 
### THE NON-ADVENTURES OF AGENT SMITH

### and other tales

By Jean Christensen

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Published by:

Jean Christensen at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2014 by Jean Christensen

****

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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THE IMPORTANCE OF EATING FRUIT

OO-KI

SASKATCHEWAN

SATAN AND THE BUM

TOO MUCH LOVE

A FLEETING MOMENT

THE MAN WHO LIKED EVERYTHING

A HORRID LITTLE GIRL

WRONG ADDRESS

Agent Smith had been investigating some obscure incident for six weeks now. The matter was of little importance and, to put it quite bluntly, so was Agent Smith. And he really didn't care, nor did anyone else. It was all the same to him: a good way to collect his check at the end of the week while passing the time without doing much, (or as little as possible).

One afternoon, Captain Wright zoomed up to Smith's desk and announced: "I'm taking you off your case, Smith. We came up with another case, even less important and figured you were the man for the job."

"Sounds good to me, Captain," replied Smith. And that was the end of Smith's previously unsolved case.

*****

Agent Smith entered Captain Wright's office and dropped his finished report on the desk. "Finished: you were right about that," he announced.

Wright stirred up his memory, trying to remember what unimportant case he had put Smith on three weeks ago. "Oh, yeah. It was about the guys on the second floor suspecting someone was tampering with their computers. So, you came up with something?"

"Yes. I've been doing my research and asking around. Positive confirmation; it's all down in my report."

"And?"

"No doubt about it, sir. The guys on the second floor definitely do suspect that someone is tampering with their computers."

Captain Wright let out a short sigh. "Oh...uh... good job Smith. I'll get back to you later."

*****

\- THE IMPORTANCE OF EATING FRUIT -

John thumbed on the TV, not really recalling the days when televisions were "turned" on. He was not what you'd call an avid TV viewer and he hadn't even melted down yet into his couch when the voice of a very healthy-looking young man blared in: "...So remember... Have a KIWI right now. "

This was more than enough matter for thought, so John pushed once again on the red button of his remote control and his TV drifted back into a neutral world of its own. But not John. "Now that's an idea!" he observed as he fondly thought of his girlfriend.

No, it wasn't that a cut kiwi could evoke some sort of green extra-terrestrial anus or any sexual orifice. It was simpler than that. John's girlfriend, Randita, had loaded him up with a dozen kiwis, hoping that these, along with two quarts of home-made bio vegetable soup, five bananas and an assortment of other perishable sundries could stave off the consequences of her boyfriend's high-cholesterol diet. She loved him.

"Yeah, kiwis," thought John. The rest seemed less important for the moment. After all, those kiwis had been lying on the kitchen table for ten days now. What were the probabilities of that - anywhere in the world?! His television must have sent him a sign that it was time to act. And eat. Kiwis.

It was only a matter of seconds before an array of crumbs and other mini-debris were forearmed off a corner of the kitchen table and onto the floor where they belonged. Cutting the brown things in half seemed like a logical approach. It was. John got a small spoon and dug in - they were just right: not too mushy, not too hard, not too sweet, not too anything and loaded with vitamin something, if he remembered his girlfriend's explanations correctly.

John sank back into his arm chair, now into his third kiwi and going strong. He had forgotten about the TV and, although he wasn't feeling any healthier, he felt more in love.

An hour later, before he fully realized it, John had finished off the dozen kiwis, the five bananas, the cantaloupe, two pounds of figs and all the rest of the stuff in the brown, recycled bag that Randita had forced upon him, threatening him with a fate worse than death if he didn't eat it. Red-faced, eyes bulging and jam-packed up to the ears with health, energy, vitamins, riboflavin, anti-oxidants and whatever other health-packed bio things that the food contained, he was now frenetically swallowing the Tupperware of cold soup, fired up like a Buddha on crack.

Panting heavily, exuding health from every pore, John quickly wiped a green unidentified filet of soup stuff from the corner of his mouth as he started thinking. His first thought was: "Yeah, that guy was right. Those kiwis were a great idea." Then it slowly dawned on him and he finally exclaimed: "Hey, maybe I could have an idea too!"

John started searching for an idea. His first attempt had been: "Have a kiwi". But he'd already tried that, following the young TV man's suggestion. No, it wasn't a very original idea; he could do better. The minutes went by and John still couldn't come up with an idea, despite a sense of urgency and importance born from feeling excessively fit.

After half an hour later, for lack of anything better and newer, John fell back on one of his old ideas: travelling to Saskatchewan by bicycle. And it wasn't long before he was on his way.

*****

Three of the boys were gathered around the coffee machine when Agent Smith walked up.

"Hey, Agent, (they were all on a first name basis), what's up?" asked Detective Reilly, smiling wryly.

"I've been doing a little research," answered Smith. "Something's off here. The coffee machine man comes in twice a week for a refill – that works out to 150 cups. But he always has to put in a new stack of cups. That's 200 cups. There must be an explanation for those extra 50 cups."

"Hmmm..." pondered Detective Adams. "Sounds like you're on to something. Did you check this out with Wright?"

"Yep – last week. I don't have any leads yet but he told me to stick to it."

"Good idea," echoed the three detectives before slowly heading back to their desks.

*****

OO-KI

Oo-Ki scrutinized the waters of the stream, motionless... almost motionless. Well, as motionless as he could manage in this part of the Amazon jungle: there were a lot of gnats, mosquitoes and myriads of small flying bugs, buzzing, swirling, biting, stinging and doing all kinds of insect things from sunrise to sunset – and beyond. And Oo-Ki (it had to be someone) was the least motionless fisherman of his village. He was simply not good at stoically ignoring mosquitoes while stalking any type of prey. Shooting fish with a bow and arrow was obviously one of the many jobs he was not cut out for. In fact, in the five long years spent trying to catch fish, Oo-ki had only succeeded once in bringing back anything that could be considered as a real fish worthy of cooking for a human.

Nonetheless, Oo-Ki, despite his fishlessness, was still appreciated throughout the village for his ability to provoke laughter – voluntarily or not. Perhaps it was partly due to the weird plants the Origamis would ingest every once in a while – perhaps it wasn't; but they were known far and wide for their sense of humor and their talented comics. They always enjoyed laughing after a hard day working with Nature, putting up with it, or fighting it; and so, Oo-Ki was greatly appreciated by everyone.

So far, Oo-Ki's greatest side-splitter had been the day he had limped back into the village with one of his arrows firmly implanted in his bleeding foot. The thin string still dangling from the end of his arrow had been the crowning touch. The other village elders, rolling on the ground with laughter, had solemnly declared that no-one in the history of the Origamis, including the century-long list of clowns and village idiots, had ever shot himself in the foot with a bow and arrow. Bil-ee, the village shaman who had patched up Oo-Ki's foot, had a hilarious version of the story that he would still tell to amuse the kids around the fire, adding on a bit with each new account. After two seasons, the five village part-time musicians had even come up with an accompaniment to Bil-ee's enactment; and the youngsters were soon all doing the "Oo-Ki". With time, the Origami chief and his elders had decided to add the "Oo-Ki" to the list of traditional dances, the list being sorely in need of new material. While he waited for his foot to heal, Oo-Ki had got a week's free food, including fish, from the laughing villagers as a just reward for his merits as an entertainer.

For the moment, Oo-Ki was squatting on a large, moss-covered rock, thinking up new jokes, swatting mosquitoes and waiting for a fish to swim by. He had already checked his equipment to kill the time. Nothing much to check, really: The small cord of vine was firmly attached at one end to his short, thin arrow; and the other end to a nearby branch. Oo-Ki had learned the hard way that keeping the vine attached to his ankle – as did the other fishermen – was not a good idea for someone not good at tying knots. And having to borrow a villager's knife (Oo-Ki had lost his) in order to cut himself loose had been funny albeit embarrassing.

"One of these days," he daydreamed, "I'm bound to catch something, even if I just get lucky. That would be nice." Suddenly his eye caught a large series of ripples on the water's surface. Although they were at a good distance, the size of those ripples indicated that something very large was heading his way.

Slowly he armed his trembling bow, getting ready for a shot at whatever that big thing could be. The undulating ripples approached, then stopped at a safe distance. A large, brownish, snake-like head emerged, its eyes keenly fixing Oo-Ki's amazed stare. It looked a lot like what the villagers traditionally described as Nonga, their Sacred Anaconda.

It wasn't.

"I hope you're not planning on shooting me with that little bow and arrow, Oo-Ki," it said. "I know you're not much good with that thing but it makes me nervous."

Oo-Ki immediately threw down his bow and arrow. "Nonga!" he exclaimed as he respectfully and fearfully knelt down, hoping his life would be spared.

"Sorry, but I'm Yok, Nonga's nephew," clarified Yok. "Nonga's the one who gets all the sacrifices and worship from you guys. So he just visits the important people of your village, every ten or so years to keep those offerings coming in. I figured you were more my speed, so I chose you for my first visit to the Origamis: it's sort of my 'coming out'."

"Uhhh..... so what am I supposed to do?" stammered Oo-Ki. "What do you want from me?!"

"Nothing. Just spread the word around your village about me. I could go for some of those offerings myself."

"Do I get a blessing or a wish or something?" tried Oo-Ki.

"You must be kidding: you're lucky I didn't sneak up on you and swallow you."

He had a point there, and Oo-Ki was increasingly convinced that following Yok's wish and getting away as fast as possible was a wise move. He slowly got up from his knees, grabbed his four arrows and his... his bow was no longer there. It was gently floating out of sight.

"Looks like you dropped your bow in the water. That should get a few laughs around the campfire," smiled Yok before swimming away.

Hours later Oo-Ki stumbled back into his village, exhausted. He tried to tell the villagers about Yok, but the immediate questions concerned his missing bow. If there was anything the village bow-maker didn't need, it was extra work. Finally, the small gathering of Origamis calmed down and waited for Oo-Ki's story. It would probably be a good one, and a couple of the villagers were already starting to laugh with anticipation.

By the time Oo-Ki had come to the part about Yok, the village chief and the two elders had integrated the crowd. They exchanged brief glances, thoughtful nods and several hushed comments between themselves. They weren't laughing at all and, except for some of the very young children, the other Origamis thought best to follow their elders' example. At the end of Oo-Ki's account, the chief gestured emphatically to him before heading back to his hut, followed by the elders and a slightly worried Oo-Ki. There was no doubt about it; this was a serious matter – yet another thing Oo-Ki was not very good at.

At the entrance to the chief's hut, a familiar head popped through. It was one of the two village builders. "Sorry, chief", he half-apologized, half-announced. "The hut's not finished yet. We figure another hour or two of thatching before we and Bil-ee can redo the decoration."

The chief pondered the situation briefly. This was an important meeting: an extra sacred snake would mean more offerings – and maybe a sacrifice! And it seemed the small village would have a tough time keeping up with two sacred snakes. The matter could not wait. "OK, let's hold this meeting at Bil-ee's hut. There's enough room and I hear he just finished another batch of Arg."

The elders both agreed. After all, Bil-ee, being the Origami's medicine-shaman placed him well up there with the elders and the chief. And Bil-ee's Arg, an Origami recipe for beer, was not something to be missed.

Inside Bil-ee's hut there was a small fire going over which Bil-ee stood, stirring something up in a small cauldron. The notables entered, followed timidly by Oo-Ki.

"Hey guys, welcome to my hut," smiled Bil-ee with bright red eyes."How's it going, Oo-Ki? What's up? Would you care for a ladle of Arg? Fresh batch."

There wasn't much doubt among the visitors: Bil-ee was, once again, stoned out. The elders silently looked at each other through the acrid smoke, at first a bit annoyed but gradually feeling mellower. "We have something pretty big here," announced the chief. "We couldn't use my hut; it's not finished being fixed up... and by the way, you should go check out the builders about the decoration when this important meeting is over. This definitely calls for a few scoops of Arg."

There was a brief moment of silence as Bil-ee shuffled around, serving out the Arg. Silence somehow felt in order concerning the matter at hand and the fumes from Bil-ee's smoky little fire seemed to impart a need for ceremonial. The Origamis were not, by nature, traditionally very good at ceremonial procedures, so they usually sort of faked it by remaining silent and not moving too much. One elder toyed with his loincloth while the other elder stared, intensively blank, at the ochre walls of the hut from which hung all types of weird things: feathers tied together, roots, small bushes of firewood, dried fish, several skulls, etc. Oo-Ki closed his eyes, trying to focus on getting his story right.

The chief finally finished his bowl of Arg and spoke up: "Oo-Ki has just arrived with some very important news. While he was out fishing..."

"Or trying to catch a fish..." interjected an elder, with a chuckle.

