt smile and a sly wink. She excused herself to go tend to the dishes.

"Remember when you came in here to interview as a snot-nosed kid from Iowa?"

"Ohio."

"Whatever. I told you that there was upward potential at Woodland. Well, here it is. I'm going to make you an offer I hope you can't refuse. It's going to require a good chunk of your free time, a ton of work, and the ability to stick to it even when you hate it more than life itself."

How could you even think about turning down an offer that started out with those promising words? But, what the hell? I had already faced adversity and bad times like:

  * Losing to Tallmadge High.

  * Cindy announcing she was moving North Carolina (bad, at first).

  * Finding Cindy conducting the band director in the ways of love.

  * Thinking in bullet list format. This was something I think I could overcome if I:

  * Concentrated differently

  * Quit trying to be logical

  * Stopped using PowerPoint

Anyway, what Chuck was about to lay on me surely would be a walk in the park compared to what I had already been through.

"Mick, we have a development fund at Woodland to help groom our more promising young staff."

I turned around in my chair and looked behind me.

"Yes, I'm talking about you, wise guy. I have always been a big believer in furthering our abilities through education. I know you gave up college to follow your dream, even thought it might have been a wet one. You have a real aptitude for nuts and bolts and a good dose of common sense between your ears. But you are a bit green. So, Woodland is offering to pay for you to take a series of night and weekend business, management, and mechanical classes at Asheville Buncombe Technical College."

Hmmm? Give up my free time that I now spend sweating in my trailer, throwing duct tape for Earl's dog, and going blind from studying plant diagrams just to further myself as a person, move up the ladder at Woodland and maybe get an office in the new administration building? Tough decision, that one.

"When do I start, sir?"

"That's my boy. Good attitude. Here is a course schedule. Why don't you go over on Monday afternoon and sign up."

"You got it. Thanks!"

"There's more. That piece of shit you are driving is going to get you killed at night on these roads. I have been trying to unload my old Toyota 4x4 pickup. It's not pretty, but it runs like a top and will get you through a frog smothering blizzard. I'll let you use it as long as you need to under one condition."

"Wow. Thanks. I don't know what to say. What would be the one condition?"

"You don't name it after some stupid long hair hippie music."

"Agreed. It will be the car with no name." I had already quickly decided to call it Horse as homage to the classic rock song _A Horse with No Name_. I didn't think Chuck was a fan of the band America, so I felt relatively safe.

"And there is even more. Jesus, I'm beginning to feel like a fucking game show host. You do well with your courses and continue to do well here and I might make you Operations Manager which would include being a member of the Leadership team."

"You mean The Circle?"

"Exactly. Along with that comes a small ownership stake in the business. If Woodland succeeds as I think it will, you will ride the up curve with us. Of course, if we go in the shitter, you get dumped on too."

Wow. Even a minor ownership stake can be major if it is a small piece of a really big thing. And that would be excellent for the Mickster. I really believed in Chuck and Woodland. I won't go into the technical details, but suffice it to say that we were getting close to launching a coating that could be used in micro electronics with negligible heat added and a coefficient of - oops, getting too technical. All I need to say is that X-400 would make us the bad asses of the industry. Nobody could figure out how to make it, until now. We did and our pilot plant proved it. The process was very volatile. The slightest misstep might mean launching the company into orbit (physically and literally). Of course get it right, and the company would be launched into orbit (figuratively and financially).

"I don't know what to say other than I am honored."

"Working full time and going to school is going to be hard. But in the time I've known you, you never shied away from anything hard."

While a multiple choice menu of snappy smart ass replies began to download into my frontal lobes, I managed to choke them off before any of them came spewing across my vocal chords.

"Thanks. Charles. I will make you proud."

"I know you will, Mick. And just one more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't ever beat me at golf. This is offer is revocable at my discretion."

That Chuck, what a kidder. I think. Either way, I decided to work on making my slice even worse.
**Chapter Fourteen**

I Fought The Law

I turned out to be a pretty good student. I found the classes interesting, challenging and informative. I kept my head down and worked hard. I also managed to keep my mouth shut, most of the time. There was one class that was the exception. Professor Raul Thayer's Business Management course pulled my string a little too hard and a little too often. Much like that doll that talks when its string is released, I, too, tend to mouth off when mine reaches its limit.

Professor Thayer had taught at Harvard Business School until retiring to North Carolina. I think he took the part-time night job at Buncombe so he could continue to hear himself talk. He stood about five foot eight and weighed less than Earl's dog. He always wore a bow tie, heavily starched white shirt, and black dress pants that stopped about three inches above his highly polished wingtips. His corduroy sports coat looked like he bought it twenty years ago which was also, in my estimation, the last time he got laid. The height of the pile of bullshit he stacked up each evening was only exceeded by the elevation of his lofty ego. One might say that I wasn't exactly aligned with his way of thinking. I was of the opinion that he was also less intelligent than Earl's dog.

"In business, profit is not one thing, it is the only thing. As a top tier business man, your sole loyalty is to your stakeholders. You serve them through maximizing profit. You do this any way you can within the bounds of law. Of course, if the law interferes with maximizing profits, do what you need to while ensuring you don't get caught."

He paused and glared at us. I think he was waiting for applause or laughter. What he received was a nervous twitter.

"Of course, that's a joke. Especially if this room is bugged by the Feds," he said with a broad wink and a shit-eating grin on his face. "If your business is not number one and crushing the competition, you have no right to be in that business. The only business book that is required reading for this course, besides the excellent one I wrote, is  Niccolo Machiavelli's The Prince."

Although it was against my better judgment, I couldn't seem to stop myself from raising my hand. The professor glanced my way but didn't show any signs of acknowledging me. So, when he stopped to take a breath, I launched in.

"What about loyalty to the employees that work hard to run your business every day? What about loyalty to the community that surrounds you and allows your business to operate? What about loyalty to your customers?"

"Oh, I see we have a future failed businessman in our midst."

I had several thousand great comebacks to that, but managed to bite down on my tongue.

"Let me address that in case the rest of you are similarly misguided. First, without profits, there is no place for the employees to work. Does anyone truly think your employees are going to be loyal to your business? Each one of them would run to work for a competitor if they served better hamburgers in the cafeteria. Their only loyalty is to that paycheck that they get twice a month."

He continued without letting me respond. "Second, the community is privileged to have your business operating there. You are the tax base that pays their politicians and allows little Jimmy to be on a Little League team. Without you, they would dry up and blow away. You owe them no loyalty. Your efforts need to be directed at making sure they don't get in your way."

I could feel myself get hot and turning red.

"And finally, loyalty to your customers is funnier than the joke I told a few minutes ago. If your product is a nickel more than your competitors or takes thirty more seconds to access, your customers will scatter like roaches when the lights come on."

He turned his back on the class to face the blackboard and signal that the King had spoken and the peasants should shut the fuck up. I think the majority of the class was in my corner. Unfortunately, they were the classic silent majority. That left it up to me.

"Iggy Pop had a rock album titled _Blah, Blah, Blah_ and that's what I'm hearing from you, Professor. We, as students, are your customers. Are you saying that you have no loyalty to us?"

Now he was getting hot and turning red which I found quite amusing. "How dare you challenge me? I have been teaching business since before you were born. There is also a classic rock album by the Beatles titled _Let it Be_. I suggest that is what you do. What is your name? It's Nick, isn't it?"

Mama didn't raise no fool. "That's right, my name's Nick. I wonder how many businesses you ever ran. My father operates a very successful business based on loyalty to his employees, community and his customers. He may not be the fastest or cheapest at what he does but everyone knows he is honest and can be trusted. He may sacrifice some profit to ensure he lives and operates by his principles."

"Since you are attending night school and not Harvard Business School, I'd say he sacrificed quite a bit of profit. I'd like to know what his business is and where it is. I will go there tomorrow and open a competing business and crush him like a bug. Any business that puts trust and honesty above profits will quickly become as useless as an insect and ultimately be wiped out by the truly talented exterminators in the marketplace."

"I take it you are saying that ethical business values are becoming extinct and the middle class is a collection of useless insects."

"Not exactly, but close."

"You do know that without insects, our food supply would dry up and we would all become extinct. Without a strong foundation rooted in small businesses in middle class America, our country would also crumble. Is that what you're promoting? An end to the American way of life? And I hope I said that loud enough for the Feds' bugs to pick up."

Now that got a laugh from the class. I'll admit I might have been channeling Otter from Animal House with the un-American routine, but I was enjoying myself.

"I'm done wasting my time arguing with you, Nick. You're an idiot."

My tongue got ahead of my brain as I quickly retorted, "And you're an asshole."

You could have heard a pin drop. I could see a calm descend over Professor Thayer as the bright red color faded from his face. He smiled as he retorted, "Yes, but I'm the asshole that's giving you your grade."

That turned out to not quite be true. That following Saturday evening, Professor Thayer was pulled over by a certain large county sheriff after leaving a wine tasting party. He blew a little too high on the breathalyzer test and was found with an open bottle of Chardonnay in his car. Being a first offense, he didn't do jail time, but he did lose his position at Buncombe.

Oh, by the way, I had already read Niccolo Machiavelli's _The Prince_.
Chapter Fifteen

**Changes**

Change happens. Sometimes it's for the better and other times, it's not. This change was most definitely for the better for someone I cared a lot about. I had been doing the work and night school thing for about three years. While it seemed I'd never finish, I was learning a lot.

It was a hot and humid summer evening. While the window air conditioner was putting up a good fight, it was going down for the count. I had taken a break from studying and enjoying one of Anheuser Busch's finest cold products while squinting at some dumb sitcom on the seven incher. Over the hum of the plant, I heard my front steps groan and pop like they were on the verge of collapse. That could only mean one thing. Earl was visiting my abode. He came through my plywood door and plopped himself down on my sagging coach in the living room / dining room / study / kitchenette combination.

"Glad you could join me to try and sweat off some pounds. I should charge a gym membership for my sauna facilities."

Earl grinned as he caught the Bud I tossed to him.

"Mick, you got any plans for next Saturday?"

"Well, I was thinking of raking the concrete out front, organizing my spice rack, and finishing off that quart of Butter Pecan but, other than that, no. Why do you inquire, my overgrown hairy friend?"

"Jen and I are going to get plowed."

"We're going out drinking? Again? Remember the last time when you wound up slow dancing with Doris while wearing Jen's bra on your head?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant we're getting married. We want a small ceremony with just a few close friends. And I want you to be my best boy."

Whoa, Nelly. He meant hitched. And he wanted me to be the best man. The plant must have been kicking up a lot of dust that day. Through misty eyes, I managed to choke out, "I'd be honored, big guy."

Of course, that meant that I had the pleasure of taking Earl out shopping for a tux.

"Size what? Have you tried Otto the Tent Maker over on Maple Street?"

Since when did the kindly retail clerk transform into an insult comedian?

We struck out at seven men's clothing shops and were on the verge of having Earl walk down the aisle in his work coveralls. We were tired and discouraged. We didn't even notice that we had walked across the street against the traffic signal. The blue lights and single burp of a siren behind us alerted us to the error of our ways.

"I should have known that it was you, Mick, leading my future son-in-law down the path of lawlessness. It starts with jay walking and pretty soon you are knocking over the Savings and Loan."

So the county sheriff went to the same laugh academy as the retail clerks?

"Sorry, Will. We are so frustrated trying to find a tux in Earl's size that we can't see straight."

"Yeah, it seems I am too big for their britches."

"You guys are wasting precious time shopping for clothes when you could be on the golf course. Shit, I can overlook the foot traffic violation, but I may have to give you a ticket for being pussies. I'll tell you what. This is your lucky day. I'm not only going to turn you loose, I am also going to loan Earl my old tux. I think Victoria can let it out enough that Earl would look pretty sharp in it. Now go book a tee time before you grow a pair of tits and decide you're going to get your hair and nails done."

Apparently, sensitivity training hadn't reached the thin blue line in Buncombe County yet.

The tux did fit Earl nicely. However, nobody paid much attention to him once the dazzling white gowned Jen started down the aisle escorted by Will in his dress uniform. Behind them followed the flower dog. Yes, flower dog. The aging but still very bright Bread crept up the aisle with flowers lightly attached to her tail. As her tail wagged, the flowers were strewn perfectly. One of the animals had performed flawlessly. But could the other? We all held our breath as Earl recited his vows. Amazingly enough, he got every word right. The repeated practices I had with him paid off. But I drew the line at the "kiss the bride" thing during those sessions. He managed to get that right on his own. The reception was at Chuck's house. Earl got a little tipsy and tried his version of break dancing. Reports were that it registered six point two on the Richter scale in downtown Asheville.

It took another two years for me to finish night school. Chuck was right. I spent my days working long hot hours at the plant and weekends and nights in class or studying. I managed to squeeze in a little golf and a little softball, but not much else. I earned a technical degree with a minor in business and another minor in sleep deprivation.

Chuck and Rhonda came to my graduation. Earl and Jen came with Bread and a few other plant employees. Chuck seemed to be as happy as I was to see my sheepskin.

"Well, damn, you did it. There were times when I was sure you were going to fall asleep on the job. But if you ever did, I never caught you. And you graduated top of your class. Well done, Mick."

"Thanks, Chuck. I never fell asleep because I was too tired to make the effort to lie down."

"Always the jokester. Anyway, Mick, Terry Morgan finally decided to retire. Starting Monday, you are the new Operations Manager at the plant."

Earl gave me a big slap on the back and Bread licked my face. I was relieved it wasn't the other way around. With Earl, you never know. I was ecstatic about this turn of events and could not wait to start my new role and tell Mom and Dad.

My salary and ownership percentage increased as business boomed. This allowed me to achieve a rather comfortable state of financial independence. I was able to finally say goodbye to my in-plant accommodations. While it was bittersweet moving out of the locale where all the action and reaction took place, I loved my new modern townhouse in Asheville. It had carpet, a big color TV, insulated plaster walls, actual kitchen appliances, a soft queen size bed and smelled of nothing at all. Paradise! I was able to buy a Nissan 380Z (self dubbed Studbucket). It was slightly used, but was to Dreamboat and Horse as Angelina Jolie is to Bea Arthur. Horse was put out to pasture and spent his remaining days rusting in a barn behind Chuck's house. Dreamboat became a coffee table. She sits proudly in front of my fireplace to this day.

Speaking of accommodations, I had also achieved one of my prized goals. I had my own office on the third floor of the administration building. It had windows, a floor that didn't scream every time you stepped on it, and a real door! The only odor it had was caused by furniture polish and my aftershave.

Suffice it to say that my date frequency increased proportionally with my financial status. I don't want to say Asheville women are shallow, but most did prefer automobiles with no holes in the floorboards and a boyfriend that didn't smell like chemical stew. The future was looking very bright, indeed. Chuck's vision about education improving life seemed to be spot on. However, that vision was about to be clouded.
Chapter Sixteen

**New Kid In Town**

So why am I here? How did I wind up going from a happy-go-lucky semi-successful transplanted Yankee southern bachelor that was free as a bird to a happy-go-lucky semi-successful transplanted Yankee southern bachelor stuck in a ball of tape on the floor of an abandoned room that smelled like an old barbeque pit? Life was going so good until about four years ago. That's when somebody had this great idea...

"You want to do what?"

"Look, Mick, things are going pretty well but this is 2009. The economy is down. Although we still have a highly sought after unique product, demand for electronics has fallen which reduces demand for X-400 as well as our other coatings. We need to think about some ways to bring our cost structure down so we can weather this storm."

Chuck had aged relatively well. He was probably into his mid fifties but kept himself in good shape. His hair had thinned and grayed and his waist line had expanded a bit, but the steel in his eyes and spine showed no signs of rust. I had earned his respect with my dedication and in-depth knowledge of the plant. I also consistently let him beat me at golf (not too hard with my game). Secretly, I think he appreciated my sarcastic wit. He hid it well, but I know (hope) he was grinning on the inside. We were friends, but there was no doubt that he was still the boss. I never forgot Rhonda's comment about him thinking of me as the son he never had, but I never came anywhere near that subject in his presence. I could mouth off and challenge and push, but I knew there was a limit. There were always lots of "buts" with Chuck.

"I thought Earl was doing a great job with our finances. Our margins are the best in the industry, we run pretty lean and mean and we had a record year in 2008."

"I know. But The Shareholder is more worried about the future."

Ah, the mysterious Shareholder pops up again. Chuck had mentioned him (her?) numerous times over the last twenty plus years. He never referenced him (her?) by name only by the title "The Shareholder." From what little I was able to gather, this was the person that first funded Woodland Enterprises, owned fifty-one percent of it and had continued to silently invest in our search for the Holy Grail. The Shareholder also provided most of the capital to build the production plant once our quest was fulfilled. In recent years, I assume he (she?) sat back and reaped the benefits of our success. Whenever Chuck wanted to shutdown a discussion in The Circle, he played the powerful Shareholder card.

"But why do we need a high powered MBA at our little plant?"

"First of all, I never said the MBA would be high powered. Second, some new blood and ways of thinking might do us some good. Remember when I took a chance bringing you in as a know nothing greener than the Jolly Giant ass clown? I think that has worked out OK."

"OK? You know how many times I have saved your ass? If I hadn't changed the raw material mix and temperature on Reactor Three, we'd still be dicking around in that pilot plant."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Third, MBA's are cheap labor right now. It isn't exactly a rosy job market for them."

"So what? Is this someone that is going to work for Earl? You know Earl doesn't suffer fools lightly. He might not take too kindly to having an assistant."

"Well, actually, he will be Earl's supervisor. The Shareholder was rather insistent on that point."

"Oh my God! Warn me before you tell Earl. I will wear my hard hat and Kevlar underwear that day."

"Oh, I'm not telling him."

"Ah, crap. Go ahead and say it on the count of three. One, two, three..."

And we both said in unison, "You are!" That actually got a smile and small chuckle out of Chuck. However, I was smart enough to realize that if "Chuck" didn't go over so big, a comment about "Chuckles" was certainly out of the question.

"But, seriously Charles..."

"Stop the presses! Did Mick really use the word 'seriously?' Run for the hills! It's the end times."

Man, Chuck was in rare form today. "Very funny. Are we going to add this guy to The Circle?"

The leadership team, a.k.a. The Circle, was composed of five of us. Most of them had been there from the beginning. I was actually the newest addition. We all had some ownership stake. However, I suspected that Chuck had more than any of us second only to The Shareholder. Mine was up to one percent. We were proud of our plant and our team. Decision making was relatively democratic unless The Shareholder was insistent upon something. That was rare. However, when, through Chuck, The Shareholder's will was imposed, it was usually the right decision. Diversity was the one area where we had a glaring failure in our Circle team. We were all white males. I was the youngest member by at least fifteen years. Succession planning was also a thorny issue facing us.

"Probably. We have never had a need for a finance presence on the team before which is why we never added Earl. But, with perhaps some rocky times ahead, The Shareholder is asking for more and more financial information. He wants each of us to become more deeply involved. That means someone has to give monthly financial status presentations. I love Earl to death, but can you see him making presentations each month?"

Frankly, I could not. While Earl was great with numbers, public speaking was not his forte. He could tell a fart joke in the bar with the best of them. When it came to being in front of an audience using Power Point slides and a laser pointer, Earl tended more toward the idiot than the savant side. Years ago, when Earl first got his new position as the plant's financial head, Chuck thought he would gather the staff and let Earl talk about the good fortunes we were having.

"Ah, Mick. You know I'm not good at this. There must be at least fifty people out there all looking at me waiting for me to mess up. I'm sweating like a frog in heat. I know what I'm saying, but sometimes the words get sidetracked on the way from my brain to my mouth."

"All of those people have heard you mess up numerous times. They'll only think you're weird if you don't mess up."

"Real comforting, Mick."

"Take a few deep breaths. Talk slowly. Stick to the facts. And, Earl, try not to use any analogies or stories that you might get a bit jumbled. And for God's sake, no jokes. OK? Go get 'em buddy!"

Earl ignored most of my advice. He decided to open with the old stupid joke about the constipated accountant that worked it out with a pencil. But, Earl, being Earl, told it something like, "Did you know about the accountant with diarrhea that stirred it with his pencil?" Crickets. It went downhill from there. He called our margins our "margarine," showed slides of our revenues while trying to explain our costs, and somehow got a picture of our softball team in the locker room mixed into the slide deck (that's how our catcher got the nickname "Shorty"). Those were some of the saner things he did. About half way through, Chuck got up and unplugged the overhead projector. He told everyone that, in the future, the financials would be presented in the monthly newsletter. If Earl wasn't such a great guy and really good with numbers, he might have done himself some real career harm.

"Ok, Charles. If it means keeping Earl off stage and it makes The Shareholder happy, I guess I can get behind it. I'll tell Earl."

"Thanks, Mick. The guy's name is Elwood. He shows up tomorrow. I want you to show him around and make him feel welcome. And don't look so morose. Maybe he's a good softball player. Or maybe he's somebody that can keep you company in the woods when you're searching for your Titleist."

That Chuck is a million laughs a minute. Some days you get Eddie Murphy. Other days, it's Eddie Munster.
Chapter Seventeen

**Communication Breakdown**

I can't say that Earl was overjoyed by the news. And neither was Victoria. Yes, Victoria still worked at the plant. She remained hot even though she had achieved AARP membership eligibility status. She had cut back to three days a week and functioned primarily as our receptionist. Earl had taken over all the accounting and procurement responsibilities.

"Mick, sweetheart, Earl and I don't really need any help. We seem to be doing just fine on our own. I don't think Earl is gonna cotton to this idea very well. Can you tell him on my day off?"

I wasn't quite sure what "cotton to" meant. If it was anything like "hate with a red-assed passion," then Victoria was one hundred percent correct. I fudged a bit and told Earl that same day instead of waiting for Victoria's next day off. I surely didn't want him to hear it through the ever rapid and rumbling office grapevine. Especially since Elwood was slated to show up the next day. And Earl may be less likely to kill me with Victoria as a witness.

"Jesus on a jelly roll! Why in the Sam's Club would we be doing something like that? I don't have the time to teach some snot eared wet behind his ass young whipper punk how to count the alphabet on his toes. I got real work to do."

"Earl, my buddy, my pal, I'm pretty sure those are the exact same words you used twenty plus years ago when you found out I was joining the company. You may be insane but at least you are delightfully consistently insane."

"Ah, Mick, things are going pretty well around here. Why do we need some fucking NBAer? It's not like this is Merrill Lynched.

"It's MBA not NBA, Earl. I don't think the dude is that tall. This sounds like it is primarily some screwy idea The Shareholder's had. So, it's not like we have a choice. Besides, if we don't bring him in, you are going to be asked to do Power Point financial reviews again."

"Ah, crap on a stick. When does he start?"

Turns out, as promised, he started the next morning. I got to my office at my regular eight a.m. out of the gate starting time. I opened my door while simultaneously trying to juggle a skinny latte, my Lean Cuisine lunch entrée and my trusty laptop. In addition, I was attempting to steal a sneak peek at Victoria's cleavage which was generating its own gravity. The two pairs of eyes staring at me from one of my office chairs gave me an unexpected scare. I saved the latte but the laptop and Lean Cuisine went crashing to the floor. I think I might have mixed my carrots and apple crisp with my bits and bytes. I may have also peed myself just a little bit.

"What the hell? Oh, man. You must be Elwood. You gave me quite a start."

It was actually only one pair of eyes. The round wire-framed inch thick glasses just made it seem like Elwood had four eyes. He picked his one hundred forty pound frame out of the chair in front of my desk, rose up to his full five foot nine height, smoothed his wool suit and patted down his yellow and red stripped tie. For all the world, he looked like he should be named Elwood and that he should be an MBA. On second thought, maybe he looked more like a thirteen year old at his Bar Mitzvah.

"Mr. Giardino told me to wait here for you," Elwood softly related in a two octave above soprano voice.

"Ok, I owe him one. Why don't you sit back down and tell me about yourself as I get settled."

"My name is Elwood. I'm recently graduated from the University of Chicago with an undergrad in Accounting and a Master's of Business Administration. I'm here to help you cut costs and make your business more efficient, competitive and profitable."

"Hang on there a minute, Elwood. I haven't had my first sip of overpriced Jo yet and you are already reshaping our company? Why don't we start with a bit about your non-educational background? Things like your trip coming here, your family, hobbies, favorite color, etc."

"Sir, I would rather not. I am here for business purposes and would like to stick solely to that."

"First of all, you can call me Mick. No need to call me sir, although Sir Mick does have a nice ring to it."

Crickets and a blank stare through those Coke bottle lenses.

I don't dissuade easily. "Come to think of it, wasn't Mick Jagger knighted in 2003 by the Prince of Wales?"

"Sir, I don't have any idea what you are talking about."

Oh My God! Dagger to the heart! This was going to be a barrel of laughs.

"I would be interested in hearing about your receivable days outstanding and your debt to equity ratio."

"OOOOOkayyyy...well, I have had some pretty outstanding days but I think you might be a little too young to hear about them."

Nothing. Is this microphone on?

"Actually, you are probably better off asking Earl about those things when you meet with him ( _good fucking luck!_ ). I'm more about how the plant operates and the products we produce."

"I am interested into delving into your governance model and understanding how you maximize your competitive advantages in a highly leveraged tightening marketplace."

Was this guy talking English? "Right. Let's start with what we do and why we do it well. I'll make this short and sweet to keep from boring you and, more importantly, from boring myself."

Not even a slight grin.

"As I'm sure you know, we make coatings for electronic components. The key to this industry is to achieve the right balance of insulating properties and size and heat dissipation. We were fortunate to have savvy investors that realized some twenty-five years ago electronics were going to keep getting smaller and smaller and more and more powerful. Casings and coatings for those electronics were going to have to follow suit. Kind of like playing bridge."

Not a blink. Zero. Just that creepy dead eyed look.

"To make a consistent cost effective efficient coating that could dissipate heat, be flexible enough to be applied in very small areas and have proper insulating properties was, and for others still is, very problematic for our industry. Woodland has developed a way to do this using specialty raw materials and a highly secretive process. If I told you too much about it, I'd have to have you killed."

Not a flinch. This dude must have had Valium Cheerios for breakfast.

"We are the only ones that know how to do this. While we make more generic coatings like our competitors, this selective coating gives us a tremendous advantage in the marketplace. We call this product X-400. We guard the formulation and process for X-400 very closely. I mean we're talking hot shave with a straight razor closely."

Bad analogy. From the looks of Elwood, he might not be shaving yet.

"In fact, no one here knows the entire X-400 process or formulation. Our Leadership team is known as 'The Circle.' There are five of us. Each of us knows a piece of the process. That knowledge is documented in individual safety deposit boxes that can only be opened by the others upon an individual member's death, retirement or if they became mentally incapacitated. Some may claim I am already the latter."

Why do I even try?

"Are you following me, Elwood?"

"Yes, sir."

That sounded like a strangely familiar response.

"There are five critical components needed for successful X-400 production. It is a temperamental product. Get one thing wrong and you can plug up your whole plant. Worst case scenario, you can blow it sky high. And that is not good for the bottom line."

Nada. It was hard to tell if he was even breathing.