"Yes. Anyway, while he was out by the river, he met one of those giant, talking snakes! It claims to be Nonga's nephew, Yok. And it was mentioning offerings – right, Oo-Ki?"

Oo-Ki nodded his head emphatically.

The chief continued: "So we're gathered to see what we should do next."

"Hmmm," asked Bil-ee, turning to Oo-Ki. "What is he asking for? I can whip up another batch of Arg for him, and I can come up with a new ritual dance number. But we don't have that many fish to spare this month."

Oo-Ki shrugged his shoulders. "He didn't really say, but he's very big and it might take more than an armful of fish to fill him up. He just told me to spread the word."

One of the elders scratched his chin before suggesting: "I think we should send out Oo-Ki to try to negotiate the offerings. Maybe this Yok likes bananas; we have plenty of those..."

The others shook their heads in doubt. But sending Oo-Ki on the mission seemed like the best, the safest and the only idea for the moment.

The chief nodded his head in approbation: "Alright, Oo-Ki. Tomorrow morning, you'll set out and try to establish contact with Yok. See what he wants - or what he'll settle for."

Oo-Ki spent the next three weeks sitting on his rock, nervously awaiting Yok's return. Finally, the aspiring sacred snake showed its head.

The fisherman risked showing a tinge of impatience: "I've been waiting for three weeks for you to show up. Where have you been?"

"Hey there, calm down, Oo-Ki. I've been busy digesting a young tapir. Even magic snakes have to eat once a month. I see you've come empty-handed; you're lucky I'm not hungry. So, what did the elders have to say?"

"They were asking about what kind of offerings you were expecting. We're pretty low on fish but we do have some bananas," he tried.

"You must be kidding!" hissed Yok. "When was the last time you met a vegetarian anaconda? This is an insult! If I mention this to my Uncle Nonga, you guys are in big trouble. And just for that, I want at least a chicken or a monkey and TWO basketfuls of fish... and some kind of ceremonial. Every month – or else! Now get out of here before I squeeze you to death."

Oo-Ki sped off as fast as he could and returned to his village an hour later, gasping for breath. He was quickly met by the chief and the elders.

The chief and the elders had been hanging around together all afternoon, doing things in accordance with their rank and position in the village – in other words not much besides looking important – when they immediately perceived the urgency in Oo-Ki's arrival.

"I saw him again!" he exclaimed.

"Yok?"

"Yes, it was Yok. And he's demanding a lot of stuff! Chickens, monkeys and fish... and a ceremonial. Every month!"

"Oh, great!" sighed the chief. "Didn't you explain about the fish shortage? Couldn't you negotiate?"

Oo-Ki shook his head. "Nope. He's a pretty tough snake. He even threatened to tell Nonga, his uncle, about it."

The mention of Nonga, the village's Sacred Snake, hit the chief and the elders pretty hard. They started huddling and mumbling amongst themselves, scratching their heads a bit more than the rest of their mosquito-bitten bodies. As they shuffled off toward Bil-ee's hut, Oo-Ki concluded that the matter was now in their hands and that his presence was no longer warranted. A peremptory nod from the chief made it clear.

Hours later, the chief and the elders stumbled out of Bil-ee's hut looking fairly worn out after the long session of Arg-laden discussions. At some point, they had finally come up with an idea. Oo-Ki was summoned to join them around the small, smoky fire outside.

"We have a plan," announced the chief, "and you, Oo-Ki, will be sent on this delicate mission. We're sending you out to the Gaspachos, tomorrow morning."

Oo-Ki gasped in silence, not daring to interrupt the chief. The Gaspachos were a neighboring tribe on the other side of the river. They were good hunters, fair fishermen but not considered very bright by Origami standards. Occasionally marriages between them and the Origamis were arranged in order to limit inbreeding in both tribes. Oo-Ki was hoping that this was not part of the chief's great idea.

"The word's out that the Gaspachos recently lost Rinaldo, their sacred jaguar, two months ago. And it seems that Rinaldo was the last of this region's talking jaguars. So your mission is to convince them that there's an extra sacred snake up for grabs; and we can help them out – seeing as you have already established contact – with getting a new sacred animal for their tribe. They might have to repaint their huts with new symbols and all that, but if you can arrange a meeting between their chief and us, I think we can swing the deal and get this Yok out of our face."

Oo-Ki was not very enthused about venturing too far from his village, (he had already got lost in the jungle several times), but he was forced to admit that the chief and the elders had come up with a good plan.

"Don't worry about getting lost," smiled an elder. "We'll send you out with Juan and Tou; they know their way around those parts."

"You can bring a couple of fish and a gourd of Arg to sweeten them up," added the other elder. The chief nodded with approval.

And so it was decided.

Two gift fish were carefully wrapped in a giant leaf from a nearby tree and Bil-ee faked some sort of ceremonial sign on it that he figured would make a good impression on the Gaspachos' chief. Oo-Ki was entrusted with the gourd of Arg, and the trio set out with the rising sun.

Two hours later, they were carefully crossing the large stream, hoping that Yok was not around lest they arouse the snake's suspicion. After another hour they paused to rest, halfway up the steep hill that led to the Gaspachos' territory. 'So far, so good,' thought Oo-Ki, swatting away at the various flies and mosquitoes that he seemed to attract. The jungle was starting to heat up and, unlike Juan and Tou, Oo-Ki was beginning to feel very thirsty. The heavy gourd of Arg was becoming increasingly tempting but he resisted the temptation as best he could.

Resisting temptation was not one of Oo-Ki's strong points. And as his other two companions were getting ready to continue the journey, he started thinking: 'This gourd is very heavy and if I get too tired lugging it up this hill, I'll only slow them down... and the Gaspachos' chief won't notice if there's a bit missing.' He snuck a quick sip... and another, longer one.

By the time the trio had reached the summit of the steep hill, the gourd of Arg was almost half empty and Oo-Ki was feeling pretty mellow albeit somewhat tired. A thin wisp of smoke indicated the Gaspachos' village, far off in the distance.

"We should be there by mid-afternoon," estimated Juan. "It's all downhill from here."

Even Oo-Ki knew that walking downhill was even more tiresome; and with half a gourd of Arg in his tank, the descent could be tricky. But the village was in sight and he could rest once they arrived. It didn't take long, though, before he caught his foot on a vine, toppling down the steep slope a good forty feet before coming to a halt. Juan and Tou were soon by his side.

"Are you alright?" laughed Tou. "Nothing broken? How about the gourd?"

Oo-Ki and the gourd were unbroken. "No, I'm alright. The gourd is fine too, although a bit might have spilled out," he lied.

"They won't notice," observed Juan. "Let's move on, then."

Oo-Ki started to get up and felt a sharp pain in his ankle. "Ow!" he yelled. "I think I sprained my ankle."

Juan and Tou, smiled, then looked at each other, sighing in consternation. Helping Oo-Ki limp down the hill was not going to make the journey any easier. Juan took the initiative: "OK, Tou; you take the fish, the gourd, the bows and arrows and all the other crap, and I'll help Oo-Ki along. We can switch once we reach the bottom of the hill."

The tactic worked as best it could and the three Origamis finally entered the Gaspacho village before sunset. Some of the children recognized Oo-Ki, the Origami Clown as they called him, and were already laughing as he limped into the village, half drunk, heavily propped on Juan and Tou's shoulders. The chief, flanked by two guards carrying spears, cautiously stepped up to greet them.

"Origami. What brings you here?" he asked, his gaze focused on Oo-Ki. "You are Oo-Ki, no? What happened to you?" he snickered, noticing Oo-Ki's swollen ankle.

The trio made a sort of bow and Oo-Ki made a slight, manly grimace of pain before answering: "It's nothing, chief; just one of those vines laying around on the hill. Yes, I'm Oo-Ki and this is Juan and Tou. We have come with an important message from our chief, and a few humble offerings." Juan ceremoniously handed the chief the fish and the gourd of Arg.

The fish were taken by one of the chief's wives who barely concealed a shrug concerning the measly gift. The village medicine man noticed with approbation, on passing, the ceremonial marks on the leaves. The chief grabbed the gourd of Arg. He gave it a suspicious shake but didn't comment on it's not being full; after all, half a gourd of Arg was still a welcome gift since the Gaspachos were far from mastering Bil-ee's renowned skills at brewing.

The chief took a long gulp. "So what brings you here, Origami?"

"A very serious, important matter. Our chief would like to discuss it with you and your elders in person. It concerns a new sacred animal I encountered while fishing."

The medicine man's and the chief's eyes lit up. "Come with me," ordered the chief, indicating the way to the chief's hut.

Three days later, Oo-Ki's ankle was sufficiently healed and he, Juan and Tou came back to the Origami village accompanied by the Gaspacho chief, one of his elders, the Gaspachos' medicine man and four guards wearing brightly colored feathers – an indication that the Gaspachos had come in peace and were ready to party. They were soon escorted to Bil-ee's hut: the chief explained that his own hut was still being redecorated and that, anyway, Bil-ee's hut was more appropriate for such matters.

The Gaspacho guards were left free to roam around the village, munching on manioc and banana cakes and trying their luck at impressing the available women with their spectacular attires and smooth talking. Juan and Tou observed them from a polite distance, keeping an eye on their own wives – just in case.

The big meeting lasted the rest of the afternoon and the notables eventually stumbled or crawled out of Bil-ee's hut in what appeared to be fine spirits. It was soon announced that a mass ceremonial encounter was to be scheduled with Yok as soon as the snake would be available. Two villagers were sent out to gather some more plants for a quick new batch of Arg, accommodations were arranged for lodging the Gaspachos. (One of the guards had already found a promising spot with a young Origami miss.) Oo-Ki would be sent out the next day with the Gaspacho medicine man to see if they could establish contact with the aspiring sacred snake.

The large, central campfire burned brightly that night. The Origamis weren't particularly great musicians but their percussions and flutes maintained a decent festive mood that everyone could dance to. And, of course, Bil-ee came out again with his amusing tales of Oo-Ki's misadventures while the youngsters did the "Oo-Ki". All in all, it was a welcome break from the mosquitoes, the venomous creatures and plants, the thorns, the vines and the general hassles of everyday life in the jungle.

Oo-Ki and Rik, the medicine man, set off, not too early, the next day. Rik was still a bit hung over but he followed Oo-Ki's pace without much effort. Oo-Ki was now sporting a new bow to replace the one he had lost – a fair reward for his contribution. Perhaps Yok was aware that something important for his career was at hand, or maybe it was just dumb luck; but the pair weren't settled down very long at Oo-Ki's fishing spot before Yok's huge brown head suddenly appeared.

Yok's tongue darted in and out, checking the scent of the newcomer. "I see you brought a friend, Oo-Ki," he hissed. "And empty-handed at that. Would you, perchance, be Rik, the Gaspacho medicine man? What brings you here?"

There was no doubt in Rik's mind: this was the real deal, an authentic talking snake and probably, as he claimed, Nonga's genuine nephew. "Yes, I am Rik, the Gaspacho medicine man. And I come in peace."

"So what?" answered Yok. "You certainly didn't come here with any offerings. Don't tell me the Gaspachos are just as cheap as the Origamis. Well, at least you didn't show up with a bunch of bananas."

Oo-Ki was slightly flustered at the semi-insult but he remained silent.

"Certainly not," smiled Rik. "We have a fair amount of various fish, monkeys, chickens and other things you might like. And, if you want, we'd be honored to have you as our sacred snake." Here, Rik bowed his head: "We recently lost Rinaldo, our sacred jaguar, and we could really use a fitting replacement."

Yok seemed to smile. "Oh, Rinaldo. I ate him a while back – pretty tasty with all the offerings you guys were heaping on him. So the Gaspachos are looking for a new sacred animal?"

"Yes, we are."

"You're aware that sacred animals are pretty scarce? And I suppose that you've been filled out on what I would expect from you if I accept the job?"

"Yes, our chief is sure we can meet your requirements. He would, though, appreciate if you left the Origamis alone – no hard feelings and all that."

Yok pondered the proposal. "Hmmm, I suppose I could leave them alone... How about young virgins? Do you have any young virgins available... just to make it official?"

Yok drove a hard bargain and young virgins, aside from very young virgins, were somewhat scarce among the Gaspachos. However there was one, with a hair lip, that could be deemed dispensable. Getting a new, sorely needed sacred animal was a rare opportunity, and with proper make-up the young virgin with the hair lip could clinch the deal.

"That's a pretty big demand, Yok. But, yes we do have one that we can spare, if that's what it takes. So, can we shake on it?"