I ticked the five key components off on my fingers (and thumb):

  * Raw Material Mix

  * Temperature and Pressure

  * Production Volume and Mix Time

  * Run Time

  * Start Up Sequence

"These can all vary depending on the time of year and atmospheric conditions. For example, I input the temperature and pressure components in the reactors at the beginning of each X-400 batch run. I set them myself in a control room based on a very precise formula and weather data. It's something we do at least once a quarter and I have to be here to do it. Richard Winterville is our procurement specialist. He works for Earl and now you, I guess. He has the raw material formulation that he gives to our supplier. Again, this varies somewhat depending on the average relative humidity at the time of production. He is the only one that has the algorithm to make these adjustments. By the way, is it true that Al Gore invented the algorithm?"

"No, sir. I believe that came from..."

"Right. Dan Fallan is our lead engineer. He schedules the production volume and mixing time based on another proprietary formula that only he knows. Phil Kitter is our Head of Research. He sets the run time. And finally, Charles. He inputs the reactor start-up sequencing based on an ever changing code that only he can decipher. Collectively, we are The Circle. We call The Circle's late evening pre-production meetings the "Nights of the Round Table."

That usually kills. Not even a twitch from Elwood.

"Get it? Nights as in Knights...? Never mind. Anyway, we think this gives us simple but tight security. Although others have tried, no one has successfully duplicated X-400. Any questions?"

"Will I be part of the...what did you call it? The Circle?"

"I think so. But you will be the only one without a piece of the overall formula."

"So, why should I care?"

"Right. Say, Elwood, do you play golf?"

"No."

"We might have to fix that. Anyway, let me try one of my dad's golfing analogies. While many can hit the ball one eighty or so and occasionally put it in the fairway, with X-400 we are two eighty plus and straight down the middle every time. Just as natural talent in golf is a special gift and must be nurtured and treasured, X-400 is a special gift to us and must be treated with the respect it deserves. It's much more expensive and difficult to make than other coatings, but everyone wants it and is willing to pay for it. We are the only producers and we can make enough to meet worldwide demand. It is why, from a wine appreciation perspective, I've been able to relocate from Boone's Farm to Napa Valley."

This kid did go to college? Right? He showed no hint of recognizing the liquid staple of my high school years. I wasn't about to waste any classic rock references on him. I think I would be able to take Elwood at most sports. But I would bet against myself ten times out of ten if we engaged in a stare war. I don't think even my patented Groucho Marx eyebrow hopping moves would get a blink out of him. Spooky.

"Elwood, if I may, I'd like to give you a bit of advice. I learned this business from the ground up by talking to the workers that had been here for a long time. Their knowledge and expertise is golden. They are our best asset. And most will be happy to share what they know with you. So, go mine some of this gold."

After a very brief mumbled thank you and one of the limpest handshakes I've ever experienced, I sent Elwood on to see Earl. I didn't think there was much else I could tell him. I certainly didn't think I needed to warn him about hitting on Victoria.
Chapter Eighteen

**Don't Ask Me No Questions**

"What a numb nuts. This dude could make watching grass die exciting."

"Yeah, I know Earl. He's a bit of a stiff, but we need to give him a chance to show us what he can do. And keep your voice down. I think he's about to begin."

We were sitting with The Circle in the conference room awaiting Elwood's first financial status update. He had been with us for a little over thirty days. No one in the plant had seen much of him. I noticed that he spent most of his days in his office staring at his computer screen and making furious scribbles on a yellow legal pad. I guess he didn't care for my advice about talking to the seasoned vets.

Chuck kept shooting Earl and me his best glowering Tony Soprano look. I was pretty sure that meant to shut the fuck up and pay attention.

Elwood slinked up to the overhead projector with a pile of Power Point transparencies at least a foot thick. I forced a knuckle deep into my mouth to stifle the groan that was traveling up my throat.

"This chart shows the year to year results for Woodland Enterprises in key financial areas over the past ten years. As you can clearly see..."

Not so much. His chart must have had three hundred numbers on it about the size of a flea turd in a rainbow of colors with more arrows than flew at Custer. And this was just chart number one. Elwood said something about streamlining approval processes by rewriting our Manual of Authorities. God, better him than me! And thank you, God, for making dweebs that enjoy that kind of drudgery. He droned on and on about this index and that emerging trend. My eyes glazed over and went a little bit crossed. Chuck nodded his head up and down like one of those plastic dogs on the back deck of a car as this torture continued. But I was pretty sure that he had no clue what Elwood was prattling on about. I looked over at Earl and was amazed that he was gazing with rapt attention. However, when I followed his line of sight, I noticed that he was focusing through the front window watching a vigorous game of acorn keep away that two squirrels were engaged in amongst the colorful foliage on the lawn. I had to admit that it was far more entertaining than Elwood.

"So we must make immediate reductions in our cost structure. That will be my goal over the next several months. I am proposing a ten percent cut by year end. This is the only path to achieving cost parity with our main competitors."

Ok, that got me torn away from the nut war waging outside. "Elwood, why do we need to achieve cost parity, if there is such a thing, with our competitors? A prime driver of our higher cost profile (I can talk this shit when I have to) is our production of X-400. Raw materials, labor and processing costs are much higher for it. But, since we are the sole supplier and it is in high demand, that's where we generate the bulk of our revenues. The more of it we make, the more money we make. And we have no competition for X-400. Capeesh? So, how does it make sense to look at results only on a cost basis? Shouldn't we be trending costs against revenues and margins?"

"I am not taking questions at this time."

The quiet insolence with which he flatly stated that was the match that ignited my smoldering tinder. I am afraid I lost it a bit.

"What? How can you possibly bore us for over an hour with this crap and not accept any questions? I can't believe..."

Perhaps if I hadn't turned bright red, jumped out of my chair and threw the paper in front of me containing my non-existent notes into the air as I exploded, Chuck might have let me continue.

"Enough, Mick," he thundered. "Sit down and shut up. Elwood is trying to make improvements in our results. He's been studying our financial position day in and day out since he has been here. I don't think you can say the same."

"But..."

"Utt Utt. What did I just say? Ok, that's better. Elwood, I took you on a probationary basis. I want to give you a chance to succeed. If you can help us achieve a ten percent cost reduction by year end, I'll be impressed. That will certainly help the year-end bonuses for everyone which are looking pretty bleak right now. Cost reductions will, perhaps, put us in a good position to get through these challenging economic times. We WILL support you in your efforts. Right, Mick? I said, 'RIGHT MICK?'"

"Yes, sir."

Ok, I had been severely spanked and put in the corner. It may have been my imagination, but I think I detected a slight smirk on Elwood's otherwise blank canvas of a face. If it was truly there, that would be the first emotion I had ever seen him exhibit.

And so began the great Elwood slash and burn our costs campaign.

We all whined a bit when the office trash pick-up was reduced from everyday to two times a week. That wasn't so bad after I convinced Earl to not leave his banana peels and shrimp shells in his trash can overnight. Phew! Using lower wattage light bulbs in the office fixtures might reduce costs but would probably eventually result in eye stress medical claims. I would swear that he contracted with a wood chip and corn cob factory to resupply our butt wipes. When the donuts and free coffee disappeared at meetings, some of us were on the verge of an armed uprising.

However, it did seem that our costs over the next quarter started to trend down. When Elwood made his mind numbing presentation at the next quarterly meeting (sans caloric or liquid refreshments), he had a chart we could actually understand that showed a seven percent cost reduction over the last three months. For an operation our size, that's not just chicken scratch. Could we really have saved that much on Charmin and Krispy Kremes? While my mind explored the possibilities of the lack of one reducing the usage of the other, Elwood continued with a projection that, with his program and continued diligence, we could achieve a whopping twelve percent reduction over the year.

"Outstanding!" Chuck was way too excited for someone lacking gratis caffeine and sugar. "This drops right to the bottom line and directly into our bonus checks! The Shareholder is going to cream his shorts when he hears this."

While I had never seen The Shareholder, this was not a mental image I wanted to conjure. Never one to be shy, I had to ask, "Elwood, how the Sam Hell did we save that much on wattage, refuse and treat deprivation? It doesn't seem possible."

"I am not taking questions at this time."

As I started to rise from my chair, I felt Chuck's hairy palm on my shoulder. "Mick, don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

"How about up the ass?" I thought, luckily, rather than said.

"These numbers are fantastic. I want you guys to be celebrating not grumbling. I also want you guys to bond like a real team. Mick, why don't you and Earl take Elwood golfing at my club this weekend? It's on me, not the company, Elwood."

Blank stare from Elwood. Drop jawed "you gotta be shitting me" glare from me.

"Be sure to bring the scorecard into the office on Monday so I can see how much fun y'all had."

I knew Chuck was a tough businessman. I never knew he was a practicing disciple of the Marquis De Sade. I could just hear Earl saying something like, "This is the biggest disaster since the Japanese invaded Poland."
Chapter Nineteen

**Miracles**

We gathered on the first tee on Saturday morning as instructed. I had considered having Jim and Johnnie (Beam and Walker, that is) over for breakfast. Instead, as a good little loyal employee, I settled for my usual Captain Crunch and low fat yogurt. I was not so sure about Earl. He looked a bit green around the gills. I think he might have an early morning visit with a friendly Bud or two.

In a surprise to no one, Elwood showed up in entirely inappropriate attire. He had on his pinstriped suit pants, a button down white shirt and highly polished dress wingtips. We convinced him to lose the tie and bought him a pair of golf shoes. Since we were using Chuck's personal account, we also rented Elwood the best set of sticks the clubhouse had. I had them throw in a sleeve or two (ok, a dozen or two) of Titleist's finest for each of us and a really cool golf hat for me. We got a camo style hat for Earl and a ridiculous cap for Elwood ("Golf is the Only Four Letter Word My Mommy Let's Me Use"). After briefly savoring these immature small victories, Earl and I settled in for what was sure to be a really long long round. We already warned the starter to skip a group behind us. We were certain we would be searching for Elwood's ball (and probably Elwood himself) in the water and the woods most the day.

"Elwood, have you ever played before?"

"Not much, but I did read a book on how to play last night. I understand how to grip the club and address the ball."

"Hey. I read a book last night that helped me grip my club and address my balls too. It had mostly pictures in it."

While I was chuckling at Earl's witticism, Elwood stepped up to the tee. He readjusted himself more than a dog trying to lie down and finally settled over the ball. His final positioning was not really all that bad. He must have paid attention to Chapter Two last night.

While I was checking the distance to the large plate glass window in the house to the immediate right of the tee, Elwood took his swing. I winced, closed my eyes and listened for a shattering sound. A loud 'thwack' was followed by a moment of total eerie silence. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the starter uttering an amazed, "What the fuck?"

Elwood said something like, "The Y vector over rotated about three degrees."

I gazed down the fairway at a ball nestled dead in middle of the morning dew about two hundred fifty yards out. I was speechless.

Earl quietly asked, "What was the name of that book?"

The rest of the round proceeded in much the same manner. Elwood played brilliantly. He shot an eighty-one and beat us each by more than ten strokes. He never once smiled or acknowledged our amazement. He just kept muttering some gibberish about moments of inertia and momentum transference. For the first time in my life, I wished I had paid less attention to Dee "Boom Boom" Profundus sitting in front of me in physics class and more attention to the physics instructor.

I drove the golf cart over to Elwood's car and dropped him off. I had to ask, "Elwood, I have never seen anything like that. No one learns to play like that from a book. So what's the deal?"

It was barely noticeable. Had my bullshit antennae not been on the highest frequency, I might have missed the very quick and slight smirk on his face as he drolly said, "I'm not taking any questions at this time." He managed to jump in his car and put it in gear before I could fully pull my seven-iron out of my golf bag.

Again, the little voice inside me kept saying me something wasn't quite right here. I vowed to keep a closer eye on our genius MBA, Elwood.
Chapter Twenty

**Take It to the Limit**

"This may be the funniest thing I have ever seen."

Chuck was getting far too much enjoyment out of reviewing our scorecard. Earl and I were in his cubicle taking abuse while Elwood was out slaying some other high cost dragon. Yes, I said cubicle. Our rather palatial administrative building was one of our higher overhead expenses. On the plus side, it was comfortable and made me feel kind of like Donald Trump. On the negative side, over time, I did find my big office to be somewhat lonely. It made communication with my heart and soul (plant operations) more difficult. So, when Elwood proposed we lease the building out and move into cubicles in a trailer complex inside the gate, I voted "aye." Enough of us felt the same way, including Chuck who could not afford to be seen as anti-cost conscious. Of all of us, I think he missed his personal palace the most. I'm sure it felt like déjà vu all over again to him. While his cubicle was light years nicer than the office I first met him in many moons ago, it did not have a wet bar in the corner or automatic shades like his former digs in the administration building. Elwood had managed to lease the building to some rather mysterious company. I had no idea what they did, nor did I care. This move was one of Elwood's biggest contributors to cost savings, so I did have to begrudgingly give the little twerp a little bit of credit.

Not as much as Chuck, however. He had the biggest smile on his face that I'd seen in years.

"Charles (after all these years, I never once had slipped up and called him Chuck to his face), did we do a background check on this guy? Something just doesn't add up."

"Oh? Do I hear the squeal of some sour grapes? Well, I know one thing that really adds up. That would be your golf score!"

Nobody likes a smart ass. Especially when it's your boss smarting off in your face while giggling like a schoolgirl.

"I'm just saying. This guy can't be like he seems. I'm not sure I trust him."

"Costs are down. The Shareholder is ecstatic. Our bonuses are looking robust and rosy. What's not to love and trust? Now get out of here before I make you two take him bowling! Ha!"

Earl and I slinked out with our tails between our legs.

"Man, I agree Mick. Something is rotten in the State of Delaware."

"Denmark."

"Yeah, there too. So how can we find out more about this guy when he won't tell us a thing?"

The idea must have struck us both precisely at the same time. We looked at each other and simultaneously shouted, "Doris's Dingleberry Diner!"

If you were feeling that you were the litter and life was the cat, Doris's was the place to go. It wasn't actually called Doris's Dingleberry Diner (I'm sure that is a shock to you). Let the Dingleberry fall and you've got it. It was a cheaply priced, friendly, well run bar and grille that didn't skimp on its drinks. They did spice up their free delicious nuts so much that you could go nuts drowning them with potent firewater. It was actually run by a 'lady' named Doris who was a sixty something live wire. She really did look a little like Doris Day in her Rock Hudson days (better than the other way around) and swore like a red-assed sailor. I have had more fun and the worst morning after hangovers courtesy of Doris's than any other place on earth.

Earl and I knew that Elwood would be a cheap date. We figured one umbrella adorned daiquiri and he would be singing like Alvin and the Chipmunks.

"Elwood, Earl and I would like to take you out tonight to meet some locals and have a bite to eat. Our treat. How about it?"

"I need to stay home and work on some cost projections."

"Well, we wanted to talk to you about that tonight, too. I think there may be some opportunities you might be missing." That was a tiny white lie but was the only bait I could dangle to lure in this cold fish.

It might have been a random light reflection off his thick lenses from the trailer's dim fluorescents, but I swore I saw a sparkle in his otherwise corpse-like eyes. "Really? Where should I meet you and at what time?"

Earl and I got there a half hour early. "Hey you limp-dick peckerwoods. How's it hanging?"

"Doris, you look sunny as ever."

"Lick me."

"Oh, the temptation. We need a favor tonight."

"Now you're both going to have to ball me, too." It remains to this day somewhat disconcerting to hear those type of things coming out of a mouth you'd expect to be cheerily intoning thoughts about "What will be, will be."

"We have a good friend arriving in about half an hour to join us. Could you make sure that every drink he orders has at least a double shot? We're playing a trick on him. Of course, we will pay for the doubles."

"No problem. And you bet your sweet lily white virgin asses you'll pay for them."

I don't think I'd ever try to eat her daisies.

"Ok, what have I missed?" We were onto our second round. Earl was drinking Tanqueray and tonic or TITs as he called them. Never try to decipher Earl. I was sticking with scotch and soda. We had convinced Elwood to go with margaritas hoping that their sweetness would mask their explosiveness. When the waitress brought the first one, I knew Doris was true to her word. If anyone had been smoking within ten feet of us, I think the fumes would have sent the whole place up. Elwood seemed to like it and downed it in a hurry. This was sped somewhat by our encouragement for him to try handfuls of the free nuts.

"Ok, I'm ready for another one. So what have I missed?"

"C,mon, Elwood, before we talk shop, let's loosen up and finish these drinks and get some more."

By the time we got to round three, Elwood was still trying to get us to tell him about our non-existent ideas. "So, what else can we do to cut costs?" I will give Elwood credit, he was staying focused. Earl and I, not so much.

"Yeah, we are going to get to that (not). But first, tell us a bit about yourself."

"I think I already did when we first met."

"All you told me was that you got your MBA in Chicago. So, how was it up there?"

"Cold"

"So, who kept you warm at night?"

"The superintendent in the building. He kept the furnace in tip top shape."

I think my SAT test was easier than talking to this guy. "No, I meant... Oh look, here are more drinks. Have some more nuts."

While keeping count was getting more difficult, I believe Elwood was outpacing us a bit. After what I think was his fifth, I knew we had him right where we wanted him.

"So Melwood, what hobby horses do you ride?"

I was pretty sure I thought that was a strange question, even for Earl. I tried to give him a funny look but he seemed out of focus.

"I really don't know what you are asking. I do have work to do, so if you could tell me what else we could do..."

"Let's take a few more sips first. Ok, we could be like, buddies and pals you know. You probably are a pretty coooool dude. What about your..?" While my mind knew where it wanted to go, my lips wouldn't follow. Perhaps because they were numb.

"Look guys, thanks for the drinks but I really have to go."

The next sound I was aware of was little Miss Doris softly cooing in my ear. "If I had wanted turds on my table, I would have located the shitter in the dining room. You two have been sprawled out here like a couple of wet farts for two hours now. I'm closing up. Get the fuck out."

With those sweet words ringing in my spinning head, I dragged Earl out onto the street. Elwood was nowhere to be seen. We were lucid enough to know not to drive. Luckily, Earl lived only a block away. It took us a mere hour to stagger to his house in between barf breaks.

I woke up to wet licks from Bread the Second. The original Bread had a few litters of puppies in her long wonderful life. She went to the great doggie biscuit bakery in the sky a few years ago. Bread Two (it was easier to just call him Bread) not only looked just like his mother but had all the same quirks and talents. He loved the duct ball, wandered off frequently, and, after a bit of training, responded to the same commands. Amazing. Anyway, I got to work about noon the next day feeling like the Fifth Fleet was conducting maneuvers in my veins. I think I left half my aching head at Earl's. Speaking of Earl, he was nowhere to be seen.

"Thank you for dinner. I never did get to hear your ideas. Is now a good time?"

While that was probably the most personal, least formal and nicest thing Elwood ever said to me, it somehow really pissed me off. He stood there as if he had gone to church last night actually expecting me to have a normal conversation. And since when are nuts and margaritas considered dinner? I started to slam my door in his face until the realization struck that cubicles don't have doors. Instead, I sneered and loudly said something like, "Morta fickle bumswhit". He left and I crashed with the thought that perhaps he was not of the human race bouncing around my ever thickening cranium.

After that, we pretty much left Elwood alone and he reciprocated in kind. The plant was running well. Costs were down and profits up. All seemed peachy at Woodland and right with the world.
Chapter Twenty-One

**Ready for Love**

Of course, if all were really good and bright and cheerful and gay, I wouldn't be lying here, would I? Do I sound irritable? Well, let me tell you. As I get to this part in my concrete chaffed recollections, I can feel my blood pressure spike. I get very pissed thinking about this. It happened on my watch. It was the first time I truly felt homicidal. If I could've gotten my hands around the neck of the person responsible... but I'm getting ahead of my story in my own thoughts. By the way, the second time I felt homicidal would be, actually, right now. As my blood pressure goes up, the adrenaline flow goes up with it. If I can catch the asshole that thought I would look good as a sticky silver mummy... Ok, back to my musings in a semi - chronological order. I have said many, many times since,

Luckily, the explosion happened at night.

We ran a small crew after dark which contributed greatly to nobody getting hurt. During the day, there would have been a number of workers roaming all around in the plant. We would have had injuries or worse. I would have been in the "worse" category if I still lived in that shithole trailer. It was located next to the reactor that blew. The only thing left of the area was some twisted metal and, most likely, a few of my roach roommates.

This should not have happened. It was like somebody hurt my baby. We built tons of safety features and redundancy into our equipment and processes. Our main reactor should never, ever blow up. Before this night, I would have staked my life on that fact.

The night had started out rather promising. I was on my third date with the school librarian, Holly Head. I was hoping to move beyond the introduction and character development straight into the twists and turns of the main plot. In other words, I was ready to get laid. Duh.

We were at the obligatory third date "Hey it's time to check me out for an overnight read" local watering hole. It wasn't exactly a high class French restaurant, but it did have white table cloths, decent steaks and waiters that actually acted like they gave a shit.

"So, Mick, I know a lot about you yet I know so little."

"I'm a pretty simple guy. I grew up in Ohio and had a really great childhood. I have a brother who works as a criminal investigator for some Federal agency he is not allowed to talk about. Who knew that the kid who couldn't tie his shoes and loved to eat mud would turn out to Fed Head."

"While you turned out more of a Deadhead."

"I will consider that a compliment of the first order! As I'm sure you detected from time in my little deuce coupe, I am a major classic rock fan."

Holly smiled and whispered softly, "I have every BTO and Segar album ever recorded."

This could be the beginning of beautiful thing. Holly really was the whole package. A bright mini- skirted beautiful bespectacled funny librarian with strawberry blonde hair, a dazzling smile and a fabulous soft North Carolina accent. And, no, I was not wearing my Chardonnay goggles.

"So, Mick, tell me more about you."

"Well, I have a great set of parents. They're getting a bit older, but are hanging in there. Dad owns his own siding and window business and still plays golf three times a week. Mom is a walking encyclopedia of joke and rock references. I don't get to see them enough."

"So, why is a guy like you available for dates?"

"I might ask you the same question."

"Well, first of all, I'm not a guy. Sorry, no _Dude Looks Like a Lady_ reference possibilities."

Didn't I tell you she was funny?

"And let's keep this about you tonight. We can delve into me another night."

I managed to choke back the obvious line about hoping to delve into her tonight. Instead I said, "I guess it is the old cliché about being too busy and never finding the right one. I thought I had several times, but something always seemed to go wrong. My first real love decided someone else had a better baton than I did."

"Huh?"

"That's another long story for another night. My other disastrous relationships might have been partially my fault. I have been accused of being more dedicated to my work than I am to my romantic attachments."

By now, we were into the dessert course. Holly has a special twinkle in her deep green eyes as she slowly brought a slightly over ripe cream covered strawberry to her red pouty lips. Ok, maybe the wine was altering my perceptions just a tad. She paused right before she bit into it to ask, "In your line of work, don't you have to use very precise numbers?"

"Uh, yes. Our processes are quite delicate and precise. Why do you ask?"

She used the tip of her tongue to flick a bit of lingering cream off her lower lip and replied in, I swear to God, a raspy husky voice, "Well, as a librarian, decimals make me dewy."

"Check, please!!!!!!"

After speeding to my place in world record time, I poured a couple of neat Jagermeisters (single dude hint – always have well chilled JM and a couple of classy frozen shot glasses ready to go on a moment's notice. If that doesn't impress your lady, then she probably isn't right for you anyway). I had a little soft rock turned way down low on the stereo. Does that sound pretty awesome in a wimpy romantic kind of way or what? We were ready to get this party started. Holly had unbuttoned her blouse far enough to make me appreciate the grandeur of the Rockies in spring time. She swayed her hips seductively to _Don't Bring Me Down_ as she slowly closed in for the kill. "Hey Stud. I wanted you the first time I laid my eyes on your hot bod, you hunk of molten manhood." Those may not have been exactly her words, but this is my memory and I' m in a seriously pissed off mood, so allow me some slack here, OK? Anyway, as our parted lips met, we both felt the sparks fly and the earth tremble. I mean literally tremble and there was a loud boom. I went from vertical with a babe in my man cave of love to horizontal with a sore ass on my plush carpet in the blink of an eye.

"What the fuck?"

"Jeez, Mick, I expected you to be a good lover but...wowzie."

As Holly untangled from the fake ficus she took down with her, my land line rang, cell phone rocked, and computer beeped simultaneously. That only happens when Dad breaks one hundred or there is a serious problem at the plant. Since it was ten pm...

"Ah shit, babe, this can't be good. Gotta run."
Chapter Twenty-Two

**Fire**

I could see the flames shooting over the treetops from a mile away. I goosed Bucket Duex (new Beemer Z4 – thank you Elwood for increasing our bonuses) way over the legal limit and kept repeating to myself, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." The Asheville Fire Department pumper and crew were about a minute behind me with sirens blazing and lights tearing through the once serene North Carolina evening. As I fishtailed into the parking lot, I could see that the X-400 reactor had blown its top off and thick smoke was pouring out. The flames had died down some as the fire suppression systems were doing their duty. Anyone thinking logically runs away and upwind of a fiery explosion. So, of course, I jumped out of the car and started running right towards it. Luckily, Diddy stepped out of his guard shack at the plant entrance and steered me clear before I could get too far.

"Hold up there, hoss. Let's let those dudes with the hoses right behind you handle this. Everyone's accounted for and nobody got hurt."

As those words flooded me with relief, my knees got wobbly and I sat down right there in the grass. Diddy plopped down beside me. His uniform was torn and his hat sat cock-eyed on his head. He still had on his sunglasses but the lens was missing from one side. I didn't have the energy to tell him.

"Listen, I had just come on my security shift when all hell broke loose. I think I may need to go home and change my drawers. And my vision seems a bit off."

You gotta love a guy that can make you smile at a time like that.

"From what I could gather, the damage is pretty much limited to the X-400 reactor, the administration building and that crappy trailer you used to live in. Mick, I may have gotten my bell rung. I could swear I saw a few hot naked women running around the parking lot."

"Easy there, big guy. Be sure the paramedics give you a good going over."

"Anyway, the guys onsite got everything shut down pretty quickly and..."

Diddy and I both instantly jumped to our feet and threw ourselves at an enormous elk charging toward the gate. It took everything we had to wrestle it to the ground.

"Down, Earl. Asheville's finest will get it under control."

"Jesus H. Public, Mick, what the hell happened?"

"I don't know, Earl. But neither one of us are going to get any beauty rest until we find out." Truer words were never spoken.

The next day, The Circle convened in a conference room in our mostly intact trailer complex. Luckily, it was located far enough away from and upwind of the X-400 reactor. It suffered no significant damage. Our former former offices were not so lucky. A rather large chunk of the reactor had slammed into the side of the building where my previous office had been located. It now gave a whole new meaning to the concept of "open" office space. Good thing we were no longer the occupants. Score another one for Elwood. The trailer I once called home had gone the _Wizard of Oz_ route and was blown somewhere over the rainbow. It was also a good thing I had moved or I might have lost my prized autographed _Dog Vomit Live at Red Rocks_ album and closet full of fire retardant overalls.

"This is not a happy day for Woodland Enterprises. I don't know what happened, but, by God, it will never happen again! I'm pissed, The Shareholder's pissed and every one of you better be pissed. This plant does not blow up on its own. Something went terribly wrong. We will leave no stone unturned until we find out what. Got it?"

Chuck really truly was pissed. A vein on his forehead the size of the Mississippi was throbbing like Tommy Lee's drum kit. I think the only person more pissed than Chuck was me.

"Ok, I am going to bring in some outside process and safety auditors to help in the investigation. We are all a bit emotional now. If we are going to resolve this quickly, we need calm heads and a methodical process. What I want each of you to do is go over your areas of responsibility and see if anything was out of the norm leading up to this. Give all your data to the auditors and cooperate with them fully. Mick, you need to work on trying to secure product for our customers until we can get up and running. Since that was our only X-400 reactor, we aren't going to be able to make it for some time. Thank God we stockpiled some inventory in advance of our upcoming turnaround. Guess we won't be doing that now. Elwood, I need some financial projections of the daily impact to the bottom line if we run out of X-400. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Someone's gonna pay." Chuck stood and threw his notebook across the room narrowly missing Dan Fallan.

Normally I would make a crack about how good it was to see Chuck maintain a calm head, but, for once, I demurred. I do have some minor survival instincts.

I made my way back to my cubicle and started working the phones. I could hear Elwood scorching through spreadsheets in the cubicle next door. I could also hear Chuck cussing up a storm and kicking various innocent pieces of small furniture and supply paraphernalia up and down the hallway. I hit the number 3 on my speed dialer with a vicious jab. It was time for the Mickster to swing into action. My call was answered by Fred Horshley, our third party Asheville based raw material supplier.

"Hey Fred, we have a problem."

"Yeah, Mick, I heard it blow. Damn near knocked my Bud right outta my hand."

"That would have been tragic. Listen, we need to change around our supply orders. We..."

"It was a damn good thing that your X-400 reactor was shut down. Otherwise, it might have blown up too. Now that would have been tragic."

"Shut down? It wasn't shut down. We weren't shutting down for another few weeks for turnaround maintenance. We were running full out. And that is what blew. And it is tragic. C'mon, Fred, this is really not the time to joke around."

"God, you don't have to jump in my shit, Mick. I thought for sure you were shut down. Y'all asked us to ship the raw materials for X-100 in those X-400 barrels. Why the hell would you do that if X-400 was up and running? I gotta tell ya, with that X-100 stuff being so much cheaper than that X-400 raw mix, we have had a tough month."

"What? Who in the hell told you to ship us X-100 raw materials? And what's this about shipping in X-400 barrels?"

"That's what your revised purchase order said."

"What revised purchase order?" I screamed.

"Whoa. Watch that blood pressure, Mick. I'm looking at it right here on my screen. It says, 'Until further notice, ship X-100 mix only. You are instructed to use X-400 barrels for shipping the X-100.'"

"What the hell?"

Suddenly, three words began tumbling wildly through my head.

  * Authorities

  * Costs

  * Elwood

These combined with the sudden silence from Elwood's cubicle made for one pissed off Buckeye. I dropped the phone and sprinted down the hall.

"Charles, grab your jacket and follow me. We can still catch him. I'll explain on the way."
Chapter Twenty-Three

**Highway to Hell**

It must have been the crazed look in my twitching eye or the volume at which I screamed the request, but Chuck actually ran after me. We burst full speed into the parking lot, jumped into Bucket Deux and left a patch of Goodyear's finest smoking behind us as we peeled out onto the four lane road in front of the plant.

"Whoa, cowboy. Take it easy. What, did you get your results from the free clinic?"

"Real funny, Charles. Damn, I know why the plant blew and who did it."

"We have terrorists in North Carolina and now you're Jason Bourne?"

"Yeah, we got ourselves a one hundred forty pound bespectacled numb nuts moron terrorist that is probably hauling ass to the airport right now."

"Elwood????"

"Yeah, Elwood."

I went quiet for a minute as I downshifted and fishtailed around a twenty-five mile per hour curve going about eighty.

"How could Elwood blow up the plant?"

"Elwood didn't exactly blow up the plant. But it is his fault. Remember when you said he was updating the Manual of Authorities?"

"Yeah, that was such a shit job, no one else wanted it. Watch out! Geez, Mick, slow it down a bit. Anyway, he seemed to kind of enjoy it. But how in God's green earth did that cause the plant to go up?"

"Apparently, he gave himself procurement authority for raw materials and informed all our suppliers."

"Shit! I should have looked at that closer. I thought it was just for office supplies."

"Yeah, well, in one of his dumbass cost saving moves, he took it upon himself to order X-100 mix and have it packed in X-400 barrels. We've been unknowingly loading some of that into the X-400 reactor for the last month."

"What? That will eventually gum up the reactor so bad that it..."

"Will go boom?"

"Yeah, shit!"

"Hang on."

I quickly swerved to pass a slow moving dump truck. Since there was an even larger dump truck coming the other way, I cleverly executed the maneuver on the right shoulder creating a cloud of gravel, dust, cow dung and possibly a Re-Max sign. I exhaled when the front tires found pavement again. Fortunately, we were in our lane, going in the right direction and had not merged with either dump truck.

Chuck was clenching his teeth and looking as white as a virgin sheep in a blizzard but still managed to squeak out a rather high pitched, elongated "Shhhiiiiittttttt!" He lowered the window and took a big gulp of air. I just hoped he didn't decide to toss his cookies down the side of my fine ride.

"I think I see his taillights about a half mile ahead. Call Earl and tell him to get in touch with Will. If Will can block Seventy-Four before he reaches Highway Forty, we will have this little fucker hemmed in."

"I, ah, I can't do that, Mick."

"Why the hell not? I'll call him myself."

I managed to pry my cell phone out of my jeans while keeping the Beemer on a somewhat straight path.

"Don't make that call."

"This is no time to be giving me a safety lecture on cell phone usage while driving. We got one shot at this."

As my thumb started to make contact with Earl's speed dial number, Chuck suddenly yanked the phone out of my hand and threw it out the window.

My shock and anger combined with the front right tire dropping off the roadway caused me to stomp on the brakes. I stopped counting after the third time the car spun. The Z4 wound up about ten feet off the road barely missing a sixty foot pine. We were overlooking a hundred foot drop into the valley inches in front of the grill.

As I pried my white death gripped knuckles off the steering wheel, Chuck softly said, "Mick, there is something you don't know."

"I know my size eleven's about to go up your ass."

"Easy, Mick, I'm still your boss."

I took a deep sigh and calmed a slight bit (blood pressure dropping from one eighty to maybe one sixty-five).

"Ok, what? Why are we letting this little piece of crap obnoxious MBA moron get away?"

"Because that little obnoxious MBA moron piece of crap is The Shareholder's nephew."

"WHAT?"

"Look, I was sworn to secrecy. He thought putting Elwood here would give him some much needed real world experience. Apparently the kid was brilliant in business school but got missed the day God installed the common sense gene."

"So blowing up our means of sustenance is part of his goddamn training program?"

"No, no, no. No one knew he was going to be that big of a moron. And didn't I tell you to teach him how the plant worked?"

"Hey. Don't try to lay this on me. I told him exactly how the plant worked. You never knew if that idiot was listening to you or reviewing the tax code in his head."

"Yeah, sorry Mick. He was pretty squirrely. Let's go back now and start rebuilding. I'm sure The Shareholder will take care of Elwood in the appropriate manner."

"Will he hang him up by his nads and force him to listen to _Milli Vanilli's Greatest Hits_?"

"Probably not."

"Can you at least make me one promise? No more MBAs?"

"You got it, dude."

"Oh, and I'm turning in dent repair, car detailing, a new cell phone, and several packages of BVD's on my next expense statement!"
Chapter Twenty-Four

**Won't Get Fooled Again**

OK, so is this the end of the story? Not so much. I'm getting a little fuzzy headed again. Let me relay what I can before I go back to Never Never Land.

Chuck's promise lasted a little over two weeks and fourteen holes.

While the plant was mostly shut down and the demolition crews were clearing out the reactor and collateral damage, we (management) had plenty of spare time on our hands. So, like good stewards of industry everywhere, we wisely spent it on the golf course. Earl and I joined Chuck's country club, Asheville Acres. With our corporate discount, it was ten grand to join and two fifty per month. I floated about half of the upfront fee to Earl and told him he could make it up to me in golf bets. We both figured it was good "suck up" investment. Speaking of which, the seventh commandment in The Book of Dad was "Never beat your boss at golf." Lucky for me, this was easy to comply with (and Earl was paying my golf bets). Chuck was a great golfer. It would take a very bad day for him and a VERY good day for me to beat him. This happened to be that day. It was time to sin!

Winter was fading and spring was moving in. A slight breeze was blowing from the south and the temperature was flirting with the low seventies. Perfect! We had just left the fourteenth green where I had sunk a miracle twenty footer for birdie. Chuck had not been able to get up and down from the greenside bunker and bogeyed the hole. I was three strokes ahead with four to play. Will and Earl were heading toward their normal hundred plus rounds. They were doing their best to stay out of our way and enjoy this rare momentous occasion.

We were waiting on the tee at the par three fifteenth. Mrs. Pockmeyer, the high school principal's wife, was in the foursome ahead of us on the green bending over to line up her putt. My golfing buds were enjoying the view. My current squeeze, Ms. Holly Head, was also amongst them which added greatly to the entertainment value for the clowns around me. I was fine with the quick furtive glance at Mrs. P's and my woman's stunning hindquarters, but I drew the line when Earl started focusing his rangefinder there instead at the flagstick.

Chuck didn't get to his position in life by not being a world class talent when it came to gamesmanship. I was on guard for him to start talking some trash. I was not surprised when he proceeded to chat away.

"Dudes, I sure am glad that the Elwood thing is behind us. I am really sorry about keeping his relationship a secret. The Shareholder was adamant about him standing on his own two feet."

"I thought snakes crawled on their bellies."

"Well put, Will."

With that thought in mind, I stepped to the tee as the shapely group in front of us replaced the flag. We all watched as Holly's splendid backside crested the hill behind the green and disappeared from view. At one hundred forty-five yards downwind, this was a perfect seven iron for me. I practiced a swing with a slight draw and took my stance. Like taking candy from a baby!

"Oh, did I mention that The Shareholder wants us to hire another MBA?"

I hadn't finished my backswing, so I could've stopped. I knew Chuck had timed that comment to screw with my head. And, of course, that thought automatically made me think of screwing with my Head, as in Holly. These are not good swing thoughts to have bouncing around your frontal lobes as you are about to execute a very important golf shot. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me back down, so I went ahead and took the swing. The ball traveled skyward just as I had planned. However, my calculations did not include the forty-five degree turn to the left it took just as it reached the apex of its flight. It landed hole high but, to my dismay and Chuck's delight, right in the middle of the swamp ten yards left of the green. And when I say swamp, I mean Creature from the Black Lagoon home base type. It was swallowed up, never to be seen again. I'm sure there is a classic rock reference here that could have been made to reflect my angst, but I was so pissed that nothing came to mind.

Chuck was very sympathetic. "Ah, tough luck, kid. Hey, Will, stop humming _I Fall to Pieces_."

The man is a Jedi Master of mental manipulation. Not only did he have a classic song reference, but it was a classic COUNTRY song reference. A double Mick pisser-offer casually tossed off like it was nothing. And Will had not been humming.

As I'm sure you can guess, I choked my way on in and lost to Chuck by two strokes. I think I saw Earl shed a tear on the eighteenth fairway. He wanted me to finally beat Chuck and he really wanted to avoid paying for my twenty dollar bet. After the round, Chuck grabbed his money, quickly jumped in his car and took off leaving us all in suspense about his MBA bombshell. While I fumed in the front seat of Earl's Subaru, Will was eloquently verbalizing our collective thoughts from the back.

"What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?"

Earl chimed in with a typical Earlism, "Yeah, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on you twice."

"Well put Earl. How can Chuck agree to hire another one of these useless pukes? Is he that afraid to challenge the all high and mighty shitty Shareholder?"

A loud "Yup" pinged around the stained faux leather interior after being simultaneously issued from deep within both Will and Earl.

"Okay, stupid question. But, c'mon, the moron blew the place up and now we're going down the same path again? Well, first thing tomorrow, I'm giving Chuck a King Ranch sized piece of my mind. I don't care how upset he gets, or how many times he tells me to shut up, I'm going in loaded for bear."

With a total lack of sincerity, the wannabe Lennon sisters sung out a hearty, "Uh huh."

"No, I mean it! You watch!"

The next morning, I stormed into The Circle meeting loaded for bear as promised.

"Ok, Mick, before you blow a gasket and spew all over the place, just hear me out."

"But Charles..."

Up went the universal outward palm of silence accompanied by a male version of PMS face.

"Zip it."

Before this devolved into a bad Austin Powers vignette, I somehow summoned the internal fortitude to chomp down on my tongue and let my face fade from crimson to bright pink. Thank God, Earl and Will weren't part of The Circle. Had they been in this meeting, I would have been in for a month's worth of "I told you so's" and wussie jokes.

"Good boy. Now, I know y'all think I rolled over like a cheap whore and let The Shareholder do whatever he wanted."

I did throw up a bit in my mouth at that visual.

"Maybe I did somewhat, but not completely. I did set down some non-negotiable conditions. First, no relatives of anyone remotely related to this company can apply. Second, The Circle members will interview all candidates and have the final say. Third, we will have background checks done. And finally, the position will now report through Mick who will have total oversight to ensure duties are properly segregated. And, yes Mick, this does mean you will need to revise the Manual of Authorities. You should start first by actually reading it."

Shit.

"Ok, Charles. That's better than it could be. But why? Why do we need to hire another MBA? Why not give it back to Earl?"

"Fair questions, Mick. There are several reasons. First, Bayer doesn't make enough aspirin for me to survive another financial update from Earl." I fully agreed with him on that one.

"Second, the reasons behind bringing in Elwood in the first place are still valid. The world of finance and accounting is getting more complicated. Our competition is nipping at our heels. Our X-400 is keeping us in front of the pack, but we do need to understand and maximize our profit streams and keep our costs in check."

"You mean like sticking us in trailers and letting our used banana peels pile up in the trash cans? Or do you mean like substituting raw materials that blast us to kingdom come?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's why we are placing you, our resident smart ass genius, in an oversight capacity. Not everything Elwood did was totally fucked up. We need to get rid of the bad and improve on the good. We will go back to daily office trash pickup. And we are moving back into the administration building as soon as the damage is repaired."

That news was met by a rousing cheer all the way around The Circle.

"It seems Elwood leased it to a rather shady concern. They were actually filming porn movies in the building using the plant as a backdrop. A few hit the local Asheville seedy stores with titles like _Steam My Pipes, Debbie Does Distillation, Debottleneck This_ etc. etc. We will let the new MBA kick them out and negotiate better building financing terms for us."

"And the revised Manual of Authorities will give me the approval to ship in Lysol by the tanker truck!"

My insightful commentary brought the meeting to a chuckling close as we went off in search of MBA number two.
Chapter Twenty-Five

**Maybe I'm Amazed**

We were so confident we would not screw up and hire an Elwood type again; we accepted the premise that another MBA was actually a decent idea. We threw ourselves into the interview process with a healthy dose of optimism. If we were collectively stupid, shouldn't we all collectively suffer the consequences? So why am I the only one having my hair pull out by duct tape and having my good looks marred by this rough stinking floor?

"Man, are these guys expensive." I was sitting in Chuck's trailer office reviewing proposals from security firms.

"Yeah, I know. I just want to hire somebody to do background checks on staff candidates. All these guys will do that, but only if we contract with them for a full suite of security services."

"Would that be so bad? As much as I like Diddy, I think he keeps an eye on the Sandman more than he does on us."

Chuck pondered that for a minute. "Maybe, but I think that might be partially an act. You never know with those cheap sunglasses he wears. We have never had a theft here or someone in the plant that wasn't authorized. Diddy also did a great job of handling things during the explosion. I don't think I'm ready to get rid of him."

Was that a ZZ Top reference Chuck made? Probably not.

"So how do we get background checks done?"

"There is one new local firm that called me yesterday and said they had heard we were looking for this type of service. Their president is stopping by in a few minutes to discuss a proposal."

That was a very timely comment. It wasn't ten seconds later that I heard the soft tapping of high heels on the linoleum in the hallway. I turned around and my day brightened considerably. Talk about a ZZ Top reference. _She's Got Legs_ immediately came to mind.

"Your receptionist, I believe her name is Victoria, told me to come on back," said the very attractive trim brunette in a heart stopping business suit standing in Chuck's doorway. "My name is Anita Dempsey and I am the president of Barnum Security."

Chuck and I almost collided as we sprung out of our chairs and rushed to shake her hand. We are so suave. We finally got arranged with Anita in Chuck's office chair, Chuck sitting in his chair and me sitting on the corner of Chuck's desk. From my vantage point, I got a stellar view of Anita's stellar thighs and stellar cleavage as she leaned forward to make her pitch to Chuck. Did I mention that she was rather stellar? "I just opened the company a few months ago. We specialize in forensic services including background checks. We were lucky to be able to hire one of the top notch forensic accountants in the Asheville area, Bill McBridle. So, we can provide background checks and a whole host of other services. Since we are new, I am offering top shelf services at bottom tier prices."

Her bottom could move me to tears. She went on to detail her other security services and prices for background checks. Given her deep blue eyes and highly toned thighs, I would have signed a contract with her to provide me with kitty litter. And I don't own a cat. I could tell Chuck was feeling much the same way given the lopsided grin on his face and the perspiration breaking out on his forehead as he tried to maintain eye contact instead of staring at her stellars.

As her awe inspiring backside faded down the hallway from our view, Chuck found his voice. "Well, that seemed like a great deal. I'm glad we signed with her. Now we can get on with the interview process."

"If you need me to assist her with any undercover work, I am always available!"

Chuck had me conduct the initial interviews in the trailer's conference room.

"So tell me about a time that you had to resolve a conflict or do something unpopular and how you went about it?"

  * Interviewee one: "Uh, well, my two dogs got into this fight and..." Buzz. Next.

  * Interviewee two: "Ok, I think I have a good answer for that. This goes back to the time I attended my advanced class in Tibetan Economic theory. I was put into the class by the Chair of the Economics department based on my award winning thesis on the..." ZZZZZZZ. Next.

  * Interviewee three: "During my internship, the leadership at the company proposed forcing out the more experienced employees and hiring younger ones as a way to save costs. I made a fact based presentation on the revenue enhancements the long term employees had made over the past five years. The presentation demonstrated that their contribution to the bottom line was more than triple the potential salary and benefits savings gained by replacing them with younger staff. While my internship ended before any final decisions were made, I assume the fact that they did not hire any new staff that year (including me) meant that my presentation made an impact." Winner – we have a winner.

"Tell me what you would bring to Woodland Enterprises."

  * Interviewee one: "I would bring a good pair of steel toed boots, a radio with an emergency weather band, several boxes of my college textbooks, a picture of my girlfriend, a..." Seriously? Next.

  * Interviewee two: "I would bring modern thinking based on my honors studies in Alternatives to Accounting where I graduated at top of the class. I would institute cutting edge technical solutions that I personally developed in my award winning video documentary, "What if Enron was Right?" and bring Woodland out of the dark ages..." Fuck you. Next.

  * Interviewee three: "First, I would bring my strong work ethic and dedication to task. I believe this is demonstrated through the fact that I put myself through college while working nights and weekends. I earned my MBA while holding down a full time day job and going to graduate school at night for four years. Second, I would bring my curiosity to find out how Woodland functions and how I can leverage my training and experience to suggest enhancements where they might make sense. Third, I would bring myself. That means I would not try to be something I'm not or try to fool others into believing I know any more than they do. I would learn from those with experience and knowledge."

I just smiled and stared at interviewee three. I can't remember the last time I had my ass kissed that tenderly. If I weren't so damned heterosexual, I might be in love. I had one last question to ask him, "So, how's your golf game?"
Chapter Twenty-Six

**You Really Got Me**

Three guesses as to which one we hired and the first two guesses don't count for squat.

His name was Jack Wicker. Jack had a BA in Accounting from Case Western Reserve in Ohio and a Masters of Business Administration from Stanford earned, as he claimed, over four years at night. He interned at a manufacturing concern in Cincinnati and then traveled around the country for about six months before starting his job search. Jack said this was the vacation he never had while he was going to school.

We did not hire Jack without doing some homework. Chuck contacted Barnum Security and had a background check run. Anita Dempsey delivered the results herself which pleased Chuck immensely. I'm not sure whether the good report or the short skirt she wore impressed him more. Actually, I am sure. Chuck is definitely an ass man.

"Looks like our boy came back squeaky clean, Mick. One bad experience doesn't mean we should write off the entire MBA account."

"That's great news, Charles. And I think that was a really lousy attempt at accounting humor."

"Accounting and humor; two things that are mutually exclusive in my book."

"Whatever. I think Jack will be a valuable addition to Woodland. We got this one right." In retrospect, although I prefer a nicely aged whisky, I think I was drinking the Kool-Aid that day.

Jack was about six one with what, I guess, the young girls would describe as "yummy" looks. Blue eyes, blond hair, slightly dimpled cheeks, a nice tan and an athletic build. The clothes he wore looked expensive and fit him perfectly whether they were suits or the typical jeans and golf shirt plant wear. I felt like I had bought my clothes at the Salvation Army's rummage sale when I stood next to him. The indoctrination with him was worlds apart from my surreal experience with Elwood.

"Welcome aboard, Jack. How are you getting settled in?"

"Pretty slowly. But I have a tiny apartment in town, an old jalopy and my golf clubs. What more could I need?"

"Sounds like you got it covered. Let me clear the air first. You are our second attempt at bringing MBA type talent in. Our first one did not go so well."

"Charles mentioned something about that."

"So you'll understand when I tell you that I will need to have pretty close oversight concerning your work activities."

"I sincerely want to learn from the best and I've been told that would be you."

Did I mention this dude also oozed charm to go along with his good looks?

"Do you mind if I kind of shadow you and Earl around for a few days to learn about the plant operations and financials? I'd love to buy you two a beer, or a pitcher, some evening this week to learn about the more informal things around here too."

Talk about shooting out of the blocks like an Olympic sprinter.

The early days of Jackdom went extremely well. Jack seemed to make friends with everyone. I warned him about being too friendly with Victoria. Yes, Victoria still worked the front desk and still looked hotter than roof tar in August. The wrong type of glance at her could also still get you crushed like a bug by her largish lawman hubby. However, Jack seemed to be able to trade double entendre filled banter with her and still have Will think he was a first class boot camp recruit. The guy just had a certain magic about him.

Jack learned quickly. He crafted time incentives into a contract with a local construction crew that fast tracked repairs so we could move back into our beloved offices. He was able to find a clause in the administrative building lease that got the in and out movie folks going quickly in the out direction. He renegotiated very favorable financing terms on the building and had the stripper poles and pink hot tubs removed (damn). He also got in a first rate cleaning and de-fumigating crew to scrub down all the surfaces. The day we moved back in cemented Jack's status among the staff as Woodland's new hero. The distaste of Elwood was quickly fading from our palates.

So work was rocking right along. Profits were improving and the X-400 plant rebuild was progressing ahead of schedule. On a personal front, all seemed to be smooth sailing too. I was still checking out Holly the Librarian several nights a week. We had gotten to know each other like a well read book and things remained hot between the covers. We were having a great time together but still enjoyed our times apart. Love? Well, maybe. Committed relationship? "Why screw up a good thing?" was our consensual attitude.

Mom and Dad were getting up in age but still remained active and very alert. They would load up the "buggy" (most recently a bright red Cadillac SRX) and make an, at least, annual pilgrimage to come see their number one son. If Jay were to argue with that designation, I'd gladly give it up to him. After all, Jay packs some serious heat. I had told Dad about the budding Mr. Wonderful, Jack, and he was looking forward to meeting him.

"Jack, my folks and my brother are coming down next week. I usually smack the dimpled orb around with Dad and Jay a bit. Earl's tied up with husbandly chores. Care to help fill out our foursome on Saturday?"

"Absolfuckinglutely!!!"

"It is my treat at the club. I'll buy drinks afterwards. And I plan to kick your ass all the way back to the Buckeye State! "

"Well, two out of three ain't bad!"

He threw that line off very nonchalantly. I don't know whether he knew that was an outstanding rock song he just mentioned or not. Either way, this was one cool dude. I might just dump Holly and switch sides. Not!
Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Who are You?**

It was another Chamber of Commerce world class late spring day with sunny skies, a temperature hovering around eighty and a slight cooling breeze from the north. Dad was in great spirits and looked ten years younger than his sixty-eight numerical years. Jay was in great physical shape and seemed as happy as I had ever seen him.

"All right, boys. It is a great day with a great group of dudes to play the greatest game ever invented. Let's get it on!"

Dad, Jay, Jack, Chuck and I mounted the first tee box. Anyone with golfing knowledge might be emitting a slight gasp at this point. Did I really say we were a five-some on a Saturday morning? Yup! Chuck had a lot of pull at the club. It didn't hurt that his grandfather (Oral – I kid you not – thank God that's not Holly's grandfather's name; as in Oral Head - but I digress again) was a founding member. Chuck was able to bump a group of commoners to get the FIVE of us an eight a.m. tee time.

Jack was first up. He looked like a movie star playing a golf pro. He didn't have a hair out of place on his head or a crease out of place in his trousers. Was I really looking at the crease in his trousers? I think I needed to get my testosterone levels checked!

I had never seen him take a swing with a golf club. We had trashed talked each other for several days. He gave as good as he got verbally, but would his ball striking match his ball busting? In a word, "Yup."

He swung back way past parallel on the top and dropped the club head with amazing speed onto the stationary sphere. The ball took off like it stole something and kept on going. Heads popped up like prairie dogs all around as club members within earshot were startled by the sound.

My brother and I exchanged amazed glances. "Jay, I hope you brought enough cash to cover us."

The round continued like this with Jack out driving us by ten to twenty yards on each hole. Dad rode with Jay, I rode with Chuck (sucking up is an art form) and Jack had his own cart. Good thing, since he was constantly in front of us. We had teamed Jack and Chuck together taking on me, Jay and Dad in best ball format (take the best individual score on the hole for the team). The fifty dollar bet was inconsequential for all of us, but the forward bragging rights for the winners were priceless.

Jack kept up his Phil / Tiger imitation throughout the front nine. Dad did his best to break his concentration with his corny jokes (e.g. "The best way to keep your head down is to focus on the 'Tit' in Titleist. Two golfers were standing on a tee box overlooking a river. One turned to the other and said, 'Hey, look at those idiots fishing in the rain.'"). He didn't get many laughs and it didn't slow down Jack one bit. By the end of nine (the turn for us PGA wannabes), our team was only down three due to my incredible string of lights out putting. I mean, I was sinking them from Greensville (trust me, that's a long putt).

The breeze picked up on the back nine and actually graduated into the windy category. Jack was still knocking the white off the ball, but, by the eleventh hole, it was drifting off the straight and narrow. There were more than a few that looked like they might find a watery grave or join the acorns in the forest. But, as it is with those that God had blessed with great looks, great charm and great talents, Jack also possessed more than his fair share of great luck. As we would catch up with Jack's cart, we'd find that his ball had nestled in the rough about a foot from the hazard or hit a tree and bounced back into the fairway.

However, my luck was running hot too. My putter continued to be my new best friend. A chip-in from thirty yards on the seventeen won the hole and put Team Mick down one going to the eighteenth tee. Eighteen is Asheville Acres' signature hole with a large lake fronted by a moss covered rock waterfall residing about two hundred and eighty yards down the right side. The narrow fairway on this par four is bounded on the left by a sharply rising grassy hill that ends in a bluff twenty feet above. There are fountains that shoot up randomly toward the heavens behind the large rolling green. All in all, a stunning finishing hole.