Yok hissed. "Does it look like I can shake on anything, you idiot?! Boy, you Gaspachos really are as dumb as they say. But you can tell your chief it's a deal. I'll be waiting around here in, let's say, a week, and I'll be expecting a proper ceremony, some fancy offerings and that young virgin; no need to dress her up in pearls and feathers: they don't agree with me. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going for a swim. See you next week." Without further ado, Yok was on his way downstream.

The sun was still high in the sky when they returned with the good news, except for the part about the young virgin to be sacrificed. Both chiefs shook their sticks in the air three times in solemn agreement. The Gaspachos would now be handling Yok and everything that went with having a sacred animal. The announcement was met with cheers, whoops and dancing around, especially from the Origami virgins.

The Gaspachos eventually decided it was time to head back to their village: there were a lot of upcoming preparations to be made. As they soon disappeared into the jungle, with several gourds of fresh Arg for the journey, the Origamis all sighed with relief and Oo-Ki was declared hero of the month. And considering the rather uneventful lives the Origamis led, there was a good chance that his status would be prolonged into the forthcoming months.

Very pleased at being recognized for a positive action, Oo-Ki was out the next day, poised on his rock, his new bow strung, ready and and waiting for a fish to happen by. Filled with new confidence, he had the feeling that, at last, he might be coming back with something to eat. Even the gnats and mosquitoes didn't faze him. Sure enough, something was swimming his way. He pulled back with all his might and let his arrow fly. Direct hit!

Whatever he had shot, it was big! It writhed in momentary agony before floating to the surface... Not the catch Oo-Ki had been hoping for.

"Uh oh!" gasped Oo-Ki in a stupor. Yok was now hopelessly floating, lifeless before his eyes with Oo-Ki's little arrow planted neatly through his huge skull! He waited a long while, making sure the sacred snake to be was really dead, and trying to figure out what to do next. The only thing he could come up with was getting rid of the enormous body before word got to the Gaspachos – or worse, Yok's uncle, Nonga.

He jumped knee-deep into the stream and started tugging as hard as he could, trying to haul the giant reptile onto the shore where it wouldn't float away to be soon discovered. Panic and adrenaline proved to be insufficient for the job. All that Oo-Ki managed to do, after an hour's struggling, was to drag half of Yok's lifeless carcass close to a nearby awarra where he finally managed to wrap his vine around Yok's neck – or what he thought was probably his neck – and anchor the scaly beast firmly to the tree's trunk. No doubt, he would need help with this dilemma and he sped off to the village.

The chief was sitting in his newly finished hut, still celebrating with an elder when Oo-Ki burst in. Chiefs' huts were not places where people were expected to burst in uninvited. It was obvious to the chief that something big had occurred. "What's up, Oo-Ki? This better be important."

"Yok is dead! I thought he was a fish... and I shot him... right through the head!"

"Oh shit!" exclaimed the chief. Such language was usually not in keeping with Origami tradition, but it did sum up the situation. "Did anyone see you?"

"No, I was alone."

"And what did you do with... the body?" asked the elder, his bulging eyes riveted on Oo-Ki's.

"I tied it to a tree where it wouldn't float away; that's all I could do by myself. So I came back for help."

A snap decision was in order. "Ok," ordered the chief. "Take five or six men back there with you. Haul that snake away as far as you can, dig a long trench and bury it fast and deep. Real deep. With a little luck, no one will know. We'll just have to sweat it out and hope for the best. I'll get a few men making extra arrows. If the Gaspachos ever find out about this, we'll have to be prepared to deal with them."

The plan went well and the men were back at sunset, mission accomplished.

A week later, all the Gaspachos showed up in their best attire at the appointed spot, waiting for Yok's arrival. They waited three days in vain, wondering what had happened, feeling disappointed and increasingly insulted before returning home with a great many basketfuls of fish, three monkeys, a half-dozen chickens and a very relieved virgin wearing heavy make-up. The Origamis were never suspected and, with time, Oo-Ki's exploit even became the funniest story in Origami history although it remained taboo to share it around a campfire with strangers.

Nonga died of old age, or indigestion, never knowing what had become of his presumptuous nephew. And so, sacred animals henceforth entered the domain of simple legends in that part of the Amazon. Tales that would later be told around smoky campfires by other narrators wearing baseball caps and torn T-shirts as they swatted mosquitoes.

*****

Captain Wright walked up to Agent Smith's desk. "They'll be coming in to repaint the office this afternoon. So I'm sending you on a stake-out for the next two days."

"Hmm, sounds important," replied Smith.

"No, not really – that's why we're putting you on the case. I want you to cover a vacant lot, near the corner of Third Street and Main. We've been wondering why it's always vacant. I'll be expecting your report, later on this week."

"You're right, Captain Wright. It does seem suspicious. I'll get right on it."

"Good, Smith. The paint should be dry by then."

*****

Agent Smith returned to the office from his two-day stake-out and immediately got to work typing out his report. It was ready the next day and he entered Captain Wright's office with it. "It's all here, Captain," he announced.

"What's all here, Smith?" mumbled Wright, eyeing the ten page report. "Oh yeah... the vacant lot. So what did you find?"

"Nothing, sir. It's still vacant; I can't figure it out. This is a tough one. I have the list of the plate numbers of all the cars that drove by it. But not a single one parked there."

Captain Wright slowly scratched his chin. "Well uhh... good job, Smith I think you should go back there for another day or so. You never know..."

"Right, Captain," answered Agent Smith. I'll just get a fresh pad of paper and a new pencil, then I'm off."

*****

\- SASKATCHEWAN -

Hand on chin, smirk on sweat-soaked face, John's eyes slowly swept a monotonous horizon that needed sweeping. Letting out a long, pensive sigh, he thought to himself: "So THIS is Saskatchewan."

Books and long conversations had convinced him of the importance of fulfilling one's dream. For some strange reason, John's dream had always been to go to Saskatchewan by bicycle. So here he now was, out of new ideas, out of breath, out of money and feeling a bit lost despite his sense of accomplishment.

"Well, that's done," said John to himself. "I've fulfilled my dream, so I guess, deep down inside me, I should feel better..." He took a minute to check himself out, inside and out, to see if he could feel a difference.

"Nope. No difference." he concluded, looking at his watch. "I guess I'll head back home."

*****

Agent Smith had just returned from monthly target practice, carrying three large sheets of paper. Here and there were bullet holes inside an outlined man holding a hand gun.

"How did it go, Agent?" asked Detective Reilly, putting down his coffee cup and glancing at the punctured targets.

"Not bad," answered Agent Smith. "But I noticed something strange while I was down there. It might be worth looking into."

Reilly's eyebrows jerked up slightly with interest. Curiously enough, it was always interesting to see what new uninteresting cases Agent Smith could come up with. Reilly gave Agent Smith an inquisitive look as Smith spread out the targets on his desk and mumbled: "I don't see anything strange. They're the same targets we've been shooting at for years."

"Exactly!" replied Smith. "Haven't you ever noticed that all these men drawn on the targets are ALL right-handed? You'd expect about ten percent to be left-handed. But no. Something's not right here."

Reilly slowly scratched his head. "Uh... yeah, Agent. You've got a good point there. Better check that out with Captain Wright."

*****

SATAN AND THE BUM

Satan was a bit disappointed. He had decided to redecorate his flat and had figured that a new lamp should certainly be easy enough to find at the annual Wilson Street Charity Sale. There were a couple of hundred yards of junk of all sorts tastefully displayed down Wilson Street today. But no lamps.

He was about to head back home, lampless, when he noticed, a few yards beyond some ultimate refrigerators, a bum sitting down on the pavement, leaning against a bulky plastic bag and holding a small cardboard sign. Upon closer inspection, Satan saw that the homeless man was also part of the charity salesmen. Being homeless, he had been the first to show up, at the crack of dawn, for the sale: a good spot could be helpful. But the charity sale's organizers had seen fit to relegate him to the extreme limits of the sales grounds. The man's sign read "Soul For Sale".

"What are you askin' for it?" asked Satan.

"I want a simple shelter and to never again be hungry," stated the man.

"That's a bit vague. How much?" insisted Satan.

The homeless man had been a math teacher until his drinking problem had cost him his job, his family, his home; he had lost "everything". But he still had his soul and a plastic bag full of junk, and he was still pretty good with figures. "I figure it comes out to about $67,000," answered the man.

Satan let out a short, flame-colored laugh. "Sixty-seven G's - you must be nuts!"

"It's still in good shape - I mean... I haven't sinned much."

"Wake up, dude! Souls are a dime a dozen, these days." Satan scratched his goatee and offered: "Tell ya what - I'll give you a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich - with extra bacon - for your soul. And I'll throw in a large can of Bud with it... Waddya say?"

The homeless man considered the proposition for a minute. He was hungry and no one else today had made him an offer. And he loved BLT's. But something inside him unexplainably made him feel that his soul was worth more. "Nope. Sorry - that's not enough," he answered, hungry but steadfast and proud of his almost-sinless soul.

"Well screw you, then, buddy," retorted Satan. "I was just trying to help you out with a sandwich - more than these other cheap bastards here have offered, I'd guess. I have more than enough souls to play with already. I was just walking around here, trying to find a lamp for my flat - not looking for another worthless soul."

The homeless man's eyes lit up slightly. "A lamp? I found one this morning... wait a second." He looked into his plastic bag and pulled out a small but very decorative lamp that someone had thrown away.

The size was perfect - not too big, not too small - and it would no doubt fit harmoniously with the new color scheme of Satan's living room. It was exactly what Satan was looking for. "Now THAT'S more like it," he exclaimed. "How much?"

The homeless man gave it some thought and announced: "$67,000."

"It's a deal!" answered Satan, as he reached for his wallet.

*****

Agent Smith came into Captain Wright's office delicately holding his graph.

"What's up, Smith?"

"Remember that graph you said I should keep working on, six months ago?"

"Yes Smith, I remember," lied Wright, frowning at the jagged line that Smith was holding under his nose. "So?"

"These are the crimes that have been committed over the last six months. And here, yesterday, there's nothing. Zero crimes yesterday!"

"No crimes yesterday?"

"Yep, Captain, no crimes. It doesn't make any sense; it's even a bit suspicious"

"You're right, Smith. This sounds like a case for you. I'd investigate that right away; before someone commits another crime."

"Right, Captain Wright," answered Agent Smith. "I'll get right on it."

"Good, Smith," sighed Captain Wright. "And don't forget your chart."

*****

TOO MUCH LOVE

"Gimme a kisssss, Keith. KEEEEEITH, gimme a kisss," blared the shrill little voice. Mrs. Warmsley lovingly strengthened her clutch on poor Keith's small, green-feathered frame as she approached her purpley-pink puckered lips to the bird's trembling head.

Feelix, Mrs. Warmsley's cat, observed the ritual from a distance. The green thing in his mistress's choking grasp was, in reality, Keith No.4 or 5 (cats didn't count much beyond 2). In any case, two of poor Keith's predecessors, unable to resist Mrs. Warmsley's need for love, had already been love-crushed and thrown into the garbage can \- they made great toys.

The telephone rang and Keith got off easy. He quickly flew back to the top of his cage and gave Feelix a taunting beak-scowl as he heard Mrs. Warmsley answer: "Hello?"

"Hello - Mrs. Warmsley?"

"Yes. How nice of you to call. I was just..."

"This is Sharmeel, Dr. Eisberg's secretary. He asked me to remind you that you have an appointment for your shots tomorrow at 4:30. You've already missed last week's. They're very important, you know." Sharmeel waited for an answer. And waited... Old people were such a drag, she thought.

"Oh," answered Mrs. Warmsley. "Tomorrow, I can't come... I have... things to do," she said, nonchalantly eyeing the baseball bat in the corner of the kitchen.

She put down the phone and blew a kiss to Keith who, still atop his cage, let out a quick, nervous poop while checking out a safer spot to fly to \- just in case. But Ida Warmley's mind was already elsewhere, imagining how her grandson, Shance, would be so happy when he got his new baseball bat for his birthday tomorrow.

She had never got used to the boy's name, but after all, the choice was not hers to make, despite her insistent protests when her daughter had proudly announced his arrival. Shance... Hmmm. It seemed that nowadays people were so desperate to assure some kind of future for their kids that they figured that having a safely original name would help their offspring stand out from the crowd. Ida would have preferred Robert, like her long-departed husband.

Mrs. Warmsley shuffled to her small garage and got out the wrapping paper. Maybe she would even get an extra big kiss of gratitude after explaining how much effort it took, with her arthritis, phlebitis, back aches, dizzy spells, etc. to go out and buy Shance's birthday present. Perhaps the more her suffering was involved, the more the boy would love her.

So far, this subconscious reasoning hadn't really paid off too well, (and sometimes even backfired), but Ida Warmsley was stubborn; and so was her need for love. Now that Shance's father had taken off with some hussy, (Ida had never liked him anyway), maybe the boy would show more affection for her. At least she hoped so.

Mary Richards' phone felt like it weighed a ton as she reluctantly picked it up: this would not be an easy one to pull off. Shance sat crumpled up on the living room couch, arms crossed theatrically and red-faced with tearful determination. There was NO way he was going to see his grandmother, even if she DID have a present for him. Anyway, it was probably just some crappy toy, or a book, or - yuck! - more geeky clothes. Besides that, she smelled bad and her kisses were scary. Each and every time, Shance felt like she was about to crush his skull in her dreaded kiss grip. This was always followed by the energetic hair-rub and cheek pinch that he hated so much.

Shance had decided that he was NOT going through this again, especially on HIS birthday, and Mary's recent domestic crises had simply left her too worn out to argue about it.

"Hi, mom," she started, trying to avoid asking "how are you?". She leaned a look over to the couch, giving Shance the irate head-shake. "I'm alright, mom - hanging in there. But Shance has come down with something... Yeah a slight fever - poor boy. I think it's best that he stays home tomorrow; even though he was just dying to see you," she lied. "No: it might be contagious, but I'll be stopping by, as promised; let's say around... two or three." There was a long pause while Mary listened to her mother's tales of hardship, occasionally emitting a "hmmm" to show she was still listening. Twenty minutes later, the deed was done and Shance was off the hook.

Minutes later, Mary's phone rang again. She feared it was her mother again, going for an extra ball, but no: the number was unfamiliar.

"Uhh hello. Mrs. Richards?"

"Yes."

"This is Sharmeel, Dr. Eisberg's secretary. It's about your mother, Mrs. Ida Warmsley."

"Yes?" Mary waited nervously for Sharmeel to continue.

"Your mother told us this morning that she won't be coming in for her shots tomorrow. Something about her grandson's birthday. She already missed her last session. Dr Eisberg was hoping you could convince her to come to her appointment - they're very important, you know."

"Yes, I know. For her LDS," replied Mary. She didn't really know what "LDS" stood for; but if there was one thing she didn't need right now, it was her mother freaking out again and her having to spend hours at the police station trying to explain something she didn't understand to begin with. True, there was nothing really dangerous about an old woman chasing people around a supermarket, library or parking lot begging them to hug and kiss her. But some people didn't take too kindly to it and the police would sometimes be called in. Once, Ida Warmsley had even been taken to court for this strange behavior.

"What time is her appointment?" she asked.

"Four thirty. Tomorrow."

"I should be able to convince her, Sharmel."

"SharMEEEEL," corrected Sharmeel. "Thank you, Mrs. Richards"

So it looked like there was no way Mary could get out of tomorrow's visit to her mother with a last-minute excuse. But it was for a good cause.

Feeelix was purring up a storm as his claws convulsively dug ever-so-slightly into Ida Warmsley's lap. After almost three hours of continuous, hard petting, Feeelix was now stocked up to maximum in static electricity and was starting to emit small, blue sparks every once in a while. A familiar car sound coming from down the block captured his ear. Mary would soon be here - perhaps with her horrible son. There was still a bit more petting time left and Feeelix decided to wait for the car door to shut before heading upstairs to one of his hideouts.

RINNNG. Ida let out a screech: Feeelix had dug his claws in and was upstairs before the door opened. "Hi mom," came Mary's voice from the vestibule. "Sorry I'm late." Feelix was glad to see that the boy had not come; maybe he would come downstairs to say hello a bit later.

"Hi sweetie," answered Ida, putting on her best badly-concealed grimace of pain as her daughter entered the room.

"What's up mom? Are you hurt?"

Mrs. Warmsley smiled courageously (ah! her loving daughter had noticed.) "Oh, it's nothing, sweetie. Just that Feeelix was startled when the bell rang and he dug his claws into my leg. It does hurt a bit though."

Mary dutifully inspected the indicated area that had fallen victim to Feeelix's claws as she moved in closer, braced for the kiss. It was a pretty good one, she thought to herself as she felt her cheek squashed paper-thin against her cheekbone by Ida's powerful lips. In fact, more than 'pretty good'; Mary mentally counted up to fourteen before finally feeling her mother's strong grip start to let up. Yeah, her mother definitely needed those shots before something weird happened again.

"I got a call from your doctor's secretary, Sharmel, yesterday," she began, looking at her watch. "Your appointment is in a little over an hour, today - I can take you there if you want." The plan was foolproof.

"Oh, yes, we could go there together!" exclaimed Ida, submerged with joy. "I'll go get my coat and purse right away."

'Hmmm,' thought Mary to herself, not really surprised; 'she's already forgotten about Shance'.

"Shance says he's really sorry he couldn't come, mom."

"Oh, yes... Shance... How is he?" asked Ida from down the end of the hall. "Still too sick to come see what grandma got him for his birthday?" Mrs. Warmsley returned with her coat, purse and a brightly wrapped cylindrical gift that left little doubt as to what it was, seeing as Shance didn't play golf and already had a telescope.

Mary put on her best smile of happy surprise.

Ida finally decided the suspense had lasted long enough and announced: "I remember you said, last month, that he has been playing a lot of baseball lately. You know, it wasn't an easy task getting this." Ida imagined the bat weighed a ton, accordingly gritted her teeth and held out the gift and her hungry cheek.

"Oh! A baseball bat! He'll be so happy," lied Mary already dreaming up explanations for both parties. For the brand new 32 inch Hank Aaron model length of ash had very little to do with the latest "Bases Loaded III" that Shance's father had bought him last month for his Nintendo N4900 Hotshot Box. Prying a convincing 'thank you' out of the boy would not be easy, even if it was by phone.

Mary quickly snapped back into the present when she thought she heard one of her ribs crack under her mother's powerful hug. She took a deep, verifying breath and pushed with all her might to get her face out of her mother's blue gray hair-do and into position for the thank you kiss on the cheek. A few slightly painful minutes later, the mission was accomplished, and after another twenty minutes of coffee sipping and reminiscing about this and that, the duo was on its way to Dr. Eisberg's office.

Mary had never been to Dr. Eisberg's place; Ida's neighbor usually took her. Although waiting rooms were pretty much the same, this one did seem strangely different to Mary as the vintage turquoise naugahide chairs creaked underneath them while they patiently waited Ida's turn. Mary tried hard to identify the discrete yet distinctive smell that imbibed the dimly lit atmosphere; it was unexpected yet familiar...

"Bread!" half-shouted Mary all of a sudden. A small man sitting near the darker corner of the room jerked his head up, startled by the sound, before letting out an annoyed sigh and going back to his magazine. Mary hadn't noticed him, probably the way you don't "notice" people in waiting rooms, as if looking at sick people were a particularly impolite encroachment upon their dignity. "Don't you think it smells like bread in here?" she asked, hoping her question would serve as a good explanation for her outburst.

"What's the difference?" mumbled the man, half to himself and obviously in no mood to carry on the conversation. Mary turned to Ida, but from the corner of her eye, she took a longer glance at the man: there was something odd about him too – as if he were kind of shriveled up from the inside, like an inflatable man with a leak.

"I think it smells more like tuna fish," offered Mrs. Warmsley.

"Tuna fish!? No way," replied Mary. "No, it's definitely bread."

"Grapefruit," mumbled the man, scowling as if he felt forced to correct these olfactory idiots. "It smells like grapefruit."

Sharmeel entered the room carrying a small clipboard. "I'm so happy you could finally make your appointment, Mrs. Warmsley. We're still 12cc's short of fluid, so you'll have to wait a few minutes – I hope you don't mind," she smiled.

Not waiting for any particular reply, and understandably avoiding one of Ida's iron hand-clutches, she turned, arm extended, to the small, shrunken man. "Alright then, Mr. Givings. Let's go. So kind of you to come on such short notice. I think you know the way by now." Mr. Givings got up slowly, shot a quick, dry glance at Mary and Ida and, mumbling something about needing time to recuperate, and headed down the hall.

Mary couldn't resist the urge: "Excuse me, Sharmel. I was..."

"SHARMEEEL," corrected Sharmeel for the zillionth time in her life.

"Sorry, Sharmel \- uhh, Sharmeel. I was just wondering - have you noticed any particular scent in the waiting room? Don't you think it smells like bread?"

Sharmeel gave the air a polite sniff before answering: "No. I don't smell anything in particular... Maybe... broccoli." She and Mr. Givings disappeared into one of the consultation rooms, leaving Mary with a growing sensation of weirdness.

"What an odd little man," said Mary. "Ever seen him here before?"

"Oh yes," answered Ida. "In fact, I can't recall NOT seeing him here. He's not bad looking. I don't know what's wrong with him: once he gets out of the office, he's a real grouch - one of the most unpleasant individuals I've ever met. Usually he doesn't say a word, but he doesn't have to; it's pretty clear that he despises everyone on earth."

"And he must be crazy," added Mary. "Grapefruit?! Something MUST be wrong if he can't tell the difference between bread and grapefruit."

"Tuna fish," corrected Ida.

'Grapefruit!?' thought Mary, relieved that they had chosen seats not too close to this odd, shriveled man. Her mother had an excuse for the tuna fish: she was half nuts. But there was no way that this waiting room smelled like anything other than bread. And that was that!

Mary's stern preoccupation was interrupted by the digital chime in Dr. Eisberg's hallway. A portly young woman with a pink sweater and pimples entered the waiting room, smiling nervously. After sitting down in front of Ida and Mary, she sort of leaned forward without moving her body. "Hi. My name's Karyn, 'YN'." (She was one of those people who feel compelled to spell out their "original" names.) Mary had no intention of writing her a letter, but she gave her a half-smile and a polite nod in return.

"My name's Ida!" Mrs. Warmsley's eyes had lit up with a strange intensity, locking almost at once with Karyn, "YN" 's now fixed stare. There seemed to be a growing kind of static, electro-magnetic, immaterial, attractive energy thing between them, like invisible prickly Jell-O. It was irresistible, and less than ten seconds later, the two women were furiously hugging, clutching, kissing and grasping each other.

Mary let out a pretty decent scream as the love-deficient pair rolled around on the waiting room floor. Sharmeel ran in, followed by Dr. Eisberg.

"Quick!" bellowed Eisberg. "A No.3 separation clamp and a pair of sterile clutch retainers!" Sharmeel was out and back in a flash.

Luckily, Dr. Eisberg was not only foremost in his field but was also still fairly strong. Thanks to his long experience dealing with Love Deficiency Syndrome victims (and his brown belt in Kwang Fe), he was gradually able to wedge in the N°3 separation clamp, pry one of Ida's arms away from the young girl's neck and apply one of the clutch retainers. The rest went fairly easily and the two women were finally separated.

Eisberg wiped his brow and shot a fiery look at Sharmeel. I've told you a thousand times, Sharmeel! NEVER, never ever two LDS's in the same room at the same time!"

Sharmeel's initiative to squeeze Karyn "YN" into an open slot in the agenda for an emergency shot had turned out to be a pretty bad idea. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Eisberg. I really don't know what happened... It was..." Fishing deep for some sort of excuse, she was interrupted by a long moan that emanated from the room where Mr. Givings had been taken.

Dr. Eisberg jumped up and exclaimed: "Oh shit! Quick! Turn off the extrusion pump before he implodes!" Sharmeel raced down the hall and the moaning soon stopped. Turning to Mary, he sighed apologetically: "A rough day today. It's a good thing we know what we're doing here."

Staring at the two women immobilized on the waiting room's floor, Mary was not 100% convinced. "What is it, exactly, that you DO here, Dr. Eisberg?" she asked. "Are all your patients this weird? What about that strange, shriveled guy? Does he also have LDS? And I'm sure that I'm not the only one that would like to know exactly what LDS is!"

The specialist's eyebrows twitched upwards an instant. "Love Deficiency Syndrome. First identified, and officially recognized, around twenty years ago. It's all very complicated," he started. "In fact too complex for the layman to grasp - even a lot of doctors don't fully understand it."

"A lot of doctors don't understand a LOT of things," observed Mary. "So what about that man? He didn't look like HE needed any extra love."

"I'm afraid that I'm sworn to medical secrecy here. After all, Mr. Givings' health and presence here are a matter..."

Sharmeel briskly entered the room. "Extrusion pump off, Dr. Eisberg. I think Mr. Givings can be disconnected."

Dr. Eisberg excused himself and scooted down the hall while Sharmeel turned to Mary while helping Mrs. Warmsley up from the floor: "Alright, Mrs. Warmsley. We're ready for your shots now. Please follow me."