We were further stunned by Dad's tee shot. He is not normally a long hitter, but is usually straight. I think he tried to hit it a bit too hard and pulled a long extremely high shot to the left. It landed on top of the bluff and stayed there. He muttered something that sounded like a cross between "Fudge" and "Fiddlesticks." I tried to not look shocked.

Chuck and Jay hit their normal boring two hundred yards down the middle shot. I crushed one about two forty (that's a crush in my world) onto the right side of the fairway. I knew I could make at least a par from there.

Jack stepped up to his ball. I tried to detect any sign of nervousness. A slight sheen of sweat on the upper lip? A tremble in his hands? A twitch in either butt cheek (not that I looked very closely or for too long, did I)? No, no and no. He looked cucumber cool. If this guy was as lucky and confident as an accountant as he was a golfer, we might never be audited.

Jack took his usual mighty rip. As the ball rocketed off the clubface, I think the golf gods decided to give us mere mortals a slight sliver of a break. A huge sudden gust of wind caught the ball and veered it to the right. It looked like it would land just short of the waterfall in the rough. It carried about a foot, or so, too far and hit on the hard outcropping in front of the falls. The ball bounded high in the air and into the surrounding rocks.

"Shit." So Mr. Cool was human after all.

"I think I saw where that went. I'll see you at the green." It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw a slight sheen, a tremble and twitch as he took off.

Dad hit into the waterfall from the top of the bluff and his day was over. Chuck hit his ball about ten yards short of the green. Jay hit a "pull head up before club comes down" topped shot that squirmed like a dying snake about six yards down the fairway.

So, it was up to Mick. I took a deep breath, swung a smooth and easy four hybrid and heard a satisfying clicking sound. The ball Steve Millered it (flew like an eagle), landed on the front of the green and rolled right toward the pin stopping three feet in front. With Jack in the hazard and me relatively sure to make the putt, we were going to be tied, at worst.

Three of us arrived at the green together and looked back toward the waterfall. Dad was still carefully picking his way down from the bluff. Jack's cart could be seen behind the waterfall, but no Jack. Suddenly we heard a whack and saw a ball come flying out of the rocks.

"What a shot!"

"How'd he do that?"

"Who is this guy?"

"Crap. It almost went in."

"Quit your bitchin' and moaning, you pussies, and pull out your wallets. That's my partner!"

I swore to myself, at that very moment, that I would never play golf with Jack again... unless he was on MY team.

So Jack settled in as our MBA success story. The books were in perfect balance (whatever the heck that means). I was able to give Jack more responsibilities and relax some of my oversight of his work. His financial update presentations were slick, concise and, yes, somewhat humorous. Anyone that can keep me awake talking about this stuff (much less make me smile) is a genius. The Shareholder was happy, the staff was happy, and once again, things were humming along. The only downers were the constant "I told you so's" that Chuck gleefully uttered on the frequent occasions he brought the MBA subject up. Prick.
Chapter Twenty-Eight

**Double Vision**

"Mick, why don't you let me get the next one?"

"Man, you drink like a fish out of water and never get a tipped bit weasy."

"Earl, I Iove the fact that you talk drunk just like you talk sober."

We were in Doris's embarking on our third round. Well, the third for me and Earl. I think it was the fifth or sixth for Jack. He had offered to buy drinks at the club last week but forgot his wallet. So, while I appreciated the current offer, I knew what it was like to be new in town.

"Seriously, Jack. This is on me. I know that settling in here has been a little more costly than you thought it would be."

"You got that right. And thanks for that salary advance. I know it's been a few months, but I'll pay you back with interest at the end of next week. The apartment furniture is all paid off and I got a great refinancing deal on the 'Vette. In fact, I could hook you up with a guy that could save you some serious Jackson's or we could go double or nothing on the course."

"First, my car is paid off. Second, double or nothing against you in golf? Kiss my ass."

Doris appeared at that very moment with the drinks. From the first time she laid eyes on Jack, I think she hoped he would lay them back. And lay her. In his presence, she magically and transformed into her namesake. It was enough to make a healthy man puke.

"Oh, gentlemen, such language. But if anyone one is seeking a posterior to caress, I might know someone that would be more than accommodating."

With that, she blew Jack a stomach wrenching air kiss, flipped her hair over one shoulder and sashayed away with an exaggerated sway in her previously referenced hindquarters.

"Jack, you charm all the babes."

"Hey, take 'em when you can get 'em."

"Speaking of which, finding anyone down here that floats your boat?"

"I wouldn't mind dropping anchor in Victoria's harbor."

"First of all, she is old enough to be your mother. Second of all, that kind of talk can get you permanently disabled."

"Yeah, like that movie, _Scumface_. You might get a Columbian hat rack."

" _Scarface_ and a Columbian necktie, Earl."

"It scares me that I understood what he meant prior to your translation. As for babes, I haven't had much time to seek any out yet. You've been keeping me pretty busy down at the plant and I've been spending a lot of time getting settled in."

It was true that Jack had been putting in long hours. He would still be there when we left and would be on his second cup of coffee most mornings when we arrived.

"Jack, you have got most of Elwood's messes cleaned up and you seem to understand the business. So feel free to work a normal human schedule and have some fun. You're making great money, driving a new Corvette, and you have one of the nicest apartments in town (tiny, my ass). Hell, you're such a babe magnet, I'd settle for some of your shavings. So take some time to enjoy."

"Yeah, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

Jack and I did simultaneous spit takes into our beers. Earl actually got one right!

"What? I was just kidding. Jack is the sharpest spoon in the drawer that I know."

That's the Earl we know and love.

Jack appeared to get serious for a moment. "You know, dudes, not everything Elwood did was horrible. Take that porn operation he leased our building to. I hear that "Debbie Does Distillation" went double platinum on the adult video charts. In fact, at their last awards ceremony, I hear it won three Stiffies."

Jack said everything with such a straight face; it was hard to know when he was pulling our legs. Regardless of the truth of that little gem, it caused me to again spew a bit of beer across the table.

"Well, with that, gents, I gotta run. Need to work up this month's financial update for tomorrow's presentation."

As Jack gracefully glided out of the bar, so did some of the fresh air. I swear, the lights dimmed a bit, the sweat and slight sewer smell came back, and the distortion returned to the cheap background speakers. Then there was Doris...

"Are you shit stains gonna take up my precious time yakking like stupid sluts or are you gonna give me my fucking tip and get the hell out of here. I gotta go do my Jack jerk off while he's still fresh in my mind. This girl's got needs you know."

Yes, Jack was definitely a game changer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Love the One You're With**

MMMMMMmmm. Huh? Sorry, drifted off there for awhile again. I think whatever I ingested; the effects are starting to wear off. I can begin to see the far walls of this room I'm in and it seems kind of familiar. And there is still this nagging voice at the back of my mind telling me that I need to be somewhere to tell someone something urgently. I just can't hear it clearly yet. I wish it would shut the fuck up. How am I supposed to get somewhere in my current state of affairs? I can't even roll over to scratch my nuts. Shit. So where was I?

Holly and I were as close to having a monogamous relationship as either of us ever had been. We were seeing a lot of each other. We discovered early on that we had more in common than we thought. I have heard that some northern type people (Yankees as they are still called here on occasion) think all Southerners are related to each other. While that is a kind of ugly stereotype, I did find out early in our relationship that Holly is Victoria's older sister's granddaughter. I think that might make her a grand niece or something. I was always better at gynecology than genealogy. Whatever. I do give myself credit for diving into a really good gene pool.

Holly and I had discussed moving in together, but we both had some minor commitment issues. I still had my full time mistress, Woodland Enterprises, and she still clung to her independence. Although we loved each other and our time together, the big "M" word had not entered our conversation. Unfortunately, the big "J" word did.

"So, Mick, tell me more about this new guy, Jack."

"Not much to tell, hon. He is about as perfect in every respect as a young dude can get. Bastard."

"Seriously, Jack, do you think he would be good boyfriend material?"

"I hope you don't mean for you. And I REALLY hope you don't mean for me."

"No, silly. You are the only man for me. I could never date Jack. I don't want to have to compete with a man to be the best looking one or most talented part of the couple. With you, that's not an issue. As for you dating him, you don't even come close to having enough fashion sense to be gay. I'm thinking of Jane."

Holly could give it to me as quickly and as sharply as I could give it to her. I loved and respected that.

"I thought your sister was dating that all-star fullback from Tech."

"No. She said she got tired of having to call illegal motion penalties on him and sent him packing."

"I'm not exactly sure what that means, but sorry to hear it."

"So, do you think she might hit it off with Jack?"

"Hmmm. Only one way to find out. Leave it to me. Now, shouldn't I be slipping into something more comfortable? Like, oh say, you?"

"Mmmmm."

The next day, I sat down beside Jack in the plant cafeteria. The food used to be bland, the décor non-existent and the prices dirt cheap. Upon entering, we would chant "Ptomaine or not ptomaine? That is the question." The food had improved recently and the prices moved up accordingly. Now we could hum along with the Kenny G background music as we ordered a wedge salad. Not that we really wanted to do either.

"I can't believe you convinced Chuck to reopen this place after Elwood had it shut down."

"All I had to do was show him a plan for upgrading it to a decent standard, running it like a business and actually making it a profit center instead of a cost center. I did and it is."

"I swear. You could turn turds into curds and send everyone on their merry whey."

"Please. Enough with the stomach wrenching puns. I'm trying to eat here."

"Ok, here's something to whet your appetite," I said as I pulled a picture out of my wallet.

"Whoa! Who is that?"

"That, my friend, is my girlfriend's little sister. She just broke up with her boyfriend and is available this Friday night."

"All I need is a number and a name."

"Hold on there, Romeo. How about I set up a double date for all of us this weekend?"

"Double date? That sounds like something my parents did. Are we going to the picture show and the malt shop afterwards?"

"If you don't want to meet her, just say so."

I didn't say that. Someone that looks like that, I'm game for anything."

"You don't want to know if she has a great personality?"

"Oh, absolutely. I'll ask her after she gets my tongue out of her throat."

"And, that, my good friend, is precisely why we are double dating. Let me just warn you. Holly is very protective of her little sister and has a concealed carry license."

"Duly noted."

We did do an old fashioned double date except we substituted dinner for the malt. Jack and I vigorously insisted that we go see "The Hangover." The girls suggested softly that they kind of wanted to see "Julie and Julia." I told them that was something they could do together on sister's night out. Jack just shook his head and remained silent.

He and I somehow refrained from making wisecracks during the movie and somewhat enjoyed it. Even with a chic flick title, it was pretty funny. Jack had the high wattage charm lit up and I could tell that Jane was basking in its glow. She seemed very pleased with the way things were going. He gave her an old fashioned goodnight kiss at the door while I was exploring Holly's tonsils with my tongue.

Jack and Jane dated pretty steadily on their own after that. Holly said Jane was very happy and thought Jack was awesome. I think that is the word for the new generation. I can't think of a single classic rock song that uses it. Maybe I'm getting old. Whatever.
Chapter Thirty

**Bad to the Bone**

Summer had cooled its way into fall. The trees were bursting with a rainbow of color. That was something that amazed me every year. The fall trees were pretty in Ohio when I was growing up, but nothing like this. This was like God had spilled all his Crayolas into the sun and they melted down over the North Carolina foliage. What a great place to live.

Business remained strong. The plant was running on all cylinders after the rebuild. Our sales were at record highs. Profits weren't as good as they might have been. Jack said it was just a timing issue and things would "hockey stick" their way up once all of our rebuild and start-up costs were behind us. That left us with a smile on our collective "Circular" faces.

I was watching the squirrels frolic on the big oak branches that were grazing the outside of my window. I was in deep thought weighing the wisdom of having the branches trimmed before they grew into our offices versus the social impact of displacing these innocent cute rodents. Yes, it was a slow day. Maybe Jack and I could sneak off for a quick nine holes. Guess who came through my door at that very moment? If you guessed Megan Fox, I complement you for trying to brighten my day. But, alas, it was simply Jack. Not that there was anything wrong with a visit from Jack. Au contraire, mon frère. It is mainly through Jack's efforts that I had a door on my office (or an office at all). And my trashcan was empty.

"Hey, big guy. I was just thinking maybe we could dash out to the club later and I could give you another quick lesson in how a real man plays golf."

Jack took a seat without responding. Odd. He placed the envelope he was carrying on my desk. Ah, it must be time for him to settle up. Jack always seemed to get a bit grumpy when he was parting with money, especially his own. Not that he was cheap, but I don't remember him picking up many bar tabs. We had advanced him twenty-five grand on his salary to get settled in. He was a few weeks late in paying it back, but I'm sure it was more of remembering to do it than doing it. Jack was making six figures and Chuck was contemplating giving him yet another raise.

"Hey, Studman, glad things have settled down and we can bring your account back to even. Hell, with the way you've been performing, you'll be running this place in a few years and I'll be asking you for a loan so I can buy your used love stained 'Vette. However, I might have to have the backseat professionally sanitized. Maybe I shouldn't say things like that since we might be brother-in-laws someday."

My second indication that all was not right in Mudville was the lack of the usual sly grin on Jack's face.

"Yeah, I have a check for you. But, before that, I'm afraid I have some news that you are not going to want to hear. I hate to have to be the one to bring this to you, but you need to know."

Ok, that was my third indication.

"There is a very clever and sneaky thief ripping off the company."

Uh oh. I think joke time had just left the building.

"What? Did some staplers go missing?" Ok, joke time had not completely left the building.

"Mick, for once, I am serious. We are missing about seven hundred plus large. I think I know who took it and how they got it."

"Jesus."

"No, wasn't him. Sorry, I did say this was serious."

"You mean as in seven hundred thousand?"

"Yes, Mick, and before you ask, that is American dollars."

The breath went out of me as I paled. "Ok. Start from the beginning."

"As you know, after Elwood left, the accounts were a bit squirrely. He had transferred money between accruals, deferred accounts, fixed and variable costs, receivables and payables etc. all in an attempt to make it look like his cost reducing plans were working."

"Yup. He was a bit misguided. He needed someone's praise and approval to make him feel wanted. He thought if he got that from his uncle, he would be somebody. I knew he unwittingly blew up the plant, but he didn't actually steal money, did he?"

"The more I unwound all the accounts and got things into balance, the more I suspected he did."

"But he didn't, did he?"

"No."

"Then who? What?"

"You asked me to start from the beginning, so I will. Since time began, there has been a scam inside companies known as the salami scam or penny slicing. Basically, you take transactions and round the pennies down to the nearest dollar. You pocket the round downs and only report your financials at a higher dollar level. With me so far?"

"Yeah, we always talk in thousands of dollars, never pennies."

"Right. And until recently, you guys were on a paper accounting system."

"Yeah, we just came into the modern age accounting-wise a few years ago."

"Well, the salami slicing here started about ten years ago with your paper system then got programmed into your automated system."

"That can't be right. And how can a few pennies add up to hundreds of thousands of dollars?"

"In this size company, it can't. But it did add up to about seventy-five grand over the years I was able to trace."

"Ok, say I buy this. How about all the rest you think is missing?"

"Mick, I don't blame you if you don't believe me. I didn't believe it myself. So I hired a firm to look into it."

"Without my knowledge or Chuck's knowledge?"

"I told Chuck what I was doing. In fact, he approved it. We decided to keep it contained as much as possible in case I was mistaken. We didn't want any aspirations cast in the wrong direction. We used the same firm that you guys hired to do background checks on new employees."

"After Elwood, Chuck wanted to have new staff hires checked out. If I remember correctly, he hired that company with the hot looking President. We've only used them once. And that was to check you out."

"Yeah, I think Chuck might have been thinking with his wrong head that day. There are much bigger firms that will provide those services much cheaper. However, they do have a well respected forensic accountant on staff. So I asked them to look into things a bit deeper."

"So, what did they find?"

"It's all detailed in here."

Jack picked up the envelope and handed it to me. I shook out a report that looked very official and very ominous. I didn't notice that there wasn't a check from Jack in there. In fact, I had forgotten all about it.

"I noticed something odd the first few days I was here. Excluding Elwood's shenanigans, other things seemed a bit off. There were lots of write-offs to accounts that got cashed out each month. But I couldn't see where the cash was going. So I came in early most days and stayed late most nights to try to figure it out."

Jack, the investigative hero. I think a younger Robert Redford (maybe Brad Pitt) would play him in the movie version.

"Mick, I can see a bit of a twinkle in your eye. Yeah, I did feel a bit like Sherlock 'Fucking' Holmes."

"I always wanted to be "Johnny 'Fucking' Holmes."

That helped break the tension and let us talk more freely to each other.

"Ok, I'm stunned. Questions. Still who? Why? How did it balloon so high? And no, that is not a classic rock song."

"Let me continue. I gave the forensic bulldog the scent of a chicken bone and he came back with a brontosaurus."

"Huh?"

"Well, he confirmed the salami scam and came back with something much larger. It seems the accounts that the shavings were shuffled into recently got some real money pouring into them. "

"How?"

"It's the plant rebuild. I know you guys spent long hours estimating the rebuild costs. Any variance over ten percent by operating unit would get your attention and trigger a review."

"Yup. That was our internal control system during construction."

"What would you say if I told you all the construction costs were over by two to seven percent?"

"I would say we were pretty good estimators."

"Pat yourself on the back and go home happy. Just what a nefarious mind will prey on."

"Sounds like Lex Luther."

"Yeah, and luckily this forensic guy is Superman. By flagging these salami write-off accounts he was able to spot recent activity coming from plant rebuild overages as it funneled through accelerated depreciation."

"Huh?"

"Without getting too technical, companies capitalize costs of assets and write them off over the useful life of the assets against earnings."

"Yeah, I remember a little Accounting One oh One."

"Well, for tax purposes, you can accelerate the write off the first few years. The thief set up a fake vendor (himself), paid the fake vendor and hid the costs in accelerated depreciation write-offs. That coupled with the other non-capital rebuild costs and a good year of earnings for the company hid the theft of these big dollars in the noise. Also, it happened monthly, so it was not easily spotted by me or anyone else in the otherwise strong results we kept having."

"Ok, I'm officially confused but I guess the word 'shit' pretty much says it all."

"Yup.

"So who is this criminal mastermind? If I had to guess, I would say either Kitter or Fallan."

"That's why we needed absolute proof and could not rely on guesswork. God, this is the hard part. The easy way would be to let you read the conclusions in the forensic report. But, that would not be right. Who was the financial accountant when you started? Who ran the paper system for many years? Who helped program the new system? Who has access to the accounts? Who gave blurry financial updates for years? Who do you trust like a brother?"

"Oh God, no."

"I'm sorry. I guess Earl is not only bigger but also smarter than the average bear."
**Chapter Thirty-One**

You're My Best Friend

Man, tough stuff. How do you tell your best buddy that you caught him ripping you off and you want to tear his throat out? You could delegate it to someone else to do. But then, every morning, you would look in the mirror and see a super weenie staring back. You could ignore it and hope it stopped. But Jack had let Jeannie out of the bottle and not even Major Nelson could cram her back in at this point. Or you could take the bull by the horns and just do it like a man. I choose door number three. But you may get a different deal than you think you are getting when talking to Earl.

"Hey, buddy. How's it going? Everything rocking and rolling along as usual?"

We were sitting in Earl's office on a beautiful Carolina fall morning. The sun was filtering through the brightly colored leaves as it began to peek through the office windows. There was a sweet freshness in the air that reminded me of the first bite of a newly picked apple. Did you know that North Carolina is the seventh largest apple producing state in the nation? Did you know that apples are a great source of fiber and vitamin C? Do you care? Does it sound like I was trying to do anything to delay this conversation? Ok, now who is Sherlock 'Fucking' Holmes? Ah shit, it was time to man up and dive in head first.

"Hey, Mick, it's all good."

"Yeah, Earl, listen, you know I love you like a brother. And I would do anything to help you out if you needed it."

"Sure I know that, Mick. And right back up yours."

"There is just no easy way for me to say this, Earl. But, I know."

"You do? You know what?"

"I know your secret and what you've been doing."

Earl gave me a long stare. I braced myself in case he decided to launch over the desk and make a break for it. Of course, given our size differentials, that's kind of like a Chihuahua bracing for a Scooby Doo charge. Brave, but useless.

Earl did not run me over. But what he said next almost knocked me out of my chair.

"That really is a relief. I thought I was going to have a cardiac infraction trying to keep this bottled up inside. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I couldn't say anything."

"Earl, I'm not sure I understand why. I am here to support you, no matter what."

"Jeez, I would have said something, but Jennifer told me if I breathed a word of it she would consecrate me."

It took me a minute of consultation with my mental Earl Decoder Ring to realize he meant "castrate."

"Are your really going to blame this on Jennifer?"

"Yeah, well, I guess I had something to do with it."

What was harder to believe than Earl's words, and they were tougher to swallow than Doris's special Tuesday Night Meat Surprise, was the shit-eating grin he had on his face when he said them.

"I thought I knew you."

"C'mon, Mick, this not something I planned. It just kind of happened."

"But Earl, how could you?"

"Mick, I think you are the last guy I'd have to explain that to."

"Look, I consider myself a pretty savvy dude, but I could never do something like this."

"Mick, never say never. Things change and sometimes change is good."

"Don't you know the consequences of this?"

"Well, I haven't thought it all the way through, but I think our lives have definitely changed for the better."

"Really? Even now that you have been found out?"

"I knew it had to come out sooner or later. In fact, I have kept this in my drawer in case I did get found out."

Earl reached into his top drawer and I think I squirted a bit in my Dockers. Even Earl couldn't miss from this distance. I looked down the cylinder he pointed at me and did a double take. Earl was going to shoot me with a cigar???

"Mick, I'm glad I can give the first one to you. She's not due for six months yet, but she is starting to show."

"Whaaaaa?"

"I really wanted to name it Mick if it's a boy and Mickelle if it's a girl. Jennifer just laughs when I say that."

"You, you, you guys are having a baby?"

"And you figured it out. Sherlock 'Fucking' Houdini."

Somehow through my cloud of shock and excitement, a sharp clear sense of relief shot through me. This proud Papa, gentle giant, one of a kind friend would never ever do anything dishonest. Much less something of this magnitude. Jack got it wrong. How could I ever have thought otherwise?

"Earl, you know you have to get up pretty early in the morning to get anything by me. Congratulations buddy."

"Are those tears of joy in your eyes, Mick?"

"Hell no. Must be the pollen in the air."

"You never had allergies before."

"Whatever, look I gotta run. Congrats, again. I am overjoyed for you."

So what the hell was Jack on to? Who was ripping us off? I thought it was time to bring in my most trusted consultant to help me get to the bottom of this. I needed someone whose wisdom knew no boundaries.
**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Fortunate Son

"Hello, Dad."

"Mick? A phone call? Didn't you just call us a couple of months ago? Is it my birthday and someone forgot to tell me? _Happy Birthday Daddy, got you on my mi-ind_."

"Real funny, Dad. And The Little River Band song is about an anniversary, not a birthday."

"Yeah. I'm a laugh riot. So, what's up, son?"

"Dad, I need your advice and counsel on something pretty major. It's not easy for me to tell you this, so I'll just launch right in. Please listen till I'm finished and then you'll have my undivided attention."

"Righto ranger."

"As you know, our financial results at Woodland have been pretty outstanding over the last few years."

"Yeah you have been ripping the cover off the old profit ball, knocking it out of the park, driving it straight down the middle..."

"Dad, remember what I said about listening?"

"Oops, sorry."

And apparently he was. Except for a few gasps and some clicking of his dentures, Dad remained quiet and attentive while I laid out the fraud story and my shameful suspicions about Earl. When I finished, there were a few seconds of silence. I could almost hear the gears engaging in his mind while he sorted through what I had told him.

"Ok. Here's what I think."

"Lay it on me, Dad. I know I let you down by doubting my best friend and..."

"Ah, ah, ah. Now it's your turn to give me some undivided attention."

"Yes, sir."

"Ok, that's more like it. You are right about Earl. You had a bit of a brain fart there. You should not have thought, for one second, that there was a single dishonest bone in that oversized body. Think about what you ate that caused that brain gas to build up."

"Whaaa??"

"Shhh. I'm saying what made you start to suspect him? Jack. Right?"

"Yeah?"

"Beyond what's on the surface, I really don't know Jack. Ah, ah, no wise cracks. That's too much of a softball. But think about it. I do know that Jack is a serious snake charmer. Jack is the one that put the blame for this squarely on Earl. Jack is the one that has access to your accounts, if I'm not mistaken. You told me that Jack liked the bling but didn't have the blow to hang with it."

Geesh, my Dad, the gangsta.

"Also, and this is the most important thing in my book, Jack cheats at golf."

"What?"

"Recall that day we played? I went up that hill on eighteen to find my ball."

"The one you drowned on your next shot."

"Undivided attention? Anyway, as I was looking down at the fairway, I saw Jack drive over to where his ball landed. He looked for it for a few minutes until he realized it must have gone into the water. I saw him glance around and not spot anybody watching him, including me. He then proceeded to drop another ball out of his pocket and kick, a.k.a. foot wedge, it from behind the rocks into a nice fluffy lie. From there, he made that great shot. "

"So why didn't you nail him for it?"

"Look, I probably should have but you seemed to really like the guy. He was also your new hire and CFO. And it would have just been his word against some old man's. However, in retrospect, I wish I had made a fuss. As I have said a time or two, a person that cheats in golf..."

"... also cheats in life."

"So you do listen to your old pop on occasion. I'm not saying I'm one hundred percent sure that Jack ripped you off, but if it quacks like a duck, it ain't no rooster.

Earlisms can sometimes be contagious. "So why would Jack tell me someone was ripping us off? And what about the forensic accountant's report? And why blame Earl?"

"If you would watch less Golf Channel and a little more _CSI_ or _Law and Order_ , you could relate better to the criminal mind, like I do."

"Oh, boy."

"Seriously. Think about it. First of all, he deflected attention away from himself by being the whistle blower. He gave you a stew that was a mixture of verifiable facts and harder to verify utter accounting crap. The accountant reported that you had been the victim of a fraud. However, it sounds like he reported it to Jack. It is nearly impossible to keep that information secret, so Jack told you and will share it with The Circle. Here is how Jack wants it to play out. Neither you nor any of the other Circle members will see the details in the report. Jack tosses them an unsuspecting perpetrator who is not present to defend himself. He might even have planted some minor evidence against Earl. When confronted, Earl denies it all. Since there is only circumstantial evidence, Jack recommends no criminal prosecution due to the lack of a smoking gun. You eventually fire Earl, write off the loss, and Jack pockets the money. Easy pickings. He will continue to find ways to rip you off until he leaves one day smiling all the way to the bank in his shiny Corvette thinking how he fleeced the rubes."

"Damn. I never knew this devious side of you, Dad."

"Truth be told, I think this was once the plot of a _Murder She Wrote_ episode except it involved someone getting their head chopped off instead of financial fraud."

It was time for my mental gears to grind. Jack took back the report he gave me before I could read it. Barnum Security was hired by Jack. Jack did spend more time working in the office than anybody else. He was in there on his computer before we got there in the mornings and after we left at night doing God knows what. He was slick and seemed too good to be true. He cheated at golf. AND HE WAS ANOTHER FUCKING MBA.

"Dad, I think you are on to something. So what do I do?"

"Well, I might know just the person to help you. Let's see how you can jump old Jack Flash."
Chapter Thirty-Three

**Jumpin' Jack Flash**

The mood in the room the next week was bordering on jovial. It was our Monday morning Circle meeting. The coffee was hot, the doughnuts were fresh, the plant was running smoothly, orders were up and Chuck had a rare smile on his face. I think I was the only one that looked like I had eaten a bad burrito.

"Ok, boys. The sun is shining outside, and I have a two o'clock tee time and a hot date tonight with the wife. But before I can get to all that, my man Jack is going to update us on a sad and nasty problem we had and how he solved it."

Phil Kitter asked with a bit of a plea in his voice, "Jack, how about you tell the JOKE before you start."

There was a collective sigh around the table. In all the years I had known Phil, I had never seen him be very friendly to any human being. That is until Jack arrived. Phil seemed captivated by Jack. I think he wanted to be Jack. Hell, I guess we all did to some extent. And Phil loved Jack's stupid dog joke.

"Ok, Tommy Test Tube, but just this one last time. There were these two guys walking down the street. They glance over into a front yard as they were passing by and see a large dog vigorously licking its private parts. The one guy looks at the other and says, 'Man, I wish I could do that.' The other guy looks back at him and asks, 'Don't you think you should pet him first?'"

Phil slapped the table and let out a hearty laugh. The others rolled their eyes at the joke they had heard at least ten times. I glared at Jack hoping I could wipe that smug look off his face before the coffee went cold.

"I swear. No matter how much Phil begs, that's the last time I will tell that one."

Chuck said with a huge smile, "It better be. How do I explain to the unemployment board that I had to fire you because some mangy mutt kept licking its balls? Let's hurry this up. On with the show, Jack."

Jack proceeded to give a concise presentation consisting of two Power Point slides summarizing the fraud and who was to blame. He managed it in such a way that it was clear what had happened and how it happened but he was very short on details. Somehow, he also made himself out to be the hero of the story in every respect while portraying an "aw shucks" humility. Mr. Slick. At the end of his short masterpiece, the entire Circle (well, with one exception) was ready to go hang Earl up by the ankles and have him drawn and quartered.

"I know everybody loves Earl and he has worked very hard for this company. No one knows what drives people to do what they do sometimes."

The collective herd voiced strong support for firing him, having him arrested, making him pay it all back, forcibly removing some of his more tender appendages etc. etc. I was the only one that remained silent.

Master Jack raised his palms to calm the mob.

"Whoa there, fellas. The accountant's report clearly concludes that Mr. Boase is our fraudster. We have felonious financial entries made on his computer. In addition, I have evidence of large bank deposits he made. However, this may not be enough to convict in a court of law. Mick told me he talked to Earl this morning and he denied everything. Mick sent him home on unpaid leave. Charles and I are suggesting that we allow Earl to retire quietly and leave it at that. A prosecution would drag on forever, cost more than we could recover and we might not win. We will inform The Shareholder, strengthen our controls and put this behind us. In lieu of a pension or severance payment, Earl can live out his days on his ill gotten gains. On the bright side, if Earl lives twenty-two point five more years, that is actually an overall actuarial savings for Woodland."

Bastard!

"Any questions?"

As the room erupted into protests and calls for more punitive action, I quietly raised my hand.

"Mick, you have been very uncharacteristically quiet. I know Earl is a good friend of yours and I am so sorry this has happened. It looks like you may have some sage wisdom to share."

"Actually, Jack, a request."

"Shoot."

Don't tempt me. "As you know, this is quite a shock to me. Earl's not only a good friend, he's my best friend. I really appreciate all your efforts. But this is the second time we have had an employee burn us recently, no pun intended. I think you should share the forensic report with all of us so we can learn from it and know what to watch for in the future." Kaboom, asshole.

"Sure, Mick, great idea. In fact, here is a copy for you and I'll have Victoria get copies to everybody by the end of the day including you, Charles."

I'll have to admit, I was a bit stunned as Jack slid a copy of the inch thick report across the table to me. Could Dad have watched the wrong episode of CSI? I took a quick scan through the report as the others were gathering their things up in anticipation of the meeting disbanding.

"Ok, I think that's it for now. Good luck on the fairways today, big guy, and in the rough tonight." Jack shot a wink at Chuck then turned to go out the door.

"Uh, just a couple more questions, if I may," I quickly said trying to channel my best Columbo imitation.

"C'mon, Mick, I've got a tee time."

"Can you bear with me just a minute, Charles?"

With an exasperated sigh, the "big guy" plopped back down in his chair. Everyone else paused somewhere between sitting and standing. Jack did an exaggerated eye roll, shrugged and flashed his slimy smile in my direction.

"What? You got a joke to top my dog classic?"

"No, Jack. I was just wondering something. Do they teach you criminal behavior in MBA school? And how were we lucky enough to snag two twisted bastards in a row?"

A stunned silence fell over the room only interrupted by the sound of oversized backsides hitting the chair cushions.

"Uhhhhh – wha?"

That was the first time any of us had seen Jack speechless.

"Mick, are you high?"

"No, Charles. Before we lynch Earl, I think we need a few more answers from this lying sack of excrement."

Jack found his voice, although it was a bit shaky. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"First of all, Earl and I went to his bank last week. They gave me permission to review all his account activity over the last few years. There was nothing unusual about his deposits."

"Wait a minute. I don't like your tone, Mick. And you told me you talked to Earl this morning. So why did you go to the bank with him last week?"

It was a pitiful attempt to turn the tables. I expected more from Mr. Smarmy. "I did talk to Earl this morning. I also talked to him last week which I chose not to tell you. You see Jack, I don't cheat at golf and I don't lie, unlike you." Well, one out of two ain't bad. I do not cheat at golf. As the story about going to the bank with Earl was a total fabrication, maybe I do lie a bit. But only for good reasons.

"And the reason there were no unusual deposits is a that he used a different bank, you idiot. Check out these deposit slips." Jack grabbed a stack of papers off the table and waved them around.

"I'd like to see those."

"Yeah, Mick, I bet you would. So are we done here now?"

"Not quite. This copy of the forensic accountant's report looks somewhat different than the copy I asked him for last week. What you don't know is that Bill McBridle also does my taxes every year and is a friend of mine."

True. I pulled the copy Bill had given me out of my briefcase and slapped it on the table. I was feeling a bit like Matlock.

"To wit, page twenty-one in the real copy states that Bill could not conclusively determine who perpetrated the fraud. In the copy you just tossed me, it states that he clearly concluded that Earl is to blame. He also has nothing in his original report about a pepperoni or salami or whatever meat type fraud you so eloquently described. His findings were only about skimming during the rebuild."

"Mick, Mick, Mick. You have quite the imagination. I'd be getting pretty upset right now if I didn't love you like a brother. What you don't know is that I met with Anita over the weekend and she presented new and even more detailed evidence. She gave me a revised report. What you have is a preliminary copy. I just gave you the final. C'mon, Charles, let's go grab a quick lunch. Come with us, Mick. It will calm you down. I'll even buy to show that there are no hard feelings on my part."

Oh, he was good. But I wasn't anywhere near done.

"Seems like you can afford it, Jack. Before we go, let's discuss the chart on page fourteen. It shows that the most recent fraudulent entries were entered on Earl's computer."

"There you go. Another nail in the Earl coffin. Let's eat."

"It also shows the dates and exact times those entries were made."

"I told you this guy, McBridle, was thorough."

"What you also don't know is that, post Elwood, Earl decided it might be a good idea to see who was doing what in the Finance department in the off hours. So he discretely installed a few motion activated cameras. The DVD I have here shows work being done on Earl's computer. Except at the time those entries were made, it's not Earl at his computer. IT'S YOU!" Total ridiculous fabrication on my part, but said quickly and forcibly enough, it sounded pretty good. The DVD I partially pulled out of my briefcase was actually _Shoe Stink Live in London 1982_. Never get into a caca-slinging fight with a master bull shitter.

"In fact, I did some background research on you, Jack. Google and all the other normal online tools showed you to be exactly who you say you are. In the conman world, I believe they call that building a back story. But dear old Dad reminded me that my brother Jay was a Federal criminal investigator. So I had him use some tools that the average, or even above average, Joe doesn't have access to. He called me right before this meeting and told me:

  * Your name is not really Jack Wicker.

  * You passed the background check because Anita, the owner of the Barnum Security, happens to be YOUR WIFE. Barnum security, what a hoot. As in P.T. Barnum's 'a sucker is born every minute.' She set up the firm just so you could perpetrate this fraud on us poor unsuspecting country folk. In a classic case of the cobbler not fixing his own shoes, Bill McBridle never checked to see if the company he hired into was legitimate.

  * I'm assuming a bit here, but I'll bet Anita altered Bill's original fraud report. Bill also told me she did the background check on you which turns out to be one hundred percent fiction.

  * You do have an MBA. However, you were implicated in some sort of cheating scandal while at school. You were never actually found guilty. It was rumored that you went scot free due to an ongoing threesome you were having with the Finance Chair and his wife.

  * You are under pending indictments for defrauding the last two companies you worked for.

  * And, last, I will bet any man in this room that if we had gone to lunch, you'd forget your wallet again and I'd have to pony up for the bill."

The room was as silent as a tomb. I could see the blood literally drain from Jack's face. I don't think it was from my lunch comment. The other heads in the room were doing the tennis match swivel while the jaws were collectively dropping to the floor. The tension could not have been parted with a chainsaw. I braced for his next crap filled verbal assault.

Suddenly, Jack seemed to relax. He smiled as he casually commented, "Very funny, Mick. In fact..."

I thank my softball honed reflexes for the fact that I was able to turn and take Jack's flying iPAD on the shoulder instead of full on in the face. All in all, though, another great shot by Jack given the distance, awkward stance, the projectile's lack of aerodynamic shaping and the pressure of the situation. As I was falling backwards, I saw Jack knock Dan and Chuck out of their chairs as he bolted for the door. Kitter was the first to fully recover but unfortunately tripped over Chuck in his haste to pursue his former idol. The rest of us wound up in an awkward pile jammed in the doorway. It was definitely the Keystone Cops revisited.

As we were yelling and cussing and trying to sort ourselves out, we heard the unmistakable sound of a 'Vette roaring to life in the parking lot and the scream of burning rubber. I was the first to make it through the door and turn up the hallway toward the exit. I ran head on into Victoria coming the other way. In normal circumstances, this would be a dream come true. She STILL looked great. But these were far from normal circumstances.

"Oh, sorry Victoria. Are you all right?"

"Fine. Listen I heard most of what was going in there once you started yelling at Jack."

I had been yelling? Well, maybe.

"I called Will. He and my sons are blocking Route 17. They will catch that son of a bitch."

"That's great. But why would they do that? This seems like a company matter not a county law concern. "

"I told him about what was happening here. I casually mentioned that his favorite grandniece's boyfriend never mentioned that he is married. I also threw in that Jack may have once hit on me and tried to grab my naughty parts."

Rut oh! Jumpin' Jack Sprat was about to go splat.
Chapter Thirty-Four

**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

Thinking about all this would make me smile if this tape didn't have my mouth permanently formed into a straight line. We never saw Jack again. His lovely wife, the so called Anita, also disappeared. Bill, the forensic accountant who really was innocent in all this, took over Barnum Security and renamed it Honest Abe Security. He is doing quite well. He issued a refund to Woodland for all fees paid to date and has since serviced all our external security needs.

Will mumbled something about giving Jack and Anita some fatherly advice about leaving the State and a detailed description of what would happen to them if they didn't. Will said one of his deputies put them on a bus out of town with only the clothes on their back. Will personally repossessed Jack's beloved 'Vette which was fully paid off (most likely with our money). It and all of Jack and Anita's possessions left behind were sold at the sheriff's county fair and auction. Jay's research found that the Federal authorities were interested in talking to the two of them regarding a variety of con related charges. Jack must have been feeling the heat. A search of his apartment found two one way plane tickets to Aruba hidden in his sock drawer. It really was a sad story. Jack and Anita were obviously very bright. They could have succeeded wildly at whatever they chose to do. They chose to lie and cheat and steal. Maybe that's how that got their kicks. I probably don't need to mention that Jay's research also found that Anita, too, held an MBA degree.

Will said he convinced the court to allow Jack's safety deposit box to be opened. Personally, since Will's cousin managed the bank, I think he might have skipped the court thing. Anyway, inside was eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash. Will gave the money and the proceeds from the auction back to Woodland. The Circle decided to use part of it to set up a college fund for baby Boase (assuaging their collective guilt for falsely suspecting Earl) and to donate the rest to the United Way

So was Will's story about sending them out of town truth or bull? To date, the Feds have not found either one of them. Some say Will let Anita go and locked Jack in the back room of Doris's Diner where he remains as her on call love slave to this day. Eeewwwwww. Others advised me to watch for assorted body parts in the next few batches of X-400. Who knows what really happened to them? Who cares? The slime bucket Wickers (I am under court order to not reveal their real names) had been dealt with and most of their ill gotten gains recovered and put to good use. Will's legend continued to expand. And, once again, we at Woodland learned a valuable lesson. Or had we? If that was such an educational event for us, why the hell am I laying here with my extremities screaming obscenities at me?

Jay came down to visit, play some late season golf and help me lick my wounds. At least, that is what he said. I think he really came down to see Will. They had struck up a casual lawman to lawman friendship on previous visits. Will said the next time Jay came down, he would take him on patrol. This was the next time.

"Man, it was awesome. I now spend eighty percent of my days chasing bad guys through cyberspace. They say some in the policing profession have itchy trigger fingers. All I have are sore keyboard fingers. Being in the patrol car with Will and chasing bad guys in the physical world is such a rush."

"Jay, if you don't love what you do, you should make a change. Life is too short not to spend it well."

"Listen to you, little brother. I guess you pretty well have it made except for the occasional corrupt co-worker."

"Yeah, I do."

"Change is not that easy for me, Mick. Nancy loves Kansas City and I have two mouths to feed."

He did. I had two awesome (see – I'm not such a language antique) nephews, Davy and Peter. These were names that Jay and Nancy compromised on. Jay wanted to go for true classic rock names like Axl and Ziggy. Under divorce threats, he settled on names from his wife's favorite band that bordered on classic rock, The Monkees. The boys were eight and ten respectively and were true pistols. Dad had taught them the greatest game on earth and they both turned out to be pretty good golfers. When they came to visit for a couple weeks each summer, we would have a blast.

"I know that too, Jay. Keep your eyes open, I'm sure something will come your way."

"Are your asses permanently glued to that booth? Am I going to have to kick them out of there with my size ten butthole stompers?"

Never try to have a serious conversation while drinking at Doris's.

A short while after that conversation, Jay did change jobs. Jay left the Feds and became the sheriff of a small town in southern Ohio with the unlikely name of Small Frick. Of course, being the mature sophisticated younger brother, I called it Small Dick at every opportunity plus a few. "Hey Jay, I hear you're the smallest dick in Small Dick" etc. etc. I know he found this highly amusing as he always flashed the "you're my number one brother" finger at me. Anyway, the town needed a sheriff and Jay loved the job. The honest truth (is there another kind?) is that he turned out to be pretty good at it. At least that's what Ma and Pa said and, while they may embellish, they rarely, if ever, outright lie. I wish I could say that about everybody.
Chapter Thirty-Five

**Now You're Messin' With A Son of a Bitch**

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. The same goes for no idiotic deed or deeds, at least in the mind of The Shareholder.

The snow was swirling outside as Chuck reconvened The Circle for a meeting with the Grand Poobah himself. It was a momentous event in the annuals of Woodland Enterprises. We had never had direct interaction with The Shareholder before. All communications went through Chuck. In fact, some had speculated that there wasn't really a mysterious Shareholder. They thought that Chuck might be The Shareholder. Others figured The Shareholder was a high rolling California real estate tycoon. My best guess was that he was a New York business mogul with possible Mob connections. Chuck liked to quietly promote my theory. If the threat of losing one's job didn't deter research into The Shareholder's identity, the implied threat of possibly losing one's life certainly did. None of this speculation turned out to be one hundred percent accurate.

Everyone was pretty stoked about our impending cozy fireside chat. Well, maybe not so cozy in that we were in the conference room and The Shareholder was a voice on the speakerphone. And maybe not so fireside, although the fire part was appropriate since the chat was more like a roasting of our asses.

"Thank you for attending. I know this is the first time I have had an actual conversation with any of you, except Charles. Maybe I should have done this sooner. But I never had a question quite as important as the one I want to ask now. And I thought it would be best if I put it to all of you."

Well, I guess that debunked the theory of Chuck being The Shareholder, unless he was a master ventriloquist, which I sincerely doubted. I glanced around the room. It seemed everyone was feeling a slight sense of honor that we were all being included.

"My question is this; what the fuck is wrong with you bunch of dickheads? It wasn't that long ago that I was patting myself on the back for putting such a talented team in place to run Woodland. Y'all were making me very proud and very rich. Then I send my wife's favorite nephew down there for a bit of seasoning and training. I know he was a weird fucker, but I thought he was a pretty harmless financial weenie. Shit. You let him blow the damn plant up."

So much for our slight sense of honor. It might have been my imagination, but I think the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees. I do know that my nads felt like they were starting to suck up into my body.

"Well..."

"Shut the fuck up and listen, Charles."

Now I knew where Chuck got his kind and caring managerial style from.

"Then I tell you to go out and find a quality MBA to guide the financial side of the rebuild. And you did a great job with that! The dude rips us for over three quarter mil. What are you going to do next? Hire Butch Cassidy to run the cafeteria?"

No one laughed. No one even breathed. That was a good thing. I briefly considered a crack about the missing silverware at the culinary schools he and Sundance attended, but thought better of it. Another good thing.

"I have half a mind to come down there myself and make sure you're not wiping your runny asses with my investment dollars."

Did this guy know Doris? Maybe this was Doris with a disguised voice?

"To say that I have lost confidence in your collective leadership abilities would be like saying the White Star Line lost confidence in the Titanic captain's navigation skills."

So The Shareholder was an old fart.

"I have other interests I need to watch out for. I don't have time to come babysit you. But, it appears that I can't leave you alone without some adult oversight."

Everyone's a comedian these days.

"As each of you is well aware, or, by God, better be well aware, the thing that makes Woodland valuable and keeps me pumping money to you dipshits is X-400. Woodland is still the only place that can make it. And why is that?"

"Well, it's because..."

"Who the hell is that? Did I ask someone to stink up the air? If I wanted to hear a fart, I'd squeeze one out myself."

Phil Kitter's dentures rattled as he clamped his mouth shut, turned red and sunk into his chair.

"Where was I?"

Understandably, no one answered.

"Yeah, X-400. No one else can make it because no one else knows how. And God knows there have been more than a few of our competitors that have tried over the years. Bastards! But no one can get it quite right except us. And as we proved, getting it slightly wrong can mean blowing things sky high, literally. Jesus. Now I know you have all managed to keep the formulation secret for all this time. Since you seem to have been hit hard with the stupid stick recently, I'm beginning to worry if that will continue."

Sure it would. Even The Shareholder didn't know how we maintained the secrecy of our formulation, unless Elwood told him.

"Even I don't know how you keep it secret."

Is there an echo in here?

"But, as Jehovah is my witness, it better stay secret or this ass kicking will seem like a tender dick massage compared to what would happen if it got out."

Probably a good thing that our Circle was still all male.

"So, here's what I'm going to do. In a few months, I am sending Dusty Koepke down. Dusty is my most trusted assistant. I will ask Dusty to review your operations and see if y'all can still find your ass with both hands. Dusty will review the security around the X-400 formula and take a look at your overall internal controls. Dusty will return back when a proper feeling of comfort is achieved. Each of you will also be evaluated. If in Dusty's opinion, any of you are not giving one hundred and ten percent one hundred and fifty percent of the time, you might find yourself in a one on one performance discussion with me. And it won't end well."

Must be the new math.

"I know I speak clearly so there is no need for questions. Dusty is very capable. Trained by me and a top graduate of a highly respected..."

My memory may be playing tricks on me, but I think there was a faint drum roll at this point.

"MBA program."

Shit.
Chapter Thirty-Six

**Killer Queen**

As I think back, and what else can I do but think back in my wretched predicament, I truly thought the third time might be the proverbial charm. It started with such promise. I still recall the soft scent of lilacs and majestic cloud of golden tresses floating into my world. Jesus! Does duct tape have fumes? I think I'm still a bit loopy. I need to concentrate. There has got to be a way out of here. Something keeps pulling at my mind. My normally fully steamed, on time, one hundred percent reliable locomotive thought engine keeps jumping the tracks. Must be the combination of man's silvery little best friend pulling out the majority of my body hair every time I move and whatever Dusty did...Shit! That memory just fizzled out too. What did Dusty do to whom when? Or did I do something I shouldn't have to Dusty? Now there's a thought. Hmmmm. Dusty...

"So, Charles, the new hot shot is supposed to show up today?"

"Yeah, Mick, should be any time now."

It was a beautiful North Carolina early spring day. The chill of winter had been chased away and the sun was doing its thing big time. The birds were singing happy tunes and I, too, was thinking of birdies. The course had opened for the season last weekend. The only turd in my otherwise delicious punch bowl of life was about to deposit itself on the scene monetarily.

"So what did McBridle's background check turn up on our new boy?"

Chuck looked at me like I was a complete idiot. "Background check? Have you lost your fucking mind? Do you think I am stupid enough to do a background check on the prized employee 'Mr. Super Secretive' is sending down to check up on us? I rather like this job. I might just as well stick my dick in a garbage disposal and hit the 'on' button."

"I don't like someone checking up on us. And when it comes to these MBA types, my level of trust and confidence is right there with your ground up dick in that disposal."

"Mick, I'm counting on your best behavior. The Shareholder is watching us carefully. I think this Dusty dude is going to work out fine. He swears Dusty is fair and reasonable. In fact, I think this guy might be a big help to us."

"Yeah, like the Indians were a help to Custer. Like Kryptonite helps Batman. Like cheese helps you take a good shit. Look, Charles, we produce a great product with our world class technical expertise. Keep all these damned bean counters out of our hair and we are a profit making machine. Now we are going to be sent either another geek that can't tie his own shoes or a slick charmer that will steal our shoes before we even put our socks on. Why are we accepting this? Why don't we..."

It was at this moment that I noticed the slight grin on Chuck's face and the fact that he was looking right through me.

"Dusty is standing right behind me, isn't he?"

The aroma hit me first. I don't know what type of aftershave this guy wears, but it might start to sway my sexual orientation. Is it possible for nose hairs to get an erection? Next, my left ear detected a warm breeze softly caressing it. A noise that felt like warm honey poured down my auditory canal and teased my nerve endings making my synapses prematurely fire. When my head stopped spinning, I could hear soft words being sweetly murmured over my shoulder.

"Ah, you must be Mick. Who else? And while I really hate to begin on the wrong foot, there are three things you said that may not be entirely factual. First, I believe it was Superman, not Batman, that struggled with Kryptonite. Good song, by the way. Second, I rarely find the need to tie my pumps. And I'm sure you can guess the third."

I slowly turned my head and was met by the softest, most vibrant pair of emerald eyes that I had ever seen. I mean, we are talking Lake Louise after the first snow melt. I had read and heard about eyes being the windows to the soul, but this is the first time I had experienced them in all their twinkling glory. Normally it takes me a long time to notice a hot shaped woman's features above the neck, much less the eyes. Today, I couldn't break their hold on me.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

Dusty straightened up and took a step back. She extended a hand and said, "Charles, Mick, I'm Dusty Koepke. It is very nice to meet the both of you."

Charles was far more eloquent and suave in the moment than I had been. He managed not to drool on himself (although I'd classify mine as just minor slobber) and squeaked out an actual word.

"Wow."

"I'm sorry. I got in a little early and Victoria, I believe that's her name, told me to come on back. She is quite lovely, by the way."

Please, dear God. Don't make us have to give her the "hands off" Victoria speech. If she is playing for the other team, I'm taking my bat and balls and going home.

"May I have a seat?"

I stood to give her my chair. I took a quick glance down to ensure that little Mick had only plumped a bit and not risen to notable attention. Not that she would have noticed. Don't get me wrong, it could have been extremely noticeable given its gargantuan proportions when preparing to do battle, but she was maintaining totally focused eye contact.

"Why, thank you. It is rare to find a true gentleman these days."

"Uhhhhhhh."

"I heard you were rather eloquent, but I had no idea."

"Oh, um, sorry. I must admit, you took us by surprise. When I heard the name Dusty, my mental image drifted more toward Dusty Rhodes of ZZ Top."

"Well, I may not be a sharp dressed man but I do own some cheap sunglasses."

If possible, the mercury in my love meter elevated a few more degrees.

"And sorry about the shock. I thought Mr., oops, I mean The Shareholder, made mention of my gender. He just loves a good joke. I am correct in that you refer to him only as 'The Shareholder,' aren't I?"

Charles decided it was time to chime in. "That is the only name we have for him. He has done a great job at protecting his anonymity. I am still not totally clear why."

"Well, he can be a bit eccentric. But he thinks the world of both of you."

"That's nice to hear. But then why are you here, if I may be so bold as to query?"

"Now that's the smooth talking Mick I was told to expect. And, please, always be bold with me. I think honesty is one of the best traits a business professional can have. And I love it in a man, too."

Oh, she was good. I hate to be manipulated, but she had me, and from the looks of it, Chuck, ready to sacrifice life and limb for her. And she had been here less than five minutes.

"I know The Share... let's just call him Mr. S. for simplicity, told you I was coming down here to make sure y'all weren't screwing the pooch, so to say. But, look, that's not really my agenda. One of my concentrations in graduate school was internal controls and prevention of corporate malfeasance. So I just want to try to help where I can with some of my expertise. I truly am here to be a team player and suggest some ways you might protect your flanks if there are any slight weaknesses. Mr. S. is somewhat concerned with a few of our competitors. The last thing he wants is for our X-400 formula to become generic."

Oh, man, smart too. That all flowed out of her with such sincerity. And she slightly bit her full moistened lips after saying it. I was beginning to drown in her eyes again when a faint ringing in my head threw me a life line. It was the old tried and true Mick early warning system. It usually alerted when something seemed too good to be true. And trust me; this babe was all that and then some.

"Dusty, we are very glad to hear that. And we are very happy to have you here. Any suggestions you have to help will be greatly appreciated. Mick, why don't you show her around and help her get settled?"

Hmmm. Apparently Chuck didn't have my alarm system installed in his cranium. Or maybe mine was just too sensitive. I mean, look at that fine...focus, dude!

"Happy to, Charles. How about we start with a plant tour?"

And so it began.
Chapter Thirty-Seven

**Uptown Girl**

North Carolina is a modern and progressive state with great universities and a very intelligent populace. But given the reaction to Dusty on behalf of the male contingent at Woodland, you would have thought we all just recently emerged from the Cro-Magnon era. Grow up dudes, will ya? She is just flesh and bone. Granted that is some mighty awesome soft flesh placed over some perfect bones that I would like to...FOCUS!!!! As I was saying, this woman exerted major influence just by walking in the room.

Before the tour, I sat Dusty down and gave her the same type of introduction to The Circle and our X-400 security that I had given to Elwood and Jack. I am slightly ashamed to admit that I even threw in some of the same old corny jokes. Only this time they got a laugh. She also listened intently and took notes.

When I finished, Dusty was lightly chewing on the end of her pen. I was only going to give her several hours to continue doing that before I intervened providing I was not a puddle of goo by that time. "I must say that it is not the most sophisticated system in the world, but it sounds like it is solid. How many times have you had to go into the safety deposit boxes?"