An awkward silence set in between Mary and Karyn, "YN". Partially immobilized by the clutch retainer, the young woman seemed sufficiently harmless. Mary picked up a magazine – the type of waiting room magazine that, once you've perused it, you're glad you didn't buy a copy when it came out five years ago. The name and the image of Mr. Givings' face stuck in her mind. There was something oddly familiar about it; a fuzzy déjà vu feeling that was starting to materialize. Yes, that was it! Maybe Karyn, "YN" knew something about him.

"Do you know that man... Mr. Givings? He reminds me of a teacher I used to have."

"No, I don't know much about him," offered Karyn, "YN". "Only that he, or his father, used to be a teacher. I don't know what he does for a living now. But he sure looks like he's loaded with money, whatever he does. He's much younger than he looks now. He's probably pretty old but he looked a lot younger last year..." None of this made much sense to Mary. But at least it was consistent with the rest of this spaced-out little universe that was Dr. Eisberg's.

A short, cyclical squeak came from down the hall, followed by Sharmeel wheeling a very tired-looking Mr. Givings out to the parking lot where a large limousine was waiting. Sharmeel steamed back into the waiting room, silently grumbling as she pushed the empty wheelchair. As she zipped by, Mary tried to lighten up the atmosphere and perhaps get more details: "Boy, that Mr. Givings certainly is unpleasant - what a cranky guy!"

Sharmeel composed herself, sighed and replied: "He is – or at least was \- in fact a loving, wonderful person."

A few minutes later, Mary's mother was escorted out by Sharmeel. Heavily floating around in a curiously detached silence, Ida was soon inside Mary's car, on her way back home.

"So how did it go?"

"Alright," replied Ida before returning to her blank gaze.

"Thanks again, mom, for Shance's new baseball bat. I'm sure he'll like it," tried Mary, changing the subject.

Ida Warmsley turned her head ever so slightly. "Hmmm. Yes. Maybe he will. Could you stop by the Quick-Mart on the way? I'd like to pick up a few things for tonight."

Mary waited in the car while her mother zipped into the grocery store. For once, her mother had not implored her to go along with her; to help her step up the curb, or open the heavy glass door, or help her carry her minuscule paper bag. In fact, Ida's step had mysteriously picked up; the huffing, puffing, limping, whining, moaning, cringing, sweating, grimacing, hip-holding and most of the other tell-tale signs of suffering had vanished.

Mary's thoughts went back to Mr. Givings. She remembered a vague high school rumor that Mr. Givings had a handicapped son of some sorts; or a son that was having some kind of problem with his classmates. Or something else - she couldn't really remember much more than that. But kind Mr. Givings was no longer teaching at Muchtu High that following year – something to do with family reasons. The resemblance was uncanny. So, that man she had seen in Dr. Eisberg's could be his son?! Impossible: he would be what? – 35 or 40 – maybe younger than she was? Impossible.

Mrs. Warmsley trotted back to the car with a small bag of avocados and a chocolate bar already half-eaten. "I think I'll have some tuna and avocado salad tonight," she said flatly without offering any of her disappearing Smoothy Crunch bar.

"Hey, mom; do you know that guy, Mr. Givings?" she finally asked.

"No, not really. But he has his appointments on the same day as me. We don't talk. I tried, but he avoids me - not very friendly, especially when he gets out of Dr. Eisberg's office." Ida nonchalantly dropped the finished Smoothy Crunch bar's wrapper on the floor of Mary's car and resumed gazing out the window.

Mary started wondering if she didn't prefer her mother in her love-hungry phase. Yes... then again, maybe not. She couldn't really say. She checked her watch - 5:20 and getting near time to head back home and see what Shance was doing.

As she dropped her mother off, Mary braced herself for the cheek-squashing kiss but, mildly surprised, she gladly settled for a quick peck before speeding off to see how the birthday boy was doing.

Shance was crumpled forward on the couch, along with a couple of friends, all intensely hypnotized in a video game of... something. Mary's arrival and "hello" went unnoticed as she walked through to her kitchen carrying the gift-wrapped baseball bat. Later would probably be a more appropriate time to spring Ida's gift on her son.

One of Shance's friends had just struck out and his eye caught the wrapped and ribboned birthday gift disappearing into the kitchen. "Hey, you got a present," he observed. "Let's see what you got."

"Later," barked Shance nervously poised for the next pitch. "It's prolly from my grandmother." The other two boys snickered.

Mary was already icing the birthday cake, still wondering about Mr. Givings. Yes, she would have to find out more about her former teacher and his son. And perhaps this Dr. Eisberg while she was at it. Internet seemed like the logical move.

Shance's birthday afternoon went well, as far as he was concerned. He had gotten some cool things, mostly dealing with virtual reality best experienced on a screen, including the latest Hot-Shot game, "Crunch City", from his father. It was really cool: you could grow muscles and punch people, stab them, shoot them, or even blow them up if you gained enough credits (invalids and old people were worth less credits). You could do all kinds of violent stuff in perfect innocence – and it was very realistic too!

His grandma's baseball bat was something else. It was a lot heavier than what he was used to. And being "real", it implied a lot of things to do, an armada of organization, like getting together enough boys – at least four – to agree to play along outside if the weather was right and a lot of other stuff that Shance found boring. And Shance was into a phase of his development where many things were "boring" to him.

But despite poor Shance's boredom, at supper time, he was told that he must telephone his grandmother to at least say "thank you". Mary waited, arms crossed, next to the phone to ensure that her order was carried out. To her surprise, the short conversation went very smoothly and was soon over. Shance didn't even seem annoyed and stranger yet, her mother had not asked to speak to her. That change, ever since Ida's treatment at Dr. Eisberg's, was – for better or for worse – creepy. She was pulled out of her reverie by her son.

"Boy, that's space-O. She just said "you're welcome" and that's all. Cool!" Feeling that this "good" news merited some sort of reward, he asked: "Can I play a little more on my new "Crunch City" before supper? Pleeeeeese?"

The "please" got a mental gold star and Mary nodded an OK. "Alright, but not for long. Twenty minutes – no more – before supper... but after supper, I'd like you to help me with finding something on the internet."

For once, this was a cool chore and Shance was delighted at the idea of being the teacher instead of the pupil. "Sure, mom," he answered, already heading for his world of couch and screen. Maybe, in the huge arsenal of weapons available in "Crunch City", there was a baseball bat, something like the ones in "Bases Loaded III" but a lot bigger with spikes and blades and other cool stuff sticking out.

It was getting close to 11:30 before Mary noticed the clock. "Wow! 11:30 already! Time for bed. And thanks a lot, birthday boy," she said, giving Shance an affectionate good night peck.

It had taken some time, but Shance was quick with doing things on the computer and, thanks to some speedy detective work on Google and sites like MyFace and the group Memories From Muchtu High, he had managed to eek out some meager bits of information concerning Albert and Josh Givings. There was quite a bit more on Dr. Elvin Eisberg and his unique views and treatments for Love Deficiency Syndrome, including a brief mention of his controversial patented extrusion pump.

As interesting as these bits of internet information had proven, Mary's growing curiosity still remained unsatisfied. Her mother's compulsive, growing need for love, followed by periods of calmer sanity after her shots, was certainly strange. But this time, the metamorphosis was dramatically offsetting.

The only hope of clearing up her concerns seemed to point in one direction. There was little doubt in Mary's mind that there was a connection between Dr. Eisberg's shots and this dried up Mr. Givings who had once been such an exceptionally loving person. Perhaps he even remembered her as one of his students and would be willing to offer an explanation for his presence at Dr. Eisberg's small clinic, confirming her suspicions. Maybe, she could, like on TV, go on a stake-out in Dr. Eisberg's parking lot and follow Mr. Givings home. Not right away; the best time would be some time next week, whenever her mother was due for a shot of Dr. Eisberg's concoction. In any case, she would have to speak to this Mr. Givings. In person - and not in Dr. Eiseberg's waiting room, where she had no business anyway. A difficult task, but the beginnings of something started to emerge.

'Hmmm, those shots...' she wondered. Surely if a shot made you feel good, there must be something wrong with it. Were things like that legal? Probably, she concluded; after all, Dr. Eisberg was a doctor – despite certain colleagues' claims on the internet. So that aspect was settled... legally, as long as Ida Warmsley paid her bill.

Suddenly Mary had an illumination, a divine inspiration – the sort of thing that would look like a lightning bolt or a light bulb in a comic strip.

Mary had come up with a plan! If it worked, there would be no more costly shots; no more mother freaking out, hugging people in parking lots; and no more shrunken up poor Mr. Givings. She would short-circuit Dr. Eisberg's clinic – cut out the middle man!

The plan was based on a simple observation of the men Mary had known. No matter what physical shape they were in, they all thought about sex a lot. (Had Mary been a man, she would have realized that they thought about it even more than she imagined.) If she could get this Mr. Giving's testosterone going, and going in Ida's direction, he and her mother could be having it off in bed once a week. 'That's once a week more than I've been getting these past few months,' she mused. All in all, it was great plan!

The details would work themselves out. But there was one catchy thing: Mary's scheme was like mixing up some nitroglycerine. Bringing together what could be Mr. Givings' incredibly powerful source of love and Ida, a sort of anti-matter love sponge, could produce some kind of cataclysmic reaction. Then again, that was more or less what Dr. Eisberg had been charging a lot of money for doing quite some time now, with the moral approbation of medical science. So... why not?

Mary figured that she'd wait a few days before proposing to drive her mother to the tiny clinic. Ida's need for love would start returning by then and she would wholeheartedly accept the offer.

Four or five days later, Keith N°4 was starting to sweat it out again. The human had begun to call him again and had even attempted a mild clutch. Feeling that pets and head scratches were once again on the menu, Feelix had returned to his favorite spot on Ida's lap in front of the TV. The phone rang; he dug his claws in just a bit – for fun – and leaped off gracefully.

"Hello?"

"Hi, mom. I was just thinking, would you like me to take you to Dr. Eisberg's next time? I'll check out your next appointment with Sharmel to see if I'm free that afternoon."

"Oh, yes. That would be nice," replied Ida. There was a brief silence. "And how is Shance? Is he feeling any better?"

"Oh, he's come out of it now. It was just a minor case of..."

"I've been having a bit trouble with my back since yesterday," cut in Ida. "I was in the kitchen and..."

The bad health report lasted a bit over three minutes; Mary had her eye on the kitchen clock. The whole conversation clocked in at fourteen minutes. Yep, her mother was coming back to "normal" and could soon be way beyond that, once her LDS kicked in. Another few days and her mother would be ripe. But before Ida started getting weird on people, the hairdresser's seemed like a good move. 'She's still pretty good-looking for her age,' thought Mary. 'Next week, I'll bring some make-up along with me.'

Mary dialed Dr. Eisberg's number. An unfamiliar voice answered: "Hello. Doctor Eisberg's office."

"Hello... Sharmel?"

"Sharmeel," corrected the voice. "No, she's sick. It's some kind of nervous breakdown. She was having a bad day and somebody got her name wrong three times in a row; and she just cracked. She does that once in a while... (Well, who wouldn't with a name like that?) She should be back by Thursday or Friday. I'm Rita. Who are you?" Sharmeel's last-minute replacement was obviously not accustomed to dealing with patients but, luckily, she seemed more than willing to disclose personal information.

"I'm Mary Richards, Mrs. Warmsley's daughter. I just called to check on what time her next appointment was."

There was a long pause while Rita fumbled through the agenda. "Three thirty, Monday, the 8th."

"Thank you...And I suppose Mr. Givings, Josh Givings, will be there too?" she tried.

"Oh, you mean Bert? Josh is his weird son; He just drives the car. Nope. Bert won't be in before Thursday, the 11th. Old Bert's been having a pretty rough time lately: we had a minor incident here, Monday, with the extrusion pump and the poor guy got pretty dried out, from what I hear. But don't worry; we've still got enough preparation to see your mother through."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," sighed Mary, already trying to deal with this set-back. She thought she heard Dr. Eisberg's voice in the background and Rita suddenly became more business-like.

"So that's three thirty, Monday, the 8th, Mrs....ummm...Richards. Will that be OK?"

Mary's mind began clicking: 'So it is Albert, the father, her good-natured high school teacher. Great! The age problem was settled: Ida would be hooked up with someone her own age and similar sexual tempo, instead of a 40-ish guy with overly-demanding gonads in full working order... like her asshole husband, who was probably getting it off right now, while she was there on the couch with her fingers unconsciously sliding up her thigh. Mary snapped out of it, getting back into more important matters at hand. And it was imperative that Mr. Givings be there for her mother's appointment.

This change in plans would require some minor adjustments. And perhaps an extra few days would also prove beneficial to Mary's scheme.