"Never. We have been very lucky. All The Circle guys are the original members. They have their formula parts firmly implanted between their ears. You'll see that they are all middle-aged farts like me. Of course, I am better looking and in much better shape than the rest. And, if my office is bugged, I'm excluding you from that statement, Charles."

"You really are a funny guy."

That is the one and only time I'll ever thank Professor Thayer for anything.

"When will I get to meet the rest of The Circle to form my own opinion?"

"How about right now? We will start the plant tour by looking at our outdated assets. By that, I mean, the other Circle team members."

I let her walk slightly ahead of me as we proceeded down the hallway. I'm proud to say that I didn't glance at her ass one time. I'm not so proud to admit that I glanced numerous times.

"Phil, I'd like you to meet Dusty."

Phil Kitter's office was what one would think of as the stereotypical space for a research type geek. It was windowless with beige walls sporting no pictures. There were huge piles of research papers covering his desk and floor along with some types of manuals with titles like "Photosynthesis Threshold Theorems in Dynamic Douche Bags." Ok, maybe I couldn't see a couple of words fully, but that would have been my guess. Phil was face deep in some moldy looking tome. I swear I could see dust mites flying up his nostrils.

"Ummm." He finally glanced up and looked at us over his reading glasses. Once his eyes focused on Dusty, three things occurred simultaneously. His jaw dropped, his glasses fell off and his book slammed shut both breaking said glasses and pinching his nose.

"Yeoww!"

Oh, lord.

Phil managed to recover with a minor amount of dignity left and struggled to standing position with only the slightest of wobbles.

"Well, welcome. Please come see me anytime if you have any questions of any kind, anytime. In fact, I have some time now if you'd like a plant tour."

"Oh thank you, that's very kind. But Mick is already doing that."

"Lunch then?"

Considering it was only 9:30, that probably wasn't going to fly either.

"I'll take a rain check and gladly cash it in the coming days. Very nice to meet you, Phil."

Smooth as silk. I mean Dusty, not Phil. Phil was about as smooth as Nixon's five o'clock shadow.  Google that if you're under fifty.

Dan Fallan was a bit more dapper. He didn't do anything to hurt himself and spoke semi-intelligently. However, I thought he was playing out of bounds when he offered to show Dusty "the town" some evening. I presumed that would be when Mrs. Fallan was off visiting her mother in Iowa. Again, Dusty handled that with a sweet smile and a kind, "Thank you. I will certainly think about it."

Richard Winterville didn't pull any verbal boners (I love that phrase) but invoked the classic Simon and Garfunkel's _Sounds of Silence_. I have never ever seen Richard at a loss for words but he just nodded and smiled at Dusty. He also leered in what I'm sure he thought was a subtle manner. Not so much. He gave me a clandestine huge knowing wink as we were leaving. It probably would have been more secretive if the little smile on Dusty's face hadn't clearly signaled to me that she caught it with her peripheral vision.

The rest of the tour went much along the same lines. When we walked into the maintenance department's break room, all chatter instantly ceased. The only sound was the thud of an uncaught Snicker's bar falling from the vending machine. I would estimate that plant productivity dropped by a full fifty percent during that tour. Testosterone levels increased in reverse proportion.

To his credit, Earl didn't seem impacted at all by her presence. He seemed normal. Well normal for Earl, anyway.

"Welcome to Woodland, Dusty. This is a great place to live and work and I hope you enjoy your time here. I'm the numbers and accounting guy. You know credits by the window, debits on the floor."

Yep, same old Earl.

I saved what, for me, would be the best for last. We had not encountered a single female during our tour. I was frothing at the bit to see how Victoria would react to Dusty.

"Well, welcome sugar. Please have a seat."

"Victoria, it is a true pleasure to meet you. You are even lovelier in person than I heard. And The Shareholder has said quite a bit about you. Rumor has it this place wouldn't last an hour without you."

I think Victoria actually blushed a little bit. Will wonders never cease?

"That is so sweet of you to say."

"And, if you don't mind me asking, where do you get your nails done? They look fabulous."

"Let me tell you, honey..."

Ah geez. Girl talk. I quickly backed out into the hallway. This Dusty was good. I never saw anyone charm Victoria that quickly. It took me years. Secretly, I think I was hoping for a bit of an entertaining cat fight.

After the tour, I walked her to her Lexus rental. Apparently she had a much larger per diem than us poor plant folks.

"Mick. Thank you so much for the tour. I think I am really going to enjoy my stay here."

"Listen. I wanted to say that I'm sorry that some of the guys acted a bit like jerks, including me, probably. It's just that you were such a pleasant surprise. I think we thought Dusty Koepke was going to be some kind of lumberjack dude coming in here to swing some heavy wood upside our heads."

"Oh, Mick. No need to apologize. I am used to this type of reaction. I find it sweet and still rather flattering. If anything, please apologize to Dan for me. Once I get settled in, I think I would love to have you show me the town one evening."

She gave my arm a soft squeeze than slid into her luxury mobile. I got a full thigh shot which I tried with all might to not stare at. I failed miserably.

"See you tomorrow."

Will somebody please shut off those damned alarm bells in my brain?
Chapter Thirty-Eight

**The Logical Song**

Dusty proved true to her word. She spent the first several weeks learning about our procedures and operations. She seemed to purposely dress conservatively and down played her makeup to be less distracting. It was a valiant try but not very successful. However, a combination of her obvious intelligence and calm demeanor coupled with my daily sexual harassment threats, up to and including castration, cooled the male ardor throughout the plant significantly.

She must not have settled in completely yet. She had not asked me to show her around the town. I had made up my mind that, if asked, it was something I could do on a professional friendly basis. Do they still make saltpeter?

"Mick, have you got a moment?"

"Sure Dusty, what's up?"

"Well. First of all, everyone has been so nice to me and I have learned so much."

"That is music to my ears."

"And I'm sure it's more Zeppelin than Manilow."

"You twisted that right, sister."

"I'm not even going to try to go toe to toe with you on rock references. I hate to lose."

"And they said MBAs don't have good judgment."

"They do? Anyway, Mick, I do have a suggestion to help strengthen security around X-400."

I dropped the smart ass smile and remarks and gave her my full attention. "I'd love to hear it."

She popped a pair of reading glasses on as she consulted her notes. This gave her that faint librarian look. I had to think of rusty butter knives slicing through very valued body appendages to keep my thoughts from wandering into porn land.

"I've been looking at your invoice payments for raw materials and your production run reports. If you collate the order dates on the invoices with the times and quantities of X-400 you produce, there is a chance of back calculating the types and amounts of raw materials used. I noticed that extra copies of invoices were thrown away, not shredded. Copies of production reports also end up in the trashcan after your daily meetings. A motivated competitor could do some dumpster diving and calculations to come up with the X-400 raw material quantities and components."

"Do you really think that could happen?"

"Well, after your last X-400 run, I grabbed some invoices and production reports out of trash cans before they went to the dumpster. Using a few industry algorithms tweaked for the conditions during the run, I back calculated several scenarios of what the raw material mix might be."

"Ok. How do you know whether any of them were close to being right?"

"I presented my data to Richard. I think his amazed reaction, which was something along the lines of 'Holy shit,' confirmed that at least one of them nailed it. With some trial and error, a competitor could have your mix figured out."

"Geesh, I never thought of that. I hope none of them have either. We still have the operating parameters well safeguarded but we don't want any cracks in our shield. I'll have a shredder sent to Invoice Processing immediately and I'll tell those goobers in the daily meeting to shred the production reports."

"Can you let me see the next few batches of invoices and production reports before they are shredded to ensure I can duplicate my findings? I'd like to be sure I didn't just get lucky."

"Great idea. And, great work, Dusty."

"Thanks, Mick. I hope you haven't forgotten that I'd like you to show me around the Asheville area. I haven't had much time yet, but I think I am free next weekend."

"It would me my pleasure, let me check my schedule and get back to you." One should never appear too easy to get, should one?
**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

Over the Hills and Far Away

"So. Can our new geek tie her own shoes?"

"I don't think Manolo Blahnik's need to be tied, Charles."

"Who knows whatniks?"

"Never mind."

Outside of Chuck's office, spring had sprung in its full glory and was beckoning me to frolic with reckless abandon. The hundred year old oak tree, whose mighty branches were inches from Chuck's third story window, was busting out in glorious deep green leaves after being bare all winter. And speaking of bare, it was late Friday afternoon and this weekend was shaping up to be potentially very enjoyable. But first, I had to humor my boss.

"Charles, she is fantastic. I stand corrected and am man enough to admit it. She has been true to her word and is offering some very helpful ideas. She already spotted what might be a potential control weakness that could possibly expose our raw material mix for X-400."

"Do I need to know the details?"

"No. Only that it is a cheap and easy fix."

"Excellent. And how is she being treated?"

"After I took some names and kicked some ass, she is being treated with the respect she deserves. Now she is just one of the guys."

"And that's the way you will be treating her this weekend? Just one of the guys on a joy ride in the mountains?"

"Say what?"

"Earl let it slip that he and Jennifer are taking a 'get to know the Carolinas' weekend jaunt with you and that other guy. What's his name? Oh yeah, Dusty."

"Busted. But it is strictly as friends. She wanted to see the area and I thought going with Earl and Jen would keep all but the sickest of dirty old men from perverting it into something sordid."

A rare smile cracked across Chuck's face.

"Now I'm busted. Look, Mick, you are grown adults. Not that it's any of my business, but is Holly cool with this?"

Ah, yes, Holly, the lovely librarian. Our relationship was certainly long term but still not exactly committed. We tried to not delve too deeply into the subject. Why ruin a good thing? While many have said that my first love is my job, I'm not convinced I agree. I have slept on the job, but not with the job. Holly was coming off a bad first marriage when we met. I think she is still spooked by that. We have dated around off and on but always come back to each other eventually. Currently, we are exclusive and having a great time. Would she be upset that I was going on a weekend joint with co-workers? No. Would she be upset if she knew it was Dusty? Probably not. Would she be upset had she actually met Dusty and knew she was a single female of Grade AAA quality? To quote Earl, "Does a bear shit wood?"

"Charles, you're right. It is none of your business. Besides, Holly and I have a very mature relationship. This is only a weekend getaway with friends."

"Uh huh. Gee, didn't you tell me that Holly is in Raleigh the next few weeks on a librarian exchange program?"

"Maybe. But I am doing nothing wrong."

"Just remember, if you get your pecker cut off, our insurance does not cover add-a-dick-to-mes."

Boy was Chuck in a rare mood. Not funny, but rare.
Chapter Forty

**More Than a Feeling**

I finally escaped the Giardino Comedy Hour and high tailed it over to Earl's place. Earl lived in suburban heaven in Shadow Creek Eagle Estates about three minutes from the plant. I had noticed shadows there before but had yet to spot an eagle or find a creek. His house was a nice rather new brick and Hardiplank story and a half estate on a wooded lot. Well, not exactly an estate but not a shack either. It pretty much represented the American dream, especially for a great dude like Earl. Jen and Dusty were in rockers wearing stylish straw hats on the front porch when I pulled up in Dream On (my new red Lexus IS 250). If they were drinking sarsaparilla tea, I swear I was going to pull out my banjo and play a little _Foggy Mountain Breakdown_.

I think I had a slight cardiac infarction when Dusty stood and sauntered over. I would have brought my black suit if I had known we were attending a funeral. I mean she absolutely murdered those jeans. A proper burial would be the only respectable thing to do.

"Nice wheels, Mick."

"Yeah, you too Dusty."

"Huh?"

"I mean, are we ready to rock and roll?"

At that moment the front door banged open and Earl came stumbling down the porch steps with enough luggage for a two week cruise.

"There's sixteen miles to Lake Lure, we've got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark out, and we're wearing sunglasses."

"Ok, Mick. Let's swat it."

The correct Blues Brothers' response was "Hit it", but that was pretty damned close for Earl.

After I convinced Earl that he and Jen's entire wardrobe wasn't needed for a two day get away, we packed up his 4Runner with half of what he originally brought, my small overnight case and Dusty's shoulder bag. That was all she had. It had enough room for a short nightie and small bikini which, I think, exceeded the mandated weekend wardrobe requirements.

We pulled away with Dusty and me in the back seat and Earl and Jen in the front doing a tortured sing-a-long with _Rocky Mountain High_ playing on Earl's eight track. Yes, I said eight track. I think he is the last human being to have a functioning one. It didn't sound half bad, at least compared to their singing. In my heart, I knew this was a co-worker just friends weekend. But in my head (both north and south) J Geils' _Angel in the Centerfold_ kept repeating over and over.

The ride up to Lake Lure consisted of discussions about work and my poor puns and jokes. I think I might have thought I was slightly funnier than Dusty did (or Earl and Jan did for that matter). Earl occasionally took a curve too fast or hit a large bump in the road. This resulted in co-joining Dusty's left thigh with my right thigh. I have never wanted to kiss Earl more. About twenty miles from the cabin, Dusty steered the conversation back to work again.

"Ok, Earl, I know you are the guts of the financial department at the plant. But aren't you also the one that keeps the computer systems humming?"

"I guess you could say that."

A humble Earl? This was too much. "C'mon, Earl. Don't be shy. Without you we'd still be using Big Chief tablets and Pentels." There's another Google opportunity for you Gen-Xers and -Yers out there.

"Ah, Mick, keep that up and I might get a thick head."

"Earl, do you also handle computer security? Do you have safeguards that would keep hackers out, etc."

"Yeah, we installed a pretty good software package for that."

"Have you ever tested it?"

Sweet Jesus. Earl hit a pothole the size of the Grand Canyon. When we landed, Dusty's head was on my shoulder and my arm was wrapped protectively around her.

"Oops. Sorry."

"Earl, you do that again and I'll ensure you get promoted on Monday."

Did I really say that? It brought a laugh from all and a slight blush from Dusty. It may have been my imagination, but I think I saw a couple of bumps form on the front of her tight tank top. Mick, friends only. Co-worker trip. Think about baseball, Grandma, Holly's kitchen knife set...

"Anyway, Earl, have you ever tested your computer security?"

"Uh, no? Should we?"

"Well, the main reason I am at the plant is to look at the security around X-400. If the algorithms and inputs for the production runs are entered into the computer, how safe is that information? Could it be hacked?"

Hmmm. I'd never thought of that either.

"I don't know."

"Earl, we should probably check that out. How do we do that, Dusty?"

"First, we need to get someone proficient in hacking. I might be able to hire a local IT guy."

"No need," Jen suggested. "My fifteen year old nephew has a friend that is great at that stuff. We had to do an intervention with him and threaten to take away his access before he tried to launch the nukes or find out the Colonel's secret recipe."

"You think he'd be willing to come in and sit with Earl and Dusty next week to try some legal hacking into our system?"

"Are you kidding? He'd love it."

The rest of the weekend was a blast. When Earl and I get together, the good times do roll. We hiked, fished, joked, barbequed, swam and had the kind of fun good friends do. I behaved. Mostly.

I will admit that I had to wait in the lake about twenty minutes before I could get out after we all did some splashing around. While Dusty did not wear a bikini, her one piece hit all the right notes and caused little Mick to start singing along. I had to give him time to pipe down before coming ashore so my thoughts would not be as obvious as the nose on my face. Well, not exactly my nose on my face, but you get the idea.

I did manage to get dried off and get to the cabin with my dignity intact. It was a beautiful star filled Saturday night. We grilled the trout we had caught, popped open a few bottles of Ghost Pines Chardonnay and kicked back around a rousing fire. Earl and Jen headed off to bed leaving a very mellow Dusty all to me. She had a shawl pulled around her bare shoulders and her blonde hair was gently riding the breeze. Oh, man.

"Ah, Mick, this is so nice."

"Yeah, it'll do."

"You are so, funny. You know, I've only been here a few weeks, but it feels like I've known you for years."

"Hmm. You are pretty easy to know too. But I don't know much about you other than what was on your resume."

"Yeah. I guess there really isn't that much to know. I am a small town girl from a happy down to earth family. We were pretty poor growing up but we didn't know it. I was an only child but never lonely. Our house was always filled with songs and love. I don't mean to sound immodest, but I have known from a very young age that I was blessed with nice features that males seem to find attractive. I'm not going to pretend that I hate the way I look or that it has been a big burden to me. I'm not ashamed to admit that I have used it to my advantage on occasion. But, I wanted to be more. I did not want to make my way in life based solely on my looks. It drove me to prove that I could compete mentally as well as physically with my peers. I threw myself into my studies and tried to excel all the way through grad school. I think I have a good start to a good career. But, I haven't left enough time for weekends like this. I've left some potentially good relationships behind in pursuit of what I've achieved. Maybe it's time that changed. What about you, Mick?"

I gave her the rundown of my upbringing including following Cindy to Asheville and growing to manhood in the plant. Except for the good looks part, it didn't sound like we were all that dissimilar.

Dusty moved closer to me. She leaned in, lifted her face towards mine gazing hungrily with a "do me now you crazy fool" look. "What about your current status? Anyone special?"

There are defining moments everyone reaches in life. I think I had just stumbled into one. There was this delicious fruit sitting directly in front of me perfectly ripe for the plucking. Hell, no plucking was needed. It was being served up on a silver platter. As my mind was scrolling through the bullet list of available options:

  * Do what comes naturally right here under the stars in front of the dying embers?

  * Take her down to the boathouse for some rocking on the high seas?

  * Invite her to my room to see what could be finer than to be in Carolina?

I heard these words spill from my mouth, "Yeah, I do. Her name is Holly and we have been seeing each other for several years. Sometimes I think it's serious. At others..."

"If you are bringing her up at this particular moment, Mick, it's serious. Mmm. Most all of the good men are taken. And, Mick, you're a good man. See you bright and early in the morning."

She got up and headed back to her cabin. I sat staring into the fire trying to convince myself that I had just done something stupid. But, somewhere deep within, I knew I hadn't. In fact, I felt rather proud of myself.
**Chapter Forty-One**

Back Door Man

As we had discussed, Jen brought her fifteen year old nephew's friend to the plant the following week. He was a pimply faced kid with a typical fifteen year old attitude (which some of us never lose). He holed up with Earl and Dusty for several days planning and executing a cyber assault on our X-400 related inputs.

Things were good, make that great, between me and Dusty. In a weird way, I felt a sense of relief knowing that she would not feel insulted that I didn't hit on her. It seemed to strengthen our friendship. And I was really missing Holly.

After the weekend jaunt to the lake, I managed to avoid Chuck for several days because I knew it might be awkward. But one cannot avoid the uncomfortable forever.

"So, should I be expecting a harassment lawsuit or a wedding invitation?"

It looked like good time Charlie was still with us.

"Neither. We started the weekend as co-workers and friends and we are still co-workers and friends. In fact, Dusty came up with another good idea this weekend about X-400 security."

"You are with a great looking girl at one of the most romantic spots on earth and you talk about X-400? Jesus, who are you and what have you done with Mick?"

"Yeah, I know. Pretty incredible, isn't it?"

"What? She has someone special that owns a large firearms collection?"

"No. She really doesn't, but I think I do, except for the firearms."

"You never cease to amaze me, Mick. Tell me more about her X-400 idea."

I related her idea to Chuck. I told him that we had brought in an outside expert to help with the testing. I didn't tell him our expert was too young to drive. Chuck seemed in a good mood these days, but I didn't want to test it.

"That is a good idea. Looks like Dusty is really pulling her weight. Let me get this straight. She's beautiful, smart, nice and available?"

"It seems that way."

"And you didn't jump at it or on it. I'm still a bit stunned. Well, let me know how the testing goes."

A few days later, Dusty plopped down in my office with a six inch pile of paper clutched in her hands.

"Wow. If you don't mind me saying so, you look a bit frazzled."

"If I ever agree to spend two days cooped up with a horny fifteen year old geek again, please shoot me."

"Was it that bad?"

"When he wasn't trying to look down my blouse, he was trying to look up my skirt. He must have bent down twenty times to tie his shoes and he was wearing loafers. Earl did what he could to keep him in check, but, at first, that little bastard was relentless."

"You should have kicked him out. We could have hired a professional."

"I thought about it. But after he got rolling into his hacking routines, he settled down and kind of forgot about me and Earl except for asking us to get him pizza, pop tarts, Cheetos and Mountain Dew."

"That sounds pretty good. I don't suppose you could get some for me."

"Not a chance in hell, buster."

"Anyway, I still would have kicked the brat out on his keester."

"Don't think that we weren't tempted. But, he was good, real good. I may have to replace my keyboard. I think there are scorch marks on it from his flying fingers of fury."

"So what's the bottom line?"

"Most systems have tight security. We could not get into four of the five X-400 inputs. But late on the second day, the teen geek from Hell found a backdoor into production volume and mix time. With some spreadsheet help and recreating conditions at the time of the runs, we were able to duplicate these parameters and back calculate the formula. We verified with Dan Fallan. Once he recovered from being stunned by our findings, and, perhaps, my tight jeans, he confirmed that we got it right."

"Crap. That's two out of five components that could be compromised."

"Well, you fixed the invoice copy problem and our favorite under-aged geek blocked up the back door he had found. Just to be safe, I suggest you hire the damn kid to review security every six months. He will probably want some candid photos of me in return, but I think he can be had for twenty bucks an hour and a boatload of junk food. Also, I haven't been able to see any weaknesses in the security around the other three components. But I'll be taking a deeper look in the next few weeks. Then it's back home for me."

"I won't wish you good luck because I don't want any more bad news. And Dusty, we will miss you around here. You have done a good job of shaking things up." Including me.

"I'll miss you too, Mick. But I'm sure we'll stay in touch. And I'm not gone yet. I still have a few weeks to create some more mischief," she said with a luminescent twinkle in her eye. If I had only known.
Chapter Forty-Two

**Cat Scratch Fever**

Would that have really made a difference? Maybe if I could have seen what was coming, I could have avoided being a duct tape hot dog. Maybe not.

I do think my head is clearing a bit. I just woke up with a smile on my face. Considering the circumstances, that is nothing short of a miracle. Right before I surfaced this time, I think I was recalling one of my favorite rock bands, PRI. PRI hit the scene hard in the early eighties with their monster debut album, Skid Mark. They were tight musically but pretty loose mentally. Despite repeated requests, their front man, Thaddius Arse, refused to reveal what PRI stood for. Legend has it that an over-aged groupie from Indiana got TA roaring drunk one night on a combination of Boones Farm and Chivas Regal. How drunk? When I say over-aged, I'm talking Social Security eligible. Anyway, at a delicate moment aided greatly by a KY type product, she got Thad to admit the group's full name was Painful Rectal Itch. She threatened to go to the press the same day unless he coughed up ten grand. Thad immediately called his accountant and authorized a payment of ten thousand dollars to the largest billboard companies in Los Angeles. They plastered Painful Rectal Itch advertisements throughout the city. Album sales skyrocketed. Later, Arse and his lead guitarist, Tung Rotten , had a huge fight having something to do with a Baby Ruth bar, Pepto Bismol and an M-80). Tung left and formed his own band, SS. Although never confirmed, most believed rumors that SS stood for Sandpaper Scratch. Is it any wonder I love rock and roll? Oh well. Let me close my eyes a few more minutes and see if I can recall something that is actually semi-pertinent to this fucked up situation.

Demand for X-400 was growing and so were our profits. We were up to running it about once a week. The Circle members were working long hours inputting the X-400 parameters and answering Dusty's questions along with our regular jobs. But I'm not sure Chuck was keeping busy enough. He seemed to find the time to bust my balls.

"Hey, Mick, I'm still not believing your report about that weekend. I think you climbed mountains, forded streams and found your dream."

"That is none of your business. And I was not looking for my dream."

"I take that evasive response as an affirmative response."

"Take whatever you like. And now I will take it that you are a Julie Andrews aficionado."

"You bet your whiskers on a kitten's ass about that. Beats the shit out of that stoner crap you go on and on about."

This conversation wasn't worth filling my lungs with sweet Carolina air to continue.

"I gotta run to a meeting. Dusty may have found another chink in our armor."

"Well. Sounds like you've gone from a good night to a bad knight."

I don't know what Chuck had been smoking lately, but he was kind of on quick quip fire.

"Seriously. Our X-400 security is beginning to look about as strong as a Lindsay Lohan sobriety pledge."

"Who? Look. I know this is serious. And I am getting very concerned. Let me know what she reports out."

At the end of another long and discouraging day, I found myself plopped down in Chuck's office trying not to look like I had a long and discouraging day.

"Well?"

"Well. I got good news and bad news."

"Let's hear the good news first."

"Dusty wore her scoop cut blouse and tight white jeans today. I'm pretty sure that she was sporting a T- back and was supported on top by one of Victoria's Secret's finer products."

"Very interesting. What else on the good side?"

"It was a gorgeous day and the forecasted rain didn't arrive."

"Shit. That's it?"

"Yep."

"Continue."

"It seems she was able to come up with the run time formula using some sophisticated analytical techniques."

"I'm all ears. But keep it simple."

Tens of thousands of snappy comebacks to that one were easily retrievable from my smart ass cloud storage. However, I was in too much of a funk to even begin to download them.

"It seems that Phil likes to scratch down the run time calculations on a piece of paper before he inputs them."

"And the idiot geek doesn't destroy the paper afterwards?"

"Oh, he destroys it all right. He actually goes out the smoking pad and burns it to a crisp. He then deposits the ashes in the butt can."

"And Dusty was able to piece them back together?"

"Look, Charles. She's good, but she ain't friggin' Wonder Woman."

"So, what then? Sounds like Phil is taking a back seat to no one when it comes to being anal."

Mrs. Chuck must have found some new boudoir techniques at home. Chuck was starting to gain a bit on me in the verbal Olympics. But I was still a Phelps to his Eddie the Eagle.

"Correct. Except Phil likes to have a sheet or two of scrap paper underneath what he is writing on. He thinks it keeps the ink flowing more smoothly. Unfortunately, these scraps pick up impressions from his jottings. At the end of the day, he tosses them into the trash. Using advanced tools like dumpster diving and a #2 pencil, Dusty was able to retrieve his scrap paper and, presto chango, recover his notes with a little bit of second grade lead rubbing."

"You mean like running the pencil over the impressions to make them stand out?"

"Yup. Just like you see in every cheap detective TV series."

"Crap. Do I need to take his geeky ass out to the woodshed and go all Alpha Beta on him?"

"Alpha Beta?"

"Yeah. The jock fraternity in _Revenge of the Nerds_. Did I actually site a pop culture reference that you didn't know? I guess this day ain't all gloom and doom."

God, I must have been tired. "Score one for Mr. G. But, no. I wouldn't put the paddle to the addled. And it's not just because the Tri-Lambs might get pissed. So far, we have three out of five Circle members whose 'never can be broken' X-400 security protocols have been severely fractured. We should be collectively beating ourselves up, not individually."

"Yeah, she is good and we are starting to look bad. But that still leaves temperature and pressure and start up sequencing. That is you and me, Mick. I don't write shit down or invoice anyone or let anyone near my backdoor. Do you?"

"No fucking way, boss."

"No one can make X-400 without knowing those parameters. So, while we need to tighten up the other three, we are still good. No way she breaks us. Right?"