She adjusted accordingly. "Uh, wait a minute. No, Monday won't be possible. Would the week after be Ok?"

"Let's see... We have a last-minute opening Tuesday afternoon, the 16th, at 2:45. It's a bit late for your mother's shot, but it should still be OK, if that's alright with you. I think Mr. Givings should be in just an hour before then."

"That will be fine," smiled Mary.

Things were going in the right direction. It was a question of timing. While her mother was still 'presentable', the hairdresser's was next on the schedule. She thumbed through her phone book, zero-ing in on her mom's hairdressers, the Magic Curls Salon.

Mary had had her hair done at Magic Curls twice. After the second time, she realized that her first judgment had been right; and two minor disasters were enough. But Ida seemed to appreciate the salon's specialty: going berserk on older women's hair. Technically, they certainly could come up with a remarkably ornate combination of curls, waves and freaky "highlights": those pink or bluish colors that were even off-limits for punks.

She wondered which of those spaced-out color rinses Mr. Givings would go for. It was more a question of instinct than deduction. Pink. Magic Curls had another name for it, something dreamier that seemed to tickle the older women's libido. But, basically, it was pinkish. Yes, pink was the move. It also favored her mom's complexion better than that electric blue. Matching nails would be nice. Mary would adjust the lipstick later, accordingly.

She picked up the phone and dialed.

Two rings. A voice answered. "Magic Curls Salon."

Mary recognized the voice. It was Betty, the senior hairdresser – and her mom's favorite specialist. Great! "Hello, Betty. I'm Ida Warmsley's daughter and I'd like to make an appointment for her. It's for a pretty special occasion and we'll be going for pink this time."

"You must mean Blushing Rose Garden; it's a big favorite with our seniors."

"Yes, that's the one! We might be getting it done a few days early, maybe a week – it depends. How long do you think it will... ummm hold up?"

"Oh, don't worry about that. We have a special hair spray that makes our coiffures practically indestructible for at least a month. Everything will be just fine," she chuckled. "Let me see... Would 4 o'clock this Wednesday be alright?"

"That'll be fine, thank you."

Mary jotted down a quick schedule. So... if she arrived with her love-hungry mother fully spruced up at around 1 o'clock, Tuesday the 16th, at Dr. Eisberg's parking lot, they could intercept Mr. Givings before he was drained of his excess love.

The following week, things went pretty smoothly for just about everyone except Keith. The poor bird's stamina was starting to wane from dodging the growing number of Ida Warmsley's clutch attempts, and this morning he had barely managed to escape her grip; it had cost him a feather or two.

Shance was spending less time in front of his screens and was actually doing something with real things: a science project that was soon due for school. Mary had no idea of what he was making, and she didn't really understand Shance's vague explanations, but it kept him busy and had left her ample time to take care of the business at hand.

She was now seated comfortably in the front seat of her car on Dr. Eisberg's small parking lot, her cheek gradually recovering from her mother's hello kiss. Ida was sitting next to her, feeling weirdly hungry but looking her absolute best. Arriving early to her appointment hadn't seemed to bother her.

Mary had had no problem keeping her plan to herself. She checked her watch – almost 2 o'clock now. Mary listened and commiserated another ten minutes with Ida's account of her left shoulder before seeing Mr. Givings' limo pull up slowly. A chauffeur emerged. There was little doubt about it: it was Josh Givings, looking surprisingly like his father did in his teaching years at Muchtu High. As Josh was opening the back door for his father, Mary and her mother stepped out of their Ford into the balmy spring air. It was time to move.

Mr. Givings was definitely looking much more rested, and certainly not as dried up. He was smiling quietly, something like a mixture of loving kindness and contentment. But what really captured Mary's thoughts was Josh.

They should be around the same age, but Josh had never attended Muchtu High; and so the two had never met. Yet somehow, Mary had the impression she had always known him. And liked him. No... "like" was not the word, the feeling. Much more than the fact that Mary also found him fairly good-looking, there was something about him that Mary found very attractive. Definitely attractive. And growingly attractive as she and her mother approached the limousine.

Josh looked up for an instant at the approaching women, smiled and nodded a short hello. His eye lingered slightly on Mary. It was enough to instill a mild amount of confusion in Mary's mind, born from a seeming conflict of rationality and emotion. She didn't know this man but she felt as though she were... falling... in love. It didn't make any sense but it felt good – to the point that Mary had almost entirely forgotten her mother, her plan or even why she was standing here in Dr. Eisberg's parking lot.

"Uh... hello. I'm Mary Richards," she heard herself say.

"Hello, Mary. My name's Josh Givings. Can I help you in any way?"

He had a beautiful voice – manly yet musical. Mary was melting. Her legs began to feel rubbery and a strange new metaphysical experience entered her life: she was swooning! Josh caught her before she hit the pavement.

Mary's eyes soon fluttered her back into a more functional consciousness. "Sorry," she sighed.

"Mary! Mary Warmsley. I remember you!" Time and life had not affected Mr. Givings' memory. Leaning next to him was Ida Warmsley with her arm firmly anchored around his neck. He didn't seem to mind. And Mary simply didn't care: Josh was helping her back on her feet.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes. Just fine... just fine."

Josh turned to his father. "I think I'd better stay a while with Mary – just to make sure she's OK."

"Sure, son," replied Mr. Givings, slowly walking away with Ida. Josh brought his attention back to Mary. Neither of them noticed that Ida and Mr. Givings were not heading in the general direction of Dr. Eisberg's waiting room.

Mary and Josh were comfortably seated in the limo's front seat when Sharmeel's energetic knuckle knocked on the window. "Mr. Givings, we're still waiting for your father. Where is he?" she barked.

Mary, bathed in the comfort of Josh's presence, was startled by the intrusion. Something in Sharmeel's tone and attitude suggested... jealousy. And although Sharmeel's natural preferences went toward women, Mary was right: Sharmeel sounded jealous and nervous.

Mary was still unaware of Josh's unique gift – or handicap. It seemed he had been born with a combination of traits that made him much more than simply attractive to women. To most of them, he was irresistible.

And this peculiar "gift", that most men would have loved to possess, had very soon become a source of trouble for Josh and his parents. Little kindergarten girls would wind up fighting over him, while some of the boys felt a sort of envy that sometimes degenerated into hostility.

By the time poor Josh had reached sixth grade, his parents had been forced to put him in a "special" school just for boys in the hopes of keeping him away from the female gender as much as possible. It helped but not always, and the type of male friends that Josh attracted was unsettling to his parents. Years later, it became apparent to them that their son seemed devoid of any sexual drives whatsoever; a feeling that was both comforting and worrisome. As if to balance things out, Josh – who was an exceptionally attractive boy, then man, - was curiously almost devoid of feeling any kind of attraction. For many girls and women, this was felt as a comforting sort of security – just another trait that drew them in.

And so, Mr. and Mrs. Givings were gradually forced to spend more and more time and energy fighting off the throngs of undesired women and girls that had fallen helplessly in love with their son. Even worse, Mrs. Givings also felt the same compulsive attraction. The fact that her husband was a very understanding and exceptionally loving person didn't help. On the contrary, she was plagued with the constant feeling that she was about to explode from an overdose of love coming from all sides. The situation became too much for her to handle, and she finally took the only option for her peace of mind: with tears in her eyes, she left the household and moved to Nebraska. Of course she maintained a frequent and loving contact with her husband and son; but from a safe distance. A year later, the poor woman's plight ended when she was run over by a corn-laden trailer truck.

"Well, where IS he?" re-barked Sharmeel as Mary and Josh stepped out of the limo. Josh shrugged his shoulders in a way that Sharmeel found... very attractive. She had almost forgotten her question already.

Mary was looking around for any signs of her mother in the nearby bushes. Suddenly she spotted a flash of the top of her mother's Blushing Rose Garden hair! This was good news for Mary, but Sharmeel and her bad vibes would have to be dealt with. Mary let her searching gaze drift off to her right.

"There he is! I'm pretty sure I just saw Mr. Givings way over there, near the azaleas," she lied.

"The what?"

Mary pointed in the direction she wanted to send Sharmeel, as far away as possible from her mother and Mr. Givings. "Those things over there; the bushes with the pinkish flowers."

"Oh, right, I see them." Sharmeel dashed off towards the mini-jungle of vegetation.

"I wonder where my father could be," mused Josh.

"He's probably over there... with my mother," indicated Mary. They both slowly sauntered off to where the Blushing Rose Garden had last been spotted, while Sharmeel was getting hopelessly tangled up somewhere in the far-off azalea section of Dr. Eisberg's parking area.

Although Mary had already guessed that her plan was going well, what she discovered still came as a mild shock to her once she and Josh had come close enough to their parents to have a good look at what they were doing in the bushes.

'Oh my God: they're doing it!' thought Mary. And they were – or at least they were trying their best despite their age and lack of practice. And that Magic Curls special hair-spray was holding up amazingly well in the shrubbery. "It looks like they're occupied for the moment," offered Mary, wondering what Josh would think.

"Yes, it does. Perhaps we should leave them alone," smiled Josh.

"Oh hello, dear. Is that you?" A few seconds later, Ida Warmsley emerged from the bushes, looking reasonably composed as she took out a small pocket mirror and a Kleenex from her purse. ('Damn, she's fast!' thought Mary.) "I've just had a lovely time with Mr. Givings. We'll be sailing around Trinidad and Tobago next week on Bert's ship."

After a minute or two, Bert Givings appeared. Apparently he had experienced a bit more difficulty with his clothing. In any case, his short-lived escapade with Ida had proven just as efficient, and much more pleasant, than Dr. Eisberg's extrusion pump. Both he and Ida seemed miraculously balanced out. "Would you two like to come down with us for a few days?" he smiled. "It's been a while since I've been down there, and it's the perfect season for sailing and just about everything else."

"Oh yes; that would be wonderful!" half-shouted Mary, her eyes riveted on Josh. A small cloud floated into her sky of dreams. "But there's my son, Shance... I can't just leave him alone, even if that's what he usually wants." She turned to her mother: "And then there's Keith and Feelix."

No longer desperately in need of love, her mother answered: "I'm sure Feelix will be alright for a few days. And a full refrigerator and some stupid video games should hold down Shance for a while. Canaries are a bit trickier, but maybe..."

"We could bring your canary along with us," suggested Bert.

"Yes. And maybe it's time for Keith to be set free back on Tobago... or Trinidad," suggested Josh. Somehow it seemed to be a wonderful idea, even to Ida.

Five days later, Ida, Bert, Mary and Josh were dreamily sailing off the coast of a nearby Tobagan fishing village, sipping highly-colored mixed drinks from coconuts and eating grilled sardines. Love was everywhere except in their needs. And no one felt any particular desire to head back home, so Mary and Ida made a few calls.

Shance's father had come around to pick him up, temporarily reclaiming his rights as a father. Shance was delighted, playing with all his new video games, and in no particular mood to change the situation. Feelix had run off and found himself a new home with the next door neighbors, (they even had a slow-flying parakeet!), and Keith had spread his wings in Trinidad, enjoying tasty worms and insects, far away from Feelix and Ida.

*****

The small precinct was bustling a bit more than usual when a tall man walked up to the main desk. "I'd like to see Agent Smith, if that's possible."

Detective Reilly and Detctive Adams looked up from their coffee cups in surprise. It was the first time in fifteen years that anyone had ever asked for Agent Smith. Reilly walked up to the policeman at the main desk. "I'll take it, Joe."

"Thank you," said the tall man, following Detective Reilly to his desk. "I'm looking for Agent Smith."

"Agent Smith is... busy for the moment. He might be somewhere around but I haven't seen him this morning. What do you want with him? Is it important?"

"No, it's not that important Just tell him that Jerry stopped by. I just bought a new car... well, it's not really new. It's..."

"A second hand car, you say? That's very interesting." Detective Reilly and his colleague glanced at each other, trying their best to contain a a smile. "I'm sure Agent Smith will want to get in touch with you. I'll give him the message."

"Yes, he has my number. Thank you very much," answered Jerry, already heading for the exit.

"Wow," laughed Reilly. "Looks like a busy day in store for Agent Smith."

*****

\- A FLEETING MOMENT -

One night John died in his sleep. After what seemed like a few hours floating around, looking down upon his inert body, his previous lives started all coming back to him. He had heard about reincarnation but had never had the chance to see what it was all about.

"Hmm, this looks interesting," he thought to himself, (or one of himselves), sitting behind his cobbler's bench in 1827. The smell of hide glue heating up in the small tin pot came back to his nostrils. His back was tired, his calloused hands were stiff from pushing the awl and a dozen pairs of stinky shoes were waiting to be mended. He'd been practicing his trade for over thirty years; thirty years of much the same thing. All in all, there really wasn't much else to say about John the cobbler.