"Truer words never spoken. Even she admits she can't see any weaknesses in the way you and I do things. But just watch your ass around her for the next few weeks. I'm sure you'll be watching hers."
Chapter Forty-Three

**Sultans of Swing**

Life was not all work and X-400 security woes. Things outside the office were going quite well. With the new family responsibilities, Earl was not able to play as much golf as he and I would like. When he was able to get out, it made it even more special.

"Ah, Mick, I'm glad we took today off. It's a beautiful Friday afternoon. With the new baby and all, I'm almost out of vacation. I might have to play hockey more often."

I'm pretty sure he meant hooky. I was going to say something about him pucking up his words, but I let it slide.

"How's the new house?"

"It is awesome. It is great being so close to the plant. I can walk to work on the nice days and come home for lunch if I take a few extra minutes. The house is just the right size for the four of us. Jen is happy, the baby's the coolest thing ever and Bread the Wonder Dog is more content than a pig in a blanket."

Hmmm – I'm not so sure a pig would be that content in a blanket.

"We do have to keep an eye on him though. You know Wonder does like to wander. He's come back smelling pretty funky sometimes."

I reminded Earl that he and I had wandered a few times in our earlier days and come back smelling kind of funky too.

"You hit that nail right on the kisser. Mick, you always make me laugh. That's why I love you like a mother."

Earl proceeded to stripe a drive two twenty-five plus onto the short stuff. I pulled out Thunder Stick. I call my driver Thunder Stick because when it rumbles, lightening strikes. Unfortunately, as lightening is wont to do, it rarely strikes the same place twice. All was good at the moment as I outdrove him by ten yards straight down the middle. It was just that perfect kind of day. Playing golf with my best friend, sharing some laughs and a few cold brews was pretty hard to beat.

We finished the front and were making the turn as a slight breeze kicked up and made perfection a bit more perfect.

"So, what do you think about our new MBA?"

"Earl, I think she is pretty cool. After our previous experiences and what I see in the news, I had pretty much soured on the advanced degree financial types."

"Well, like they say, 'If you don't learn from your mistakes, then they won't learn from you.'"

"I'm not sure exactly who says that, but I think I know what you mean. It seems that the more these kids learn in institutions of higher learning, the more they use their knowledge to further their own agendas. They are supposed to be teaching their students to be future captains of industry and lead us all to future prosperity. Instead, they are producing Captain Hooks out to plunder and pillage to get themselves ahead."

"Tell me how you really feel, Mick."

"Well, you asked. I'm sure I'm using too broad of a brush to negatively paint the whole system. We've experienced the bad, so far. Now with Dusty, I think we are experiencing the good. She acts like she is truly trying to help us. She doesn't seem to have a devious bone in her body."

"Yeah. I've seen the way you look at the bones in her body, Mick. And I wouldn't bet the farm animals on her not being a just a little bit devious. After all, she cracked three out of five of our supposedly secret X-400 parameters. The other day she asked me for a diagram showing which systems each of our computers terminals could access and how the network operated. She said Chuck wanted her to review it. I told her that she would get that from me when birds fly. I would need written authorization from Chuck to do that. She got kind of mad and told me to forget it. I think she was lying to me. Besides, that is information Chuck already has. Why not get it directly from him if he wanted her to review it?"

"She only did that because that's what she was sent here to do. Test us. You passed with flying colors, my big furry friend. If you have a point, it's the one on the top of your head."

"You're as funny as a frog on a bender, Mick. I'm just saying that you might want to be careful about those red glasses."

"The what?"

"You know. Those ones you look at her with."

I had to ponder that one for a minute.

"Oh, you mean I look at her through rose colored glasses."

"Yeah, that's what I said. It's disturbing how I know what I'm saying, but other folks think I say weird things.

"You're not weird, Earl."

"So you think I'm normal?"

"Let's review that concept for a moment. We have a boss that tells us he likes us by insulting us and his boss won't even tell us his name. We have a receptionist that gets hotter as she gets older. We have a county sheriff that may be slightly psychotic. You have a dog that would rather eat duct tape than Kibble and Bits. We have had one MBA that was a moron and another that was a bastard. Perhaps weird is the new normal."

"So do you think Dusty is normal or weird?"

"I think she is exceptional."

"Just be careful, Mick."

"Duly noted, buddy. C'mon, let's get to playing. I have to go to the plant tonight to enter in the temperatures and pressures for this weekend's X-400 run."

"Just make sure Dusty isn't hiding inside your pants pocket."

"One can only wish."
Chapter Forty-Four

**After Midnight**

As I had so eloquently noted, late that evening I journeyed to my super secret spot inside the plant to enter temperatures and pressures for the upcoming X-400 batch. Given that Dusty was on the prowl for my numbers, I took a circuitous route from the parking lot employing the best spy-craft type serpentine walking style with frequent pauses and ninety (okay thirty-five) degree head snaps to spot anyone that dared attempt to try and follow me.

"Hey, Mick, looks like you're not feeling much pain. I thought we had a no tolerance alcohol policy here."

Those nightshift operators are a hilarious lot, especially when they are standing on the smoking pad taking a cancer enhancement break. Yeah, they are a riot.

I got to my selected control room with a slightly red face but solidly assured that Dusty was no where around. I quickly entered the numbers using the formula that was firmly ensconced between my ears and left satisfied in my stealth.

As I pulled into the driveway of my abode, I cranked down the kick ass _BTO's Greatest Hits_ that had stretched my speakers and kept me awake on the twenty minute drive home. I pulled into the garage and was reaching to turn the car off when a random thought pinged against my wrinkled forehead. "C'mon, Mick, you know you logged off and shutdown the computer before you left. You always do. Yeah, but I'm not always dreaming about Dusty naked in a vat of Jello while I'm entering the numbers. And I am arguing with myself in my garage in the middle of the night. So maybe, this one time... No. You know you did. You wouldn't do something that stupid."

I chuckled a bit about my paranoia getting the best of me and got out of the car. I took two steps and paused.

"Shit."

I re-inserted BTO into the CD player and headed back to the plant.

"Damn, damn, damn." I was ninety-nine point nine percent convinced that I had logged off. But, when the need for security was at its highest, even a drop of doubt must be wiped up.

I got there around midnight. I waved to Diddy at the guard house, swiped my card at the gate and walked back into the plant. Diddy didn't even look up. And his breathing seemed pretty rhythmic. At least somebody was getting a good night's sleep. What a complete stupid fucking waste of time this was going to be.

"Hey, Mick, looks like you sobered up. This is a pretty popular spot for you tonight. What? Is the girlfriend on the rag?"

What are the odds that I run into the same two chuckleheads in the same place taking another Camel break?

"I guess you guys are sucking enough smoke into your lungs that you have plenty to blow up my ass. Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Hey, cut us some slack. You know we will be busting tail tomorrow with the X-400 run. We are just doing some pre-planning out here in the fresh tar and nicotine filled Carolina night air. And speaking of busting some tail, I see you are heading back into the control room."

I didn't really understand that comment. Given the shit-eating grins and giggles that were coming from them, I was half tempted to be sure that was only tobacco they were smoking.

"Yeah, that's me, Mr. Workaholic."

I'm sure their witty comeback was a thing of comic genius. Fortunately, it was only for their own enjoyment as I let the control room door slam shut behind me. The control room consisted of a large open space with a square of desks in the middle butted up against each other. On the outer walls were monitors that gave the status of all the operating parameters of the units in this section. When there were no production runs, as was the case tonight, a skeleton crew covered several control rooms to ensure the idling units were, well, idling. That was a leftover from the Elwood instituted cost reductions that actually made some sense. Tonight, we seemed to have a smoking addicted skeleton crew of two. Both appeared to be more Red Skeltons then skeletons. The office where I had input the data was in an alcove in the back. As I approached, I could see that the lights were off but the door was slightly ajar. That was odd since I usually closed it when I finished. Maybe coming here wasn't a total waste of time. As I glanced in, I didn't see a glow from the desktop. I guess I had turned the computer off. Time to lock the door and head home a little more self assured. I think I could handle me and Randy belting out one more chorus of _Roll on Down the Highway_ as we rolled on down the highway.

I was just turning to go when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small sliver of light coming from underneath the desk. I reached over and flicked on the office lights without a second thought.

A high pitched voice screamed, "What the hell?"

I know it wasn't me since my voice doesn't sound like that. I then heard a loud thunk and an even louder, "Shit!"

I think I might have been a little less surprised if Jimmy Hoffa had popped out from under the desk. Instead, it was Dusty. She had a mini Maglite in one hand. In her other hand was a small metal box with a thin wire dangling from it ending in what I think was an alligator clip. She sat it on the desk as she rubbed the top of her head.

"Holy crap, Mick, you scared the daylights out of me. I think I might have peed myself a little bit."

"I scared you? Look at the puddle on the floor in front of me."

We both said at the exact same time, "What are you doing here?"

Dusty stared back at me with a slightly scared look on her face and kept silent. I couldn't help but notice that she was sporting a pair of tight black jeans and a black turtle neck that was snugly hugging her very huggable places. Her blonde locks were stuffed up under a black stocking cap. While she looked adorable, I had to wonder if Halloween had come early this year.

"Ok, I'll go first. I came back because I wasn't sure I had logged off and shutdown the computer. Now it's your turn. First of all, what is that thing on the desk?"

"You mean this small metal box with a thin wire attached to an alligator clip?"

Damn, I'm good. "No, I mean that slightly chewed pencil. Of course I mean that metal box." I might have said that a little too loudly.

I could see a twinkle slowly enter her eyes. Her scared countenance morphed into a bemused smile. I could almost hear the gears grinding as she thought about what to say. My sixth spider sense whispered to my subconscious that the next words out of her mouth might not be one hundred percent truthful.

"Ok, you caught me Mick. But I also now have you. That's probably why you are upset."

"Huh?"

"You see, this is a keyboard stroke tracker. It will tell me what keystrokes you entered into the computer. I retrieve this after you enter your data and viola; I know the numbers you put in. Given the other parameters I have, I think I can reverse engineer your part of the formula. So, I say again, gotcha Mick!"

She gave me an extremely cute look of haughty superiority. I think she expected me to bow to her brilliance and declare defeat. Instead, I took a minute to chew on what she had just said.

"You know, I was born at night, but not last night."

Now it was her turn for confusion.

"First of all, you are supposed to find out how an outsider could learn our formula. To put that gizmo onto my terminal, you had to gain access to the plant. Your other tricks were in the administrative office outside the plant gates. It's easy to get into there. Getting into a control room inside the plant, not so much. You already had access granted by virtue of working here. An outsider would not. Second, how did you know which terminal to attach Mr. Wizard there to? We have five control rooms. I could have been in any of them. They all have multiple terminals. There are only a select few in each that connect to the X-400 reactors. Third, how did you know where I was tonight?"

"Ok, Mick. First, I admit that getting into the plant might not be simple. But a stolen badge and some stage make-up could get you past the sleepy guard at the gate. You could also stow away in the back of a delivery vehicle. Second, I got the computer network schematic from Earl. It lists all the terminals that have access to the X-400 reactors. I put a tracker on each of them. Third, knowing which control room you went to was easy. I asked a couple of dudes on the smoking pad. After they stared at my tits for a few seconds, they pointed me in the right direction. Now, I'll admit, an outsider may not have my outstanding breasticle attributes, but I don't think following your trail would be all that hard."

Normally that would have elicited a laugh or at least a smile from me. But I knew she was lying about Earl giving her the schematic. I was starting to get pissed.

"Look, I don't know what game you are playing, but I know you are telling me a bold faced lie. And I wonder why, Dusty? Is there something more going on here? I think I better take your Mr. Wizard box and we should all meet with Chuck in the morning."

"Mick, I thought you and I were good friends. I don't understand your mistrust and bad attitude. But, if that's what you want to do, fine with me."

She came out from behind the desk with the tracker in her hand. Her face came within inches of mine.

"Mick, I think we really could have had something together. Such a pity."

She raised her hand to show me the tracker. At the last instant, I noticed it wasn't the tracker she was holding. Instead it looked like some sort of small canister. Unfortunately, my nostrils were strongly inhaling the delicate scent of roses and raw sex that flowed off of her when she suddenly sprayed a large amount of God knows what directly into my face.
Chapter Forty-Five

**I'm Free**

Now that my head has cleared, I am pretty sure Dusty drugged me and dragged me here. As I look around, I realize that I'm in a control room that we shuttered after the Elwood fire. It is scheduled for demolition next year with the rest of this burned out section of the plant. The room has maintained a roof and four walls but is otherwise a husk of burnt embers. It still stinks of soot and mildew from the fire hose spray. I'm pretty sure I do too. I have managed to chew thru the duct tape that she used to cover my mouth. While it tasted like crap, I'm sure it stuck to my ribs (har,har). That does me a whole lot of good. There is no need to waste my voice. While all the windows are gone, I could yell for days and not be heard over the general roar of the plant operations. Also, I'm afraid if I yell too loud this fragile roof might come crashing down. But, that might not make much difference. In several days, I'll be dead from dehydration, hunger and raging pissed-offedness anyway. I need to get out of here on my own as soon as possible. However, my hands and feet are still pretty well bound. Of all the MBAs in the world, we have to get the one who earned a merit badge in duct tape bondage.

As I think back over the last few days (hours – who knows?), I seem to remember not being alone the whole time. Had Dusty come back to check on me and then curl up beside me? I don't think so. Then who or what have I been snuggling with? I also note that I had not, to relay this delicately, soiled myself either front or back. So I must not have been here all that long. I am able to wiggle a bit back and forth. Maybe if I rub my wrists vigorously across the concrete floor under me, I can loosen up these bindings.

Thirty minutes later I am calling Mr. Duct and his reinforced sticky product every name in the book. And I think I dislocated several muscles and bones between my hands and my shoulders. Damn you, Mr. DT!!!!!

What seems like hours later finds me seething, sore and still on the floor. I'm afraid my mind is starting to go again. I think I hear scraping and panting underneath one of the missing windows. As I turn to look that direction, a large four legged bat comes flying through the window, makes a three point landing several feet in front of my head and rolls over about six times. Great. I must be asleep and I'm dreaming about huge flying rodents. Can I at least go back to my standard dream involving the Swedish Bikini Team, vegetable oil and a Nerf football?

As the bat rises from the floor, I realize several things at once. I am not sleeping and the bat is real, not a dream. However, bats don't have four legs, big pointy noses and fluffy tails, do they? On closer examination, I conclude it isn't a bat. It's Bread the Wonder dog!!!!!!

Bread ambles over to me and licks my face until I think the skin is being worn off. All I can do is laugh with pure joy. He must have been here earlier sleeping against me and has now come back. Are dogs God's gift to mankind, or what? Finally the newness of the happy canine and owner's best friend reunion wears off. Bread takes a few steps back, lies down and stares at me with his head cocked to one side. I stare back trying to figure out a way for Bread to save the day.

" _Bread, I'm not Timmy and I have not fallen down a well, but I do need you to go find Earl and bring him here."_

Wag, wag, slobber slobber.

Why would I expect Bread to understand English? Heck, Earl barely understands English.

I roll over and show my bound wrists to Bread.

" _Bread, come chew on these. Yum, yum." I actually smacked my lips. Desperate times call for desperate measures._

Pant, pant, whimper whimper.

" _Arrrgggg." Think. Despite the drugging, my pissy attitude, thirst, hunger and an increasing bladder urge, I am struck by a moment of pure genius. I thrust my silver encrusted wrists toward Bread and sharply bark (snicker), "Ball!"_

Bread rises (snicker deux) and leaps on my wrists like a tornado on a trailer home. Somehow he manages to get his teeth into the tape without lacerating any major veins, bones or other assorted important Mick parts. He furiously shakes his head back and forth. Normally, I might be screaming in terror at this point, but normal has left town. All I can do is yell over and over, "Good boy! Good boy!"

With a mighty rip, my hands come free and Bread runs off with a huge wad of Mr. DT's product hanging from his jaws. Now that I have working opposable thumbs again, I tear at the tape on my legs until it comes loose.

I stand and shout in my best Mel Gibson voice, "Freedom!"
Chapter Forty-Six

**Blinded by the Light**

After getting loose, I staggered around a bit in circles until I got my feet under me. I put on my shirt and went over to the far corner to answer nature's extremely urgent call. Bread followed and lifted his leg in the same spot to affirm his alpha dog status. All I could do was hug him and tell him that he truly was a wonder. His sandpaper tongue licks helped me reestablish my equilibrium. I focused on one clear goal as I headed for the door of the burned out control room. Kill that bitch, Dusty.

As I opened the door, Bread shot through like a rocket and was gone into the night. Somehow my Timex was still on my wrist and was still functioning. If it wasn't such an awful pun, I would say that it truly took a licking and kept on – well – you know. It showed two o'clock which I assumed was a.m. given the pitch blackness around me. It also showed it was Sunday. That means I was only trussed up for about twenty-five hours. It seemed like weeks.

I went off in search of life and civilization. Of course, now that I wanted to find someone, there was no one to be found. I seemed to have managed to crush the life out of my cell phone with all my rolling around. Why doesn't Timex make a cell phone? Oh, well. I found Dream On right where I had parked her. Man, I needed a shower bad. And I think a Dream On fumigation was also on the near term agenda. Not knowing exactly what else to do, I headed for home. I thought about waking Diddy, but he seemed so comfortable. As I passed the Administration building, a flash of light caught the very periphery of my peripheral vision. The last flash of light I investigated cost me twenty-five bladder busting hours I'll not soon forget. But, never the less, I slowed and looked back to check it out. I saw another flash coming from a third floor window. The third flash confirmed that it was coming from Chuck's office. What the hell?

I whipped Dream On back into the parking lot and entered the building. A wiser man probably would have gone to get Diddy or called someone from one of the offices. But, no, not me. Maybe that's why I was always asked to play the donkey in the plant's live nativity scene. I quickly bounded up the stairs to the third floor.

Chuck's office was about halfway down the hall on the right. I'm sure I looked like something out of a cheesy horror movie as I limped toward the flashes coming from under his door. Personally, I was too emotionally drained and bone weary to think about being scared or to think about much at all. I got to his door and noticed, between flashes, his office was dark. I could hear some sort of unidentifiable sounds. I proceeded to administer a healthy dose of crazed knocking.

"Charles, it's Mick. Are you in there? Are you OK? We need to talk ASAP. Something funny is going on. Charles?"

The flashing stopped and all went quiet. As I started to reach for the handle, his office lights popped on and the door flew open. I have been around the old block a few times and I don't stun easily. But what stood in that doorway facing me threw me into a near catatonic stupor. Talk about shock and awe.

Dusty looked up at me wearing a wry smile on her face and nothing else. I mean literally, nothing else. As in naked, nude, birthday suit. My brain had a nuclear grade meltdown. Was I hallucinating? Was I still back on the control room floor in a comatose state? No, this was too real. My first totally irrational thought was that I owed Earl five bucks. Her nipples were brown, not pink as I had wagered. And they stood firmly at attention saluting me. While there was a mismatch between the dark carpet and the light curtains, the rest of her was taut, tanned, toned and, well, stun inducing. I somehow found my voice and uttered, "Uhhh."

"Well, well, well. What a surprise. They just don't make adhesive products like they used to."

"Am I, am I, uh, interrupting something?"

Through an act of sheer iron will, I managed to take one eye off the perfect vision in front of me and gaze past Dusty into the office. I saw Chuck seated behind his desk with no shirt on. The desk thankfully blocked any view of what his attire further south was or wasn't. His eyes were glassy, his head lolled to one side and his tongue hung loosely out of his mouth.

"My God, Dusty. Did you fuck Chuck to death?"

"No, silly Mick, but I think you're fucked."

With that, she grabbed my right wrist, flung herself back onto the desktop and pulled me in on top of her. Chuck's head flopped to his other shoulder but his expression did not otherwise change.

"Man, do you stink."

"Well, this isn't exactly the way I fantasized this moment either."

For once in my life, my large head outmuscled my small head and took over as body director. I stood and pulled Dusty to an upright position.

"Get dressed. You have a lot of explaining to do."

Just when I thought this night could not get any more bizarrely awful, I found out differently. A hard cold rod poked me in the neck followed by a chillingly familiar voice.

"I don't think you'll be giving any orders about now, Mick. Why don't you place your hands on top of your head, move away from Dusty and slowly, I mean slowly, turn around. And if you are wondering what is tickling the back of your neck, wonder no more. It's the business end of a nine millimeter with no identifying characteristics. I believe we used to call them Saturday Night Specials in my day. One wrong move and your brain matter will be mixed with Charles's graying chest hair.

As these words were being said, Dusty smoothly ducked out from in front of me and joined the voice behind me. The voice that I suddenly recognized. It was the voice of The Shareholder.
Chapter Forty-Seven

**Sledgehammer**

I have always been one to strongly rebel against authority when authority was telling me something I didn't want to hear. But authority holding a nine at point blank range will squash the spirit out of even the most non-conforming rebel.

I placed my hands on top of my head and started what may have been a world record slow turn.

"Mick, you fell for the old 'look at the naked babe but not the gunman hiding behind the door' trick. You need to watch more late night TV."

"How about if I go home and do that right now, Dusty. In fact..."

Before I completed my thought, I completed my turn. I came face to face with the mysterious Shareholder. In the space of five minutes, Mick the Unstunnable, was once again stunned.

"Mr. Copeland? Cindy's Dad? You're The Shareholder? But, uh, mmm, what?"

"Mick, I'm impressed you recognize me after all these years. I put on a few pounds and got a little grayer, but I guess I'm still pretty unforgettable. And you can call me Rich, not Richard, Rich. That better describes what I am and always will be."

While I thought that "Dick" better described what he was and always would be, I said, "Yes, sir." Superior firepower always commands respect.

"Yuck. You smell like you have been sleeping on the floor of a burned out control room. And that Panther's T-shirt looks like it was puked up by a panther."

"Very funny, Dusty."

"Thanks, Mick. What wasn't funny was my having to drag your fat ass halfway across the plant in the middle of the night. I had to stuff you somewhere until we got Chuck to give up his piece of the formula. Thank God for wheelbarrows. I wanted to strip you naked but I couldn't get your jeans off. I thought it was quite nice of me to place your shirt under your head so you could have some sweet dreams."

"Pardon me if I don't say thank you."

"How did you get away? I used my best gift wrapping skills to tape you up."

"Let's just say I worked like a dog to get free. Speaking of dogs, you bitch..."

"That's enough, you two. We have a few more minutes until the drugs wear off for old Chucky over there. Mick, why don't you have a seat and let me tell you a little story?"

I sat in the office chair in front of Chuck's desk. I must have sat in this very spot several hundred times, but never in a situation remotely resembling this one. The naked Dusty went over and sat on Chuck's lap. Rich moved behind Chuck's chair and placed a hand on his bare shoulder. While the nine moved through space with Rich, the hole at the end of it never left the center of my forehead. My only movement was limited sweat traveling down my back. I felt like I was about to have another type of movement in my jeans.

"Relax, Mick, it's just business."

"Oh, Daddy, you're so funny."

Daddy? Daddy? What? Dusty was Cindy's sister? Jesus!

"You're little baby Darlene?"

"I have always hated that name. Dusty seems to suit me better. And I'm all grown up now," Dusty cooed as she ran her hands over her obviously excited breasts and sensually bit her lower lip.

My head began to spin faster than a barn owl's on a windy night. "But you said you're last name was Koepke, not Copeland."

"Oh, I might have fibbed a little. Koepke was the last name of my favorite professor at college that showed me unique ways to earn straight A's."

The Shareholder (a.k.a. Daddy or a.k.a. Rich) chimed in, "Gee, Mick, you looked like someone told you the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus aren't real. While we wait for Chucky Cheese Ball to come back to life, let me give you a short tutorial on how business works in the world of the all powerful Shareholder. But first, are you comfortable? Anything we can do for you?"

"You could start by pointing that thing at something other than my forehead."

"How about your nuts?"

"Oh, Daddy, don't be crude." This coming from a blond vixen draping her birthday suit all over my boss's birthday suit?

"I'm just kidding, honey. You think you could find something to ensure Mick stays put?"

"Sure. I know just the thing."

Dusty jumped up and headed out of the room. Even though I would have gladly strangled her with my bare hands, I couldn't help but have a touch of lust invade my heart as we had skin on skin contact when she slid by.

"Well, Mick, here we are. You know, years ago, I had high hopes for you. My vision back then was that you would marry my oldest daughter, be working at Woodland and would be my onsite eyes and ears. That would have made things so much easier. But nooooo. She told me that you had changed. Once you started working at the plant you smelled funny and didn't care about the things she cared about. What a crock. You smelled like money because that what Woodland is. A big fat money machine. Or at least it was. But more on that later. And what did Cindy care about? Fucking classical music. And apparently that's what she was doing with that loser of a band director she wanted to marry. I forbade it and they ran off to Vegas together. Last I heard, they were living in some shack off the strip and playing in some fourth rate dive for an audience of blue haired classical music fags and hags."

This guy was all class.

"Thank God I knocked up my girlfriend and she had Dusty."

"What about your wife?"

"Oh, you mean Cindy's natural mom? You might wonder why she was never home when you came over. Why you never met her. Cindy said she was always out on business or at a school meeting or some other such nonsense. The truth is she was gone by then. She got pretty pissed when she found out I had a bun baking in another oven. Plus she was over forty and starting to sag a bit. So I threw a couple of million at her and kicked her to the curb."

Yup, all class. All of the low variety.

"Back to Dusty. Now there's a girl with a proper mind for business. Got her mom's great stripper looks, too. We told you her mom was our nanny, Rosie Gomez. What a hoot. A tall blonde Swedish babe with huge knockers named Rosie Gomez? And you bought it! Her real name was Boom Boom Laboom. Sometimes I even crack myself up! Hey, sweetie..."

Dusty came back in the office and stood behind me. I turned and saw she was carrying the one thing that terrified me more that Rich's nine millimeter. In her hand was a large roll of duct tape.
Chapter Forty-Eight

**Can't Get Enough**

"Look what I found in Earl's office. He's got cartons of this shit in there."

"Ok, Mick, sit nice and still now so I don't have to shoot you."

Thoughts of what Bruce Willis in his Die Hard persona would do began to form in my mind. When Dusty came around in front of me, she would pretty much block Rich's ability to shoot me. I could then...

Before I could fully form that thought, Dusty threw a large loop of tape over my head and shoulders. She pulled it tight around the back of the chair essentially pinning my arms to my sides. She then circled me several times trailing the tape until the chair was fused to my back. My only move now would be to stand up, somersault myself and the chair over the desk, knock the gun out of Rich's hand, catch it in my teeth...ah, hell, forget it. I wouldn't even buy that maneuver in a Jackie Chan movie.

"That's my girl." Rich put the gun in his pocket and sat on the edge of the desk by Chuck.

Dusty gave me the classical bitch slap across my chops. "That's for turning down the finest piece of ass you would have ever gotten in three lifetimes. And for what? Some stupid librarian? It could have been great. No one would have ever known."

"I would have known, Dusty. And I don't think you would have been all that great anyway."

She balled up her fist and started to swing. The Shareholder grabbed her arm and spared me a shiner.

"Easy there, my spirited filly. He will get his just desserts soon. No reason for you to harm your pretty little hand."

Dusty calmed down, moved behind him and started massaging his shoulders.

"Thanks, Daddy. You are right as usual. And you are so tense."

"It's been a couple of tough days, darling. Let's continue our business lesson. Mick, you see, X-400 has been a huge success. The coatings industry depends on it especially now that electronics have gotten smaller and much more sophisticated. Woodland has made a tidy profit from it. But business is like a shark. It has to keep moving forward or it dies. The market has only so much price elasticity. I'll admit that you guys have done a good job at setting price increases in line with increasing costs. But that just maintains the status quo. I'm a greedy son of a bitch like any top tier business giant. I always want more. That means decreasing costs. I sent Elwood down here to try to do that the traditional way. What happened? The moron blew up the plant. Totally unexpected, but it sure got me to thinking. If we could make this shit overseas, we could save a bundle. You guys are expensive. You want competitive wages, health care, pensions and all that nonsense. Not to mention the cost of the stupid regulations in the good old US of A to ensure we don't harm some goddamn silver throated songbird or put a few minor toxins in the groundwater. A few toxins never hurt me when I was growing up. What a nation of pussies we are. Ah hell, let me get off my soapbox and continue my lesson. Right after the explosion, I ordered Chuck to give me the X-400 formula under the guise of wanting to make limited batches until this plant could be rebuilt."

"And if he had, you would have never rebuilt."

"Sure we would have. Only it would have been in Dingdongdoogie China or somewhere similar."

"And put all the hard working people that built this place from nothing onto the street."

"Oh, boo hoo. I thought you had a pair. Obviously not. You probably wouldn't have been any better for Cindy that that Bojangles) idiot she ran off with."

"Blow me."

"Hmmm. Funny you should say that, Mick. I may revise my plans for your future and mine."

"Huh?"

"Let's get back to the lesson, shall we? Chuck refused to give me the formula and told me he had a patent application pending for it in his name. He also told me there was enough undamaged inventory to bridge the gap until the reactor could be rebuilt. I didn't make a big deal about it at the time, but I did let Chuck know if I let him refuse me this, he could never refuse me anything else and keep his job. Of course, I immediately sent my lawyers into shark mode and started plotting my plan of attack. It would take some time, but here is the way I mapped it out:

  * I would wait for Dusty to achieve her MBA. That would take about eighteen months. Check.

  * I would send her down to 'review security' around X-400. Her real mission would be to get the formula for me. Your unfucking believably stupid hiring of that con man, Jack Shit, or whatever his name was, made this an easy sell. Plus old Chucky here was arrogant enough to think that his formula security was rock solid. And he was almost right. Almost. Check mark number two.

  * I would build reactors in our existing plant in Asia to make X-400. How? After the explosion, I told Chuck that I needed the blueprints for the X-400 reactor here to give to the EPA. Total bullshit, but he could hardly refuse. By the way, I also told him I needed a schematic of your computer network for a technical review. Again, masterful BS. Like taking candy from a baby. The reactors are now built. Check.

  * Dusty would secure the formula. Almost check.

  * The Woodland plant would blow up again. This time it would be a much bigger explosion. It would wipe out the existing inventory and ensure the demise of the plant. No one would ever let us or anyone else build such a dangerous operation in the fucking USA again. I'd get one hundred percent recovery of my investment from the insurance company and laugh all the way to the bank.

  * After a minor delay, the overseas plant would come online and supply X-400 to the world market at a higher price. Cha ching. I had Elwood run the numbers. With much lower costs, we could make an extra ten million a year, minimum."

"What? You are going to all this trouble for a measly ten million a year?"

"Hey, ten million here, ten million there, it all adds up. Besides, I was getting kind of bored and needed a new challenge."

"You are truly an evil monster."

"No, just a good businessman."

"Let me guess. You have an MBA."

"Yes I do. But I don't see what that has to with anything."

"So you think drugging Chuck will get you the last part of the formula?"

"No. But the threat of sending Chuck's wife pictures of him having carnal relations with my daughter should do the trick."

"He would never do such a thing. Chuck is an extremely loyal family man."

Rich pulled a digital camera out of his pocket. "And I'm an extremely good photographer. A little bit of Photo Shopping and Chuck will look like he is ready to rock instead of being passed out from the mild sedative Dusty sprayed him with.

"How do you know he will give you the right formula?"

"Oh, c'mon Mick, would Chuck lie to me? Of course he would. So we have a small pilot X-400 run ready to go in Asia once I send them the last missing piece of the formula. At first, my plan was to threaten to mail the pictures if the run bombed. But now I have a much better plan. And it is all thanks to an idea you gave me a few minutes ago."
Chapter Forty-Nine

**Born To Run**

"What?"

"When Chuck comes to, I will tell him I will begin shooting you, starting with your left foot, until we have his part of the formula. If the run bombs, I'll put one in your brain."

"That's cold blooded murder. You'll never get away with it."

"That's the beauty of it. I think I will. It should take about thirty minutes to know if the pilot run proves successful. Then we will go ahead and kick off an X-400 run here. I'll have Dusty input temperatures that ensure an aggressive run away reaction that should blow the plant sky high in a few hours. Of course, given your security around the formula, no one will be able to stop it. Just to make sure, you, Chuck, your two person skeleton crew out there (thank you Elwood), and that sleepy guard will all be hogtied in the control room next to the X-400 reactor. Dusty and I will be in the jet stream on the way back to Ohio about the time you join us. Of course, you'll be joining the jet stream outside the plane after the big ka-boom."

"And if the pilot run fails?"

"I don't think that is going to happen. Chuck doesn't have the balls to lie to me with your life in the balance. But, if he does, same plan. Boom! Dusty and I cut our losses, collect the insurance and the world goes on without X-400. We find another project to amuse us. That's the beauty of business. I love it."

"But, Daddy, he might have a point. Are we really going to kill them? Is that the right thing to do?"

"Dusty, I sent you to one of the best schools on the planet so you could become a true business leader. As a leader, you have to be able to see the big picture. If the plant in Asia can't produce X-400, we'll not be able to hire the hard working low priced locals over there to run it. They will lose a chance to increase the standard of living for their families. Hell, we shut down the plant here and the government pays these workers months of unemployment. There are plenty of Burger Shacks and Wally Shops for them to find jobs at. So, a few overpaid dumbshit hicks die here as a result of a tragic industrial accident. Isn't that better than denying many others in the world a chance at a better life? Besides, we have key man life insurance on Chuck and Mick that will pay us a nice wad."

"Daddy, I can't say I like it, but I do understand. You are a true born leader."

"THAT'S INSANE!!!!!"

"C'mon honey, shut him up, wake up sleeping beauty over there and get dressed. We have some work to do."

Dusty slapped a piece of duct tape over my mouth. Oh, that bitch was now permanently carved in stone on my shit list. She went over to Chuck and waved some sort of smelling salts under his nose. As his eyes started to flutter open, she bent over and picked her bra and panties up off the floor. Despite all that had happened, deep within my cerebral cortex, my inner Harry Horniness wished that her ass had been pointed toward me instead of the window.

I was beginning to chastise myself for thinking such thoughts when there was a huge crash. Chuck's office window exploded into a million pieces. I heard an ungodly roar and a high pitched scream. Dusty came flying over the desk onto my lap. The two of us, along with my chair, went catapulting backwards head over heels. I landed on top of Dusty with the chair on top of me. The desk wound up on its side in the space where my chair had been. It missed me, but Dusty wasn't so lucky. It fell on her ankle and she was screaming to high heaven. Amazingly, I was able to scramble to my feet. Apparently the chair back had broken away from the rest of the chair in the crash. The tape had also come loose from my mouth in all the commotion.

My taped on chair back hump and I spun around and viewed the carnage behind us. Chuck was lying to one side of the crashed out window with an even more dazed look on his face. On the other side, a grizzly bear was sitting on top of Rich. On second glance, it wasn't really a grizzly bear, it was Earl. I had never been so happy to see my hairy old friend in all my life.

"What the hell?"

"Tarzan, King of the Forest, at your service."

"Get off me you big ape."

"Rich, Shareholder, asshole, whoever you are, you are in no position to give orders at the present time. I suggest you shut the fuck up." I had to shout to be heard over Dusty's whining. "You too, bitch."

"Mick, once again, you are the one that's fucked." With that, Rich managed to pull his gun from beneath him and point it toward my forehead. This was starting to get old.

"I am quickly running out of patience and I'm really pissed. So I suggest you get off of me, Sasquatch, before I blow your friend straight to Hell."

"I'm sure you are a majority owner there, too."

"You're a real funny guy, Mick. Let's see how funny you are when you're watching your guts spill onto the floor."

Hard to have a snappy comeback to that. Earl looked me in the eye awaiting a clever signal. I had nothing. He rolled off and Rich stood up shaking shards of glass off his thousand dollar Italian suit.

"Nobody move except you, Mick. Move away from the door."

I slid away from Dusty who was moaning and writhing on the floor. Rich stepped over her and slowly made his way towards the door. He put his back against it and grabbed the handle with one hand. The other had the nine still pointed at me.

"Nobody leaves this office for the next ten minutes. If I see anyone come out of the building, I will shoot them without warning. If I see a police car anywhere near me, I'll shoot them also."

"Daddy, get this desk off me. I think my ankle is broken."

"Sorry, honey. No can do. Daddy's heading down to the Islands for awhile until this all blows over. To use a song title, as that douche bag over there might, your daddy is _Born to Run_.

"No, Daddy, don't leave me. If you do, I will hunt you down. There is another song title more of your generation. It's called _Ain't No Mountain High Enough_."

Rich cracked the door open without taking his eyes off us. "Don't be like that, honey. You're naked lying on the floor with these three stooges lying around you. Make up some story about how they lured you up here and tried to rape you. You'll be fine."

"Daddy!"

"I'd like to say that it's been a pleasure doing business with you guys. Once all the dust settles, I'll get a new management team in here. I'll have them get the X-400 formula for me and execute my plan sometime down the road. Adios, motherfuckers."

With that he opened the door and backed out...straight into the arms of Will. Will somehow got his long wing span locked around The Shareholder's massive chest in a vicious bear hug forcing his arms down. The nine went off literally and figuratively shooting The Shareholder in the foot.
Chapter Fifty

**Who's Crying Now?**

"What in blazes happened here? This place looks like my old frat house."

"Oh, thank God you are here, Mr. Will. I was scared out of my wits. These men lured me up here, stripped me naked and..."

"And dropped a desk on your foot?"

"Yes. I mean no. That fell as I was fighting them off. And I'm in such pain."

Between painful grimaces, Rich decided to chime in with his usual charm. "Let go of me you ass clown and get me an ambulance. I am so going to sue you. I was trying to save her."

"That's a crock of shit."

"Yeah, what a load of horse piss."

"Easy, Mick. Easy, Earl. Looks like you're already taking it easy, Charles. I was standing outside the door and heard Mr. Shareholder's sage rape story advice to his daughter."

Earl came over to me and not so gently unwound my duct tape restraints freeing from me from my ergonomic leather appendage. He managed to rip out slightly less than half of my remaining arm hairs. My screams might have been embarrassing if they had not been drowned out by the yelps from Dusty and Rich.

"Jesus, everybody, I'm trying to process a crime scene here. Y'all sound worse than a bunch of tweener girls at a Justin Beiber concert."

While that didn't quite match the earlier shocks I had, it was close. Will knows who Justin Beiber is?

"Mick, you want to hold the gun on Hop-a-Long here while I cuff him? Earl, can you cover up the lovely Dusty's assets and lift that desk off her? And can somebody please wake Chuck up?"

"Daddy, you bastard, I will see you burn for this."

Hell hath no fury, even when it's your daughter, I guess. Maybe he should have gone with _Papa was a Rolling Stone_.

Will got the scene under control in his usual authoritative style. He "accidently" stepped on Rich's foot a few times which elicited an even louder howling scream of pain. The smile on Will's face confirmed to me that he did this in response to Rich's "ass clown" comment. After a bit of minor on-site first aid for Rich and Dusty's injuries and introducing them to lockable silver bracelets he said, "Listen up, everybody. With two obvious exceptions, let's meet at Doris's in forty-five minutes and sort this thing out. I'll drop these two turds at the county pokey and see you there."

We managed to find Dusty's smelling salts under the rubble and used them to bring Chuck to a near conscious state.

"Holy shit, Mick, you won't believe the dream I just had. You're all sticky. And you stink. Are you buying cologne at Wal-Mart again? "

"Can we knock him back out, Earl?"

Aside from some minor cuts from the window glass and aches and pains from getting nearly annihilated by ICBM Earl, the three of us were in relatively good shape. We managed to stagger down the stairs and squeezed into Dream On. I headed off to drop Earl and Chuck at their respective houses with a promise to see them shortly at Doris's.

"What are we going to tell our wives?"

"Good question, Earl. Tell them there was a very minor accident at the plant and you need to go to a post event safety review immediately. Since none of us quite know what just happened, that's a pretty good cover."

I watched Earl open the door to his house and get joyfully pounced on by my new best friend, Bread.

By the time we got to Chuck's, he was fully alert and dressed.

"Thanks, Mick. You and Earl, well more Earl than you, really saved the day. See you in a few minutes."

I headed home for a much needed shower and change of clothes. Afterwards, I felt like hell but at least looked and smelled presentable. In my opinion...

"You smell worse than my ex-husband's best prime rib farts and look like road kill after the buzzards were through."

"Ah, Doris, it is so good to see your smiling face. As I faced death tonight, the thought of never seeing you again or being able to partake of your culinary delights filled me with..."

"Ah, bite my culinary delights. Whaddya all want to eat?"

Will, Chuck, Earl and I were crammed into her finest booth. We placed our orders and tried to sort out the night's crazed events.

Will let out a big sigh and said, "Ok, gents, since I seemed to be the last one to the party at Chuck's, I mean Charles..."

"Fuck it. Call me Chuck. Everyone has behind my back for years."

Earl and I exchanged wide-eyed looks as Will continued.

"Great. That will make life easier. As I said, I was the last one to arrive at Chuck's office. Chuck, I assume you were the first, so let's start with you."

"Ok. I'm at home watching America's Got Talent when I get this urgent call from Dusty. She says she has found a gaping hole in our computer security and I should meet her in my office right away. Then she hangs up. So I got dressed and headed to the plant. She was in my office behind the desk looking at my computer screen when I got there. She told me to come look at something I would not believe. When I came around the desk the first thing I saw was that she was naked from the waist down. The second thing I saw was a guy that looked like a huge well dressed fire hydrant standing behind the door. The third thing I saw was a spray coming directly at my face. Just as I realized she was right, I didn't believe anything I was seeing, the curtains came down and I went off to la la land. The next thing I knew Earl was waving smelling salts under my nose."

"Ok, Mick, you're next."

I related how I wound up on the floor of the burned out control room and was saved by Bread, the Wonder Dog.

"That's my boy," said Earl beaming with pride. "I taught him everything he knows."

"Is that why he licks his ass about every fifteen minutes?"

"Funny as a wheelchair, Mick."
Chapter Fifty-One

**Midnight Confessions**

Will regained some semblance of order. "Ok, big man, let's hear from you. How in the hell did you wind up crashing through that window in the nick of time?"

Earl grinned ear to ear. "I think I might make me a cape with a big 'E' on it and call myself 'Super Earl the Carolina Crusader' or something like that."

"I'm sure that would make your family proud," I said with an exaggerated eye roll.

"Can we just get on with it? I'm old, I have a shitload of paperwork to fill out and it's already way past my bedtime."

"You got it, Will. I woke up around midnight and noticed Bread wasn't curled up in his usual position at the foot of the bed. I quietly slipped outside and went to find him. I know he has been sneaking into the plant at night, so I headed that direction. My Super Earl senses started tingling when I noticed flashing lights coming from one of the windows on the third floor of the Administration building. It was time to swing into action."

"Ah, Christ, just tell it straight. Victoria's got to be missing my hot bod by now. And I'll kick all your collective asses if anyone makes even the slightest crack about Victoria's bod.

"Got it. I forgot about Bread for a few minutes and headed toward the flashes. As I got closer, I could tell it was the office next to mine which belonged to Charles."

"Chuck," said Charles with a resigned look on his face.

"Right, Chuck's office. I thought I ought to get a better look so I climbed up the big oak outside his window. When I peered into his office I about shit my shoes. I saw a naked lady, a professional wrestler in a nice suit holding a gun, a hairy back in a chair and Mick looking like somebody farted."

Will sighed and said, "So, you called me. I told you I was on the way and to stay right where you were. But you thought it was a better idea to do a Rocky the Flying Squirrel imitation and launch yourself at his window leading with your size fourteen steel-toed boots."

"Yeah, something like that."

"I would arrest you for disobeying a peace officer and general stupidity if you weren't such a fucking hero right now."

The look on Earls' face was almost identical to the look on Bread's face when I told him what a good boy he was a few hours ago. Except for the slobber. Earl's, I mean.

"All right boys. I'm outta here. Stick around town for the next few days. I'm going to need to get detailed statements from y'all."

Will unwound his six five frame from the booth and sauntered towards the door. I caught Doris checking out his ass from across the diner and got a one figured salute from her in return.

"I'm a bit worried, guys."

"Mick, you were just rescued by our hero here from the clutches of some insane business tycoon sociopath and his au natural spawn from Hell. So what, other than Doris's meatloaf, do you have to be worried about?"

"I'm worried about that slick asshole and bonkers bitch spinning some crazy tale and talking their way out of this thing. All we've got is our 'he said / she said' story and Will hearing something about someone making up a rape fable. Maybe if we have some raw pictures of Dusty writhing on top of a comatose Chuck..."

"Not so much," Earl chimed in. "Will told me the camera got busted during the commotion."

"Shit. So why doesn't Timex make cameras?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

From somewhere out of the blue, I heard a booming voice that sent chills down to the very depths of my being. "I don't think you'll be giving any orders about now, Mick. Why don't you place your hands on top of your head..."

THE SHAREHOLDER!!! How the hell had he gotten away and got a gun? I did a three-sixty trying to spot him as my nuts pulled back up into my body.

All I saw was Earl and Chuck covering their mouths trying to stifle their giggles.

"Show him, Chuck."

"Jesus, Mick, you're whiter than a blizzard at a Klan rally. Take a look at this."

Chuck pulled a metallic box about the size of a deck of cards from his pocket.

"Remember last year when that electronics vendor came to look at X-400 and gave us all digital recorders? I took mine to the meeting with Dusty because I was worried I wouldn't recall or even understand half of what she said. I remembered to turn it on as I was walking up the stairs to my office. I got the whole enchilada recorded right here!"

"Yeah, Chuck was playing all that moaning and groaning that Dusty was doing on top of him for me before you got here."

"You two are a couple of perverts. But, at least one of you is a genius pervert for recording the proceedings. I guess we got 'em by the short hairs."

"Besides that, Mick, I think we are going to have an Olympic caliber race to the courthouse between father and daughter to see who can sell out who the fastest."

"No doubt."

"In addition, I do have this."

Chuck held up a small wafer in his right hand.

"The SD card from the camera."

"Very good, Mick. I'm sure it has a nice collection of Dusty in positions most of us have never thought about on top of my shirtless bod."

"I'm sure I've thought about the majority of them. Just not with you in the picture. So what are you going to do with it?"

"There is no way I want these shown at any trial or finding their way to my wife no matter how innocent we know they are. So I'm going to take it home and lock it in my safe."

"Only to take it out when Rhonda is visiting her aunt and you need it to get through a cold lonely North Carolina night. Like I said, I know you are a true pervert at heart."

"Speaking of which, Mick, I gotta ask."

"What, Chuck?"

"Look, this Chuck thing is OK for now. But it remains Charles to my face at the office. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anyway, I don't mean to be rude or crude here..."

"Sure you do."

"What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"Having Dusty naked on top of you? I mean, I know she was on top of me most of the evening too, but I was ninety-five percent passed out."

"Yeah, Chuck, and I was so pissed I couldn't see straight. I had the back of a chair trying to dislodge my clavicle. I was being stabbed in the ass by shards of glass and I was expecting to be shot at any moment. The last things going through my mind were thoughts of a sexual nature."

"Bullshit. C'mon, Mick, it had to be pretty sweet, at least for a few seconds. And I know our minds work independently from our most important equipment."

"All right, it was a few quick seconds of Penthouse Forum. I'll cop to a twitch, or maybe two, but that's it."

"Honesty, Mick. Doesn't it feel good?"

"Well, as long as were being honest, maybe I should tell you guys something."

"What, Earl?"

"You know how I climbed up that tree outside of Chuck's window?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I had to get up higher than his window on one of the back branches so I could see in."

"Ok."

"And you know I called Will and he told me to stay put?"

"Right, Earl, get on with it. We all have to go to work in a few hours."

"I'm no dummy and I'm no hero. Not really. My plan was to stay firmly rooted in that tree until Will arrived. But, when I saw the naked Dusty bend over to pick something up, I leaned forward for a better view and kind of slipped. I fell off the branch and grabbed a lower one with my right hand. I guess my forward momentum swung me into and through that window."

Chuck and I looked at each other and then at the look of shame on Earl's face.

"You mean you were trying to snatch a glimpse of snatch and wound up snatching us from the jaws of death?"

"I guess that's about right."

Chuck and I leaned backed and roared with laughter. Earl joined in shortly.

"All hail the power of pussy!"
Chapter Fifty-Two

**Walk of Life**

Six months later things had gotten back to normal at Woodland Enterprises. When we realized that Woodland was a combination of Copeland and Elwood, we decided to change the name. Elwood and Copeland were names we all would like to forget as soon as possible.

The trial was rather speedy. Given our testimony, Chuck's recording and the accusations that Dusty and Rich threw at each other from the stand, the convictions were slam dunks. In typical Shareholder style, Rich tried to fabricate a tale about the whole thing being an executive training exercise. Calling the Judge a "backward backwoods stupid ass rube" on multiple occasions did not help his case. Rich got twenty-five years in a Federal prison which should put him on ice until he needs diapers. Rumor has it that he has already structured a pyramid scheme based on cigarettes and illegal cell phones in the joint. Dusty got five years given that the prosecutors let her win the race to sell out. I think it had a little to do with Rich being a bigger fish and a lot to do with Dusty's low cut prison jumpsuit. Prior to the end of the trial, she inked a deal with a late night cable channel to star in a continuing new series _Lipstick Lovelies in Lock-up._ So much for her not wanting to make her way in life based solely on her looks. In what I think is a judicial first, Dusty negotiated an additional five years onto her sentence conditional on the longevity of the series. I know that I will watch it.

Elwood disappeared. I heard an unconfirmed ridiculous rumor (I guess if it was confirmed, it wouldn't be a ridiculous rumor) that he had Lasik surgery, gained weight, gained height, joined the PGA tour and changed his name to Jason Dufner. I really didn't believe a word of it. I could put Jay on his tail, but why bother at this point?

I did something I thought I would never find myself doing. I took Holly to the Biltmore Estate for a romantic weekend and proposed. Facing death from duct tape, bullets and/or booms all in one night (not to mention Doris's Dingleberry meatloaf), makes one reprioritize one's priorities. In an even bigger surprise, she said yes and we set a date for early next year.

We never breathed a word of Earl's true reason for coming through that window. Will championed him as a hero to the entire community. They threw a big parade. Thank God they didn't let him give a speech!

I bought Bread a year's supply of dog biscuits and let him come over to sleep with me once a week. That will probably need to stop, oh, sometime early next year.

Victoria finally retired. Many tears were shed at the plant. Will retired shortly after that. When they are not doing the doting thing over grandbaby Boase, they are keeping themselves busy as salsa instructors on Caribbean cruises. Who knew?

Doris managed to convince one of those traveling TV cooking programs to visit her place for a live show and she became a U-Tube sensation. The FCC is still trying to sort out the fines against the Food Channel.

Diddy retired and became a consultant with Homeland Security. I know I sleep better at night knowing that he is sleeping better at night (and day).

Brother Jagger is looking into the possibility of moving down here and running for Will's open position. That would be a hoot!

Mom and Dad are doing as well as can be expected at their age. They are slowing a bit physically, but going strong as ever mentally. Dad offered this advice when I told him I was considering proposing, "Mick, in golf I always say to trust your muscle memory. It won't let you down and your shots will go right where you intend. In love, follow your heart memory. It will guide you to where you not only want, but need, to be."

Mom and Dad are pretty cool. Their advice still keeps me going. I thought about the differing stories they told me about how they met. At the time, I remember thinking how most people are true to the big picture of their lives but fudge the details a bit. As I thought about our MBAs, I realized they were just the opposite. They were very careful to get the details right but the big picture was a total falsehood.

Has the moral of my tale got to do with the evils of higher education? Do we educate our best and our brightest to be narcissistic greedy money grabbers? Should we examine the curriculum in our schools to ensure that care for the common good is engrained as strongly as return on investment? Are MBAs a bad thing just because recent headlines have depicted more than a few of them almost destroying the world's financial systems during the mortgage meltdown or ripping off wealthy and not so wealthy folks with devious pyramid schemes? I don't know. I'm just a night schooled average Joe from Ohio trying to make a decent living and pursue happiness without climbing over the bodies of others. I try not to judge.

I would summarize what I learned from my experiences more like this: While we need to take care to watch out for each other, we need to really take care to watch out for each other. It may sound like an Earlism, but if you get the inflections right, I think you'll understand.
Epilogue

**The End**

As the first snow flew, I found myself again in Chuck's office discussing our new staff recruiting season.

"Well, Mick, I think we will leave all the financials in Earl's capable hands. As you know, we were able to reach a very agreeable settlement with The Shareholder so we now own Woodland, or whatever it will be called, lock stock and barrel."

"I guess we have to call him The Shareholder again since he certainly is no longer 'Rich.'"

"Or maybe we should call him 'Bunk Muffin.'"

"Charles, I'm glad we can still laugh about this after all the shit we've been through. Anyway, with the commotion of the trial and all, I never did hear quite how you pulled that settlement deal off."

"Between you and me, it was one of Will's last acts as sheriff. He was able to pull a few strings with the Feds he met through Jay. He let The Shareholder meet his prospective cellmates. It was a choice between Big Daddy Pile Driver who was serving twenty-five to thirty for smuggling farm animals across state lines for personal enjoyment, if you get my drift, or Myron who was charged with tax fraud. The choice was up to Will and highly contingent on my satisfaction with the financial deal The Shareholder offered."

"So I take it The Shareholder is getting his taxes done for free now."

"You take it right."

"I also take it we have learned our lesson after the third time. We will not be letting any more MBAs wreak havoc here."

"Not in my lifetime. However, I am thinking that we could use some top notch young marketing talent."

Stay tuned for my next saga, _Marketing Involves Lying Ferociously_ a.k.a. _MILF_.

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank his top notch editors, Anita Sitter and Holly Blackwell. Without them there would be misspelled words, missing words, more nonsense than intended and general mayhem. Many thanks also go out to CoversByKaren for the excellent book cover design and to the cover photographer at lodrkon Dreamstime.com.

A special shout out to all my friends that encouraged this effort and may be thinly disguised therein. I would be remiss if I didn't thank the living, barely living and not so living classic rock artists whose work shaped my formative years and greatly contributed to my ever increasing loss of hearing.

Finally, to my wife, the aforementioned Holly, a very special thank you for rocking my world for the past 30 plus years.

About the Author

Jeff Blackwell is a retired financial professional who worked many fun filled hours for one of the world's largest companies. He lives in Texas with his beautiful wife, Holly, and two crazed Chihuahuas, Rudolph and Valentino. He enjoys golf, playing cards, classic rock (duh), and hanging out with his friends. He does not hold an MBA degree.

You can contact Jeff at amberdog4@msn.com.