Then he saw himself as John the cowboy, somewhere in Oklahoma, huddling close to a fire while keeping watch on a small herd of cattle. After a few weeks of uninterrupted monotony, he decided to move on to another life; maybe something a little more exciting. At least he hoped so.

Here he now was, crouching in a trench near Reims, a WW1 private first class. Far away, there was an explosion. Then another. Then it stopped for a while. Then it started up again, much closer this time. Then he got blown up and that was it for John the soldier.

Many other lives passed before him: oarsman on a Viking ship, cotton picker in Mississippi, accountant in London, stone cutter in Antwerp. Yes, It was interesting in a certain way; all these different lives. But nothing of any consequence, nothing noteworthy ever seemed to happen in them. Like a lot of other people, John had never been a brilliant statesman, a famous scientist, a king, a pope or anything like that.

It's hard to say how long, how many hours or decades, these visits to John's former lives lasted. After all, time was meaningless in his present state. But eventually the time came around for his new reincarnation. Somehow, deep within himself, John could feel his rebirth coming, stronger and stronger.

"Hmmm. Wow! This is exciting!" he thought. "A new life! I wonder what I'll be next."

As it turned out, reincarnation was more of a haphazard thing than what certain religions predicted. And this time - at last - John's new life was exceptional. Unique! Through some metaphysical quirk of fate, he was reincarnated into HIMSELF! He saw himself gradually descending back into his sleeping body: same body, same bed, same bedroom, same everything!

By the time his alarm clock went off at 7:30, he had forgotten all his past lives. He yawned, got up, and, as he put two slices of bread in his toaster, he wondered what the new day would bring.

*****

Everyone was gathered around the coffee machine as Captain Wright stepped up with the announcement. "I think it will come as no surprise to you that, once again, Agent Smith has received the Edna Merckle Merit Award for the greatest number of reports filed this year." The boys all gave a short clap as Agent Smith proudly received another small unframed diploma.

"Well, Agent Smith," continued Wright, "this makes 12 years in a row. It might look good on your c.v. if you ever thought of moving somewhere else."

"Oh no, Captain. I'm fine here, thank you," replied Agent Smith. And that was the end of his acceptance speech.

*****

\- THE MAN WHO LIKED EVERYTHING -

The digital electro-puke sound of Walter Mellen's alarm clock went off at 8:30 AM as it did every Saturday morning. It was an annoying way to start the day but today was somehow different: Walter liked it. Still not entirely out of a pleasant but now-forgotten dream, he swiveled into his slippers. They felt nice; he liked them too.

As he shuffled into his kitchen, he looked around. He liked it. Yesterday's dishes in the sink looked sort of nice... well, not exactly "nice" but he liked them, the way the small, balanced pile looked. He also like his linoleum floor, (in fact, he even discovered that he liked linoleum), and he liked the small dark spot in the corner where something indelible had spilled a long time ago.

He put some coffee on and slid two pieces of sliced bread into his toaster. He liked the smell of the coffee and the toasting bread. Already he had liked the sliced bread before even slipping it into his toaster. He liked his toaster. He liked his scant breakfast and his breakfast table. He liked going back into his bathroom, getting ready for a new day, taking his time, liking his slow Saturday routine. He liked the taste of his toothpaste, his mirror, the sink and the color of his shower curtain. He liked slowly getting dressed - the way his socks felt, his pants, his shoes and his shirt. Hung on a nail, was a baseball cap, with something clever written on it, that he had received as a gift and had rarely worn. But this morning, he decided to wear it - he liked it.

Walter's phone rang. He liked the sound. It was a wrong number - someone wanting to speak to Margaret. "Nope, no Margaret here." But he liked the name.

The list of everything that Walter liked is very long. Without fully realizing it, there wasn't anything that Walter had NOT liked ever since he had awakened. A quick peek out of his window informed him that it was drizzling outside. Walter liked that and he was soon outside ambling down the sidewalk, in no particular direction, in the drizzle, looking into the different shop windows and liking everything about it.

Not far down the street he spotted Joe, busy behind his hotdog stand, hunched under his striped square umbrella, trying his best to stay out of the drizzle. Walter wasn't 100% sure that Joe was his real name, but his umbrella proudly advertised, over a bright red hot dog, "Joe's Hot Dogs - the best in town". The vendor's real name was Adolphe, but he didn't mind being called Joe - it was better for business.

Walter joined the other two customers patiently huddled while Joe scooped a heap of his special bright green relish onto his nearly-completed hot dogs. The first man was a young, promising nuclear scientist. The other man was a retired history teacher. Joe looked up with a damp business-like smile: "Hey, Walt. How's it goin' in this miserable drizzle?"

"Hi, Joe. Well, I like it."

"What? C'mon. Who likes drizzle?! It's cold, it's damp and it's bad for business."

"No, Joe. I like it - really."

The young nuclear scientist hardly reacted - he had seen many other strange things in his lab. But the retired history teacher's head jerked up in disbelief. There were only a few things that nobody liked, one of which was drizzle. His long professional experience teaching at Bergen Tech had made him wary. He decided to try a trick question. "What about history? Do you like history?" It was a sure way of testing someone's sanity. A hard, frustrating life of trying to teach dumb, undisciplined teen-agers about the Monroe Treaty or the Battle of Hastings had established one thing: NOBODY like history!

"Oh yes, I like history," answered Walter.

The reply got a silent, raised eyebrow from the nuclear scientist and an emphatic negative head-shake from the retired history teacher whose trick question had failed for the first time in his life. Jaw slightly dropped, Joe handed a relished dog to the nuclear scientist. He was handing back the man's change when the retired history teacher, just to be sure he wasn't losing his mind, asked him: "What about you, Joe? Do you like history? I mean when you were in school - did you like it?"

"What're you crazy? I hated it! Couldn't wait 'til the bell rang. Sure, we had some fun driving the teacher nuts but..."

Joe's reassuring views on history were interrupted by an ear-splitting noise coming from across the street. A city employee had been summoned to do some emergency work on a dangerously broken up part of the sidewalk and he was giving his jackhammer a short warm-up run before tackling the job. It could have waited until Monday, especially in this drizzle, but the menacing crevasse was situated right in front of a councilman's niece's apartment, which classified the job as mildly urgent and worthy of overtime Saturday rates. The jackhammer stopped; the workman was now chalking a 3 by 1 foot rectangle before having a quick cigarette.

"Oh great! Just what I needed - some jerk making a racket. It's bad for business. At least we can agree on that?" he tried, shooting a quick glance at the retired history teacher.

Walter shrugged his shoulders.

"C'mon, Walt. Don't tell me you like all this noise too?"

"I don't mind," answered Walter. "I kinda like it"

This was becoming a bit too much for the retired history teacher's worn-out nerves. He hastily grabbed his relished hot dog, paid up and sped off. Joe was also becoming nervous. This had to be cleared up once and for all. He knew that Walter never took relish; knowing your customers was part of the job. He forked a steaming dog into a roll and asked: "Relish?"

"Yeah, fine, Joe."

Joe furiously heaped on a triple dose of relish. It was more than a standard hot dog could handle and some of it was overflowing onto the sidewalk but he didn't care. "There ya go, Walt. One dog. With extra relish." Grabbing Walter's bill he stood poised, waiting for the reaction.

Walter took a bite. "Hmm. Tastes great, Joe. Very nice."

Joe felt like shouting something but he was lost for words. Fortunately, or not, the jackhammer started up again, making any eventual comment inaudible. Joe just forced a half-smile and slowly nodded his head. It was one of those head-nods heavily laden with condescending sarcasm and Walter was a good half block away before it stopped. It was time to cross the street and tell that noisy jackhammer guy to stop his racket - or else.

Walter soon arrived at the local pet shop where, despite the drizzle, a small crowd had gathered around a half-dozen protesters carrying cardboard signs and chanting...chants. Not being musicians, their coordination was a bit sloppy so it was hard to get the exact meaning of the chants. But their attention seemed to be focused on the shop's main window where a medium sized brown turtle with slightly browner stripes was munching a piece of lettuce amongst the various rocks, sticks and plastic decorum of a large aquarium.

Walter moved in for a closer look at the turtle before hearing a voice behind him. "So, what do you think of THIS? A Nicaraguan Brown-Striper!"

"Oh, yes. It's very nice; I like it."

"What?! How can you stand such a sad sight? The Nicaraguan Brown-Striper is practically extinct and this unscrupulous merchant is selling off what could be one of the last ones - for a few hundred dollars!" The man was obviously an expert on the subject. After all, he was wearing a T-shirt bearing a hand-drawn turtle that looked pretty much like the one in the shop's window. Of course, there was also a slogan on the T-shirt: 'Save the Brown-Stripers'.

Another protester stepped in. He had taken the precaution of covering his sign with a transparent plastic bag to protect it from the rain. The sign said: 'Save the Nicaraguan Brown-Stripers'. Walter looked like a reasonable man, albeit ill-informed despite the signs and chants.

"Tell me, sir, aren't you appalled at the sight of this? Just look at the expression on that poor Brown-Striper's face."

Walter took a closer look in the shop's window before answering. "I like it." Someone in the crowd snickered, which only made things worse.

Two more protesters stopped chanting and started approaching but the shopkeeper boldly stepped out into the drizzle and poked a stiff index finger into the T-shirt, right above the Nicaraguan Brown Striper's left eye. "Listen, you guys; you're bothering my customers and I just called the cops. So you better get outta here quick before they arrive."

A nearby police car soon pulled up with flashing lights but without the siren. The rookie driver's senior partner, Sgt. O'Oley, didn't like the siren. So close to retirement, his nerves were pretty worn out and he felt he was entitled to as much silence as possible. He didn't like noise. "Oh, great! Protesters," he muttered, scowling through the drizzle. The small crowd parted as the two men in blue stepped up to the shopkeeper who was now nose to nose with the T-shirt man. Hand on club, Sgt. O'Oley gave the standard summation: "Alright, break it up... And you guys stop that chanting - it sounds like shit. What's goin' on here?"

The shopkeeper spoke up: "These here... people are bothering my customers, officer. I'm an honest, hard-working..."

"He poked me, officer!" interrupted the T-shirt man. "I'm filing charges for... for poking!" The rookie had already started taking notes while his senior partner's professional eye quickly swept the entourage, mentally sorting the crowd into by-standers, protesters and customers. No cameras; that was good. Walter was placed in the customer category and seemed like the best way to verify the shopkeeper's complaint.

"Are you a customer?" he asked Walter.

"Hmmm, I don't know. I was just looking at this turtle. So I don't know if..."

"You see, officer? He's looking. That counts as a customer, don't it?" interrupted the shopkeeper.

"That's a Nicaraguan Brown Striper!" shouted the protester with the plastic-covered sign. "They're on the list of endangered species. And, no; looking doesn't count as a customer... does it?"

Sgt. O'Oley let out a brief sigh of annoyance. He would much rather have preferred riding around inside his patrol car, eating donuts and planning his retirement than having to deal with these idiots. He wasn't very sure whether interested lookers could be considered customers or not; and he didn't really care. He turned to his colleague: "OK, you get this guy's story and check out his list and everything."

He turned back to Walter. "So you say you were looking at this here turtle in the window... Then what happened? Did any of these protesters bother you? What about that chanting racket? Doesn't that bother you? How do you feel about this?"

"No. No bother, sir... In fact, I like it."

Sgt. O'Oley usually appreciated things being simple. But this simple answer was not a standard answer. In fact, the situation was becoming increasingly annoying. "Whaddya mean, you like it?" he growled.

"Yeah, whaddya mean, you like it?" echoed the shopkeeper.

"Yeah, whaddya mean?" paraphrased the T-shirt man, beginning to suspect that someone had sent Walter in to infiltrate the protest and stir up trouble.

The news quickly spread to the back ranks of the by-standers: the customer liked it! A growing hubbub set in and the general tension moved up a notch. The rookie was already trying to calm everybody down and considering calling in some back-up on this one. But he was only a rookie, so he figured he'd better wait for Sgt. O'Oley's opinion before making the decision.

"I'm askin' the questions here," shouted Sgt. O'Oley to no one in particular. "So whaddya mean, you like it? What's there to like about this?"

Walter went over the long list of things that he liked before answering. "Well, I like the turtle; it's sort of peaceful. And I like the shopkeeper... and the protesters and the chants too. And I like the sound of jackhammers... and relish... and... "

"What???" Sgt. O'Oley's eyes narrowed. Walter's status immediately changed from 'customer' to 'wise guy' - a trouble maker. Yep, he was the head of the group, the instigator, the brains behind this outfit. "And how would you like to take a trip down to the station; how does that sound?"

"I don't know, sir. I've never been taken to a police station," replied Walter in all sincerity. "... but I like the idea." Before he could continue his list of what he liked, he found himself forcibly handcuffed and sitting in the back of the patrol car. Four of the protesters had already melted into the crowd, not particularly wanting to join him, and the Nicaraguan Brown Striper was soon left to fend for himself.

Two hours later, Walter was still handcuffed to a bench in the police station while a handful of variously attired policemen were discussing his case. They were still undecided as to what to do with him. And while there was nothing intrinsically wrong with liking things - at least nothing in the books he could be charged with - they all agreed that Walter was getting on their nerves.

Just then Dr. Gardocki, the visiting psychiatrist, came walking down the hall, on her way to getting some fresh pens. The men all gave each other a silent nod.

Detective Ramos spoke up for the group: "Hey, Dock, we got someone here for you - right up your alley."

"I'm sort of busy right now," she replied evasively.

Lt. Beems leaned over his desk toward her. He had known Dr. Gardocki for quite some time now and was aware of her peculiar fixation with pens. He was nonchalantly toying with a small fistful of brand new Bics. The psychiatrist's eyes immediately riveted onto the bright yellow cylinders. "I hope you weren't going for pens, Dock. I just got the last ones this morning. Yeah, anyway, we don't know what to do with that guy over there on the bench. He seems to like everything; it's really annoying. We could sure use your professional opinion if you have a minute. How about it?"

"Hmmm, the last ones, you say?"

"Yeah, the last ones," smiled Lt. Beems. "But I'll gladly let you have a few ... in case you needed to take notes about this guy. His name's Walter Mellen."

Dr. Gardocki fought her fixation as best she could but she finally gave in. "All right, then," she mumbled, slowly reaching for the pens. "I think I can spare a few minutes."

Walter was led to Dock's small office and handcuffed to a Naugahyde chair facing a large, neat desk. He waited patiently while Dr. Gardocki carefully examined each of her new pens before placing them in a large cylindrical can that already contained hundreds of similar pens. While he was waiting, he gazed around at the walls entirely covered with very strange paintings and drawings done by many of Dock's previous patients.

With a hint of pleasure, Dock discretely noted Walter's interest in her prized collection of works. A few had even been selected to show in Psychiatrists' Weekly as prime examples of HDA: heavily disturbed art. There was also a small print of a Kincaid winter scene that served as a reference model of sanity. She took out a notepad and, after much thought, selected a pen.

"So, Walter, you like everything... is that right?"

"I don't know," answered Walter truthfully.

"Hmmm," thought Dock, "this is off to a bad start." She jotted down a few notes and continued: "Well, for example, how do you like being handcuffed in my office?"

"Yes, I like it."

The man was certainly odd but Dr. Gardocki was used to odd people. And Walter was not the first case that enjoyed being handcuffed in a psychiatrist's office, or elsewhere. She tried a few other questions that got nowhere: Walter seemed to like everything. It was time to delve a bit deeper into his psyche and her collection of disturbed art had always been a foolproof test.

She decided to start out with the Kincaid. Getting up from her chair, she pointed to the winter scene. "How do you like this painting, Walter?... Well, it's not really a painting; it's a print... from a box of chocolates... The original was too expensive, she added.

Walter studied the painting, the blue footprints in the snow, the soft yellow light coming from inside a snow-covered log cabin, the gentle curl of smoke coming out of the chimney. "I like it. I like prints"

She jotted down Walter's reaction as "normal" and then indicated a dense, circular black scribble. "And this one?"

"Yes, I like it."

"Does it convey anything to you - any particular feeling?"

"Mmmm, no. I just like it."

It was time to move on to some more difficult stuff. "How about this one, Walter?" She was pointing to a black crayoned stick figure in which a large red knife was planted, dripping bright red drops of blood. It was a classic.

Walter obliged with a closer look before answering. "I like it."

Dock was beginning to feel a hint of annoyance and jotted down a few nervous notes before continuing. There were still quite a few offsetting works that never failed to provoke uneasiness. But after an aggravating hour, it appeared that Walter's reactions were always the same, regardless of whatever pathos-laden scribbles, blotches, crumples, rips, slashes, etc. she showed him. The man was really starting to get on her nerves: no one, disturbed or not, could possibly like more than three or four of these prized horrors. It was... frustrating... insulting. She was angrily scribbling down some key words when it happened. Her pen skipped. A desperate, circular, fruitless attempt to get it going again only tore through the paper, resulting in something that looked like it could have been pinned on her wall.

She slapped the notepad down on her desk, threw the disobedient, ungrateful pen across the room and screamed: "Get out of here, you idiot!"

Sgt. Ramos who had been stationed outside the door - just in case - rushed in, ready to grab Walter. But Walter was calmly sitting, still handcuffed to the Naugahyde chair.

"Umm, are you alright, Dock?"

"Of course I'm alright; I'm a psychiatrist," she shouted, tears in her eyes.

"Well... should we lock 'em up? Or what? Can we hold him for anything?"

"Uhhh... No, you can't. Nothing! Just get this man out of my sight - right now! "

Ramos shrugged and quickly escorted Walter out of the office and past the group of men who were hanging around, waiting for Dock's opinion. A mumbled consensus was rapidly reached: the man had taken up enough of their time and extra paperwork was out of the question. Good riddance!

Outside, the drizzle had stopped. It was now pouring rain. Judging from the sour expressions on the by-passer's faces, Walter was the only one who seemed to like it until he came to a man standing on the corner, forcing a smile from under a small plastic umbrella. The man was selling umbrellas. He had a keen sense of business and immediately spotted a potential customer.

"Some downpour, eh? And it looks like it's not about to stop."

"I like it," replied Walter.

The salesman was not easily put off. "Wouldn't you feel dryer, cozier under one of these? They're very cheap, they come in five different colors and you can fold them up easily." He gave a quick demonstration that went along with the pitch.

"I suppose I would. Yes, I like them."

"They're only ten dollars - three for twenty-five. Would you like one?"

"Yes, I think I'd like that."

"What color, sir? We have, red, orange, brown, blue or green." The man noticed a hint of happy hesitation that might not last long. "How about brown? They go with everything - never out of style." He was already opening and closing one of his slow sellers. "Works perfectly. A very popular model - I only have a few left," he lied.

"I like it. Yes, I'll have one," answered Walter, handing the man a ten.

The deal was done and the salesman seemed quite happy about finally unloading one of his brown models. He did, however, feel mildly perplexed seeing Walter walk off with the umbrella under his arm. "Aren't you going to open it?" he yelled.

"I don't know... Yes, I suppose I will, sooner or later."

The man had been selling umbrellas on the street for nearly four years now, ever since he had lost his job making spare keys. This was the first time that he had seen someone walk off in a downpour with one his umbrellas unopened. This was more than suspicious, especially for someone without a permit for selling umbrellas on the street. The rain had become drizzle again and it was time to move to new corner. Joes' hot dog wagon seemed like a good spot: not too far away and he was feeling hungry.

The pet shop crowd, disappointed by the lack of action, had relocated there also. The T-shirt man, now hunched under an imitation Greenpeace parka, had tagged along too; he had done his best but the rain had gotten the best of his team. When the umbrella salesman arrived, the crowd had rathered around Joe and the jackhammer man who were fighting, rolling on the ground, and trying their best to throw in a punch.

So, fight or no fight, it looked like a good spot for business. He figured it was good for at least three, maybe four, umbrellas. In fact, he had only set up five minutes and had already sold six! Things were looking good - until a police car screeched in and Sgt. O'Oley jumped out, shouting: "Alright, break it up."

Joe and the jackhammer man were pretty puffed out and easily separated, finally happy to find an excuse to stop rolling around on the wet pavement without losing face. A lot of the crowd were feeling a little better, no longer under a downpour but nice and cozy under their new umbrellas (no brown ones). Sgt. O'Oley was also feeling pretty proud of how he had broken up the fight; his rookie partner was impressed. The umbrella salesman had discretely packed up his stuff \- not a bad day for business, all in all. And a long string of customers were now lined up waiting for a much-needed hot dog.

Exercising his prerogative, Sgt. O'Oley cut to the front of the line for further questioning. "I'll have two dogs with extra relish, Joe." he began. "But first, what's going on here? What was this all about? "

"I dunno, Sarge. Nerves, I guess. It's been a pretty weird day."

"Yeah, you can say that again." Mumbles and silent nods from the crowd bore out his statement. "So I guess you two guys are calmed down now?"

Joe and the jackhammer man eyed each other up, exchanged a short manly nod and reluctantly shook hands. The jackhammer man decided to pack it in for a day and Joe was soon busily at it, forking out steaming hot dogs left and right.

Sgt. O'Oley had just stepped into his patrol car with his relished dogs when the crowd suddenly started grumbling. Something was up. "Oh, great!" he muttered. "Now what!?" He quickly handed the rookie a hot dog and took a quick, large bite of his, spilling a bright green wad of Joe's special relish on the seat before getting out again. Nope, there was no fight; what the hell could... Oh, no; not him again! There he was, right across the street, standing under a brown plastic umbrella: the man who liked everything! He turned to the rookie. "Better call in for some back up."

Walter had finally decided to try out his new purchase and was quite pleased with it. Waiting his turn for another hot dog - with relish - he was gradually absorbed into a growing group of people that seemed increasingly hostile although none of them could say why. It was simply contagious. The fight had been broken up, but the T-shirt man had come up with something new to do now that the turtle demonstration was over.

Sgt. O'Oley marched back across the street, stopping traffic and losing relish all the way. Before he could reach the curb, he was met with a familiar and pretty worked-up citizen: the T-shirt man. He was pointing to Joe, hard at work underneath his red awning. "Officer! That man shouldn't be selling this poison. Do you know the real ingredients that go into those hot dogs? Forty seven - forty seven! different ingredients!"

Sgt. O'Oley took advantage of this interesting information by taking another generous bite before responding. Thoughtful chewing, and a growing dislike for this man, gave him the time to think about it. "So what?" he barked.

"Three of those ingredients are on a comprehensive list of toxic substances, published by the..."

"Are you saying that Joe here makes his hot dogs out of turtles?" This got a good laugh from the crowd and the rookie jotted it down for the guys at the station.

The T-shirt man, wound up like a spring in April, and fearing embarrassment, boldly justified himself and shouted: "No, I'm not saying that..."

"OK, then take that up with my partner over there. He'll file it along with your charges for... poking." He called to his partner: "The charge was 'poking' wasn't it?" The rookie checked his notes before nodding: affirmative. Some of the crowd were laughing now and making snide remarks. It was all too much, too insulting, for the T-shirt man who huffed off, looking on his way for any good cardboard he could eventually use for a new sign.

Sgt. O'Oley stepped into the small group in Walter's vicinity. "So what's the problem here?" he bellowed. This was more than enough to get the group shuffling away in different directions, especially since no one could answer that question. Some tried to renegotiate their former places in the line, without much success.

Sgt. O'Oley eyed up Walter, happily standing in line. "And I s'pose that you like this?" He immediately brandished the stiff index finger of authority and ordered: "Don't answer that! Not a word! Just get your hot dog - with relish - and get out of here. You're just too annoying!"

A back up patrol car pulled up but Sgt. O'Oley told them that, finally, he had managed to handle the situation and now that everything was calmed down, he too would be cruising around for more insanity to deal with - at least for another few more months. Then, after that, he would be on his small fishing boat on the lake with a cold six-pack of... This was enough to get the extra patrol car back in motion: they had just finished eating and had already heard Sgt. O'Oley's retirement plans hundreds of times.

Sgt. O'Oley walked back to Joe, sort of explaining that, with all this commotion, he had spilled a lot of Joe's delicious relish and could he... Before he could finish, Joe had obligingly spooned a bright green mountain of his specialty onto the half-eaten hot dog. It was good business.

"Excuse me, officer; can I ask you something?"

Sgt. O'Oley sighed heavily and turned around. "Depends. What now?"

"When you were in school, did you like history?" The retired history teacher had just returned from his analyst, still seriously perturbed and needing reassurance. He had been asking a lot of people this question all afternoon and mentally keeping score. So far, he had 874 no's, including his analyst, and 6 disturbing yeses. Unbeknown to him, three of the yeses were history teachers. A man of authority's opinion seemed of great importance right now. It could be a determining factor in his outlook on life, his firm convictions. He felt like Napoleon at the foot of Mount St. Jean on June 18, 1815. Could he have been wrong all this time? He waited nervously, fingers crossed.

"No. Of course not," growled Sgt. O'Oley. "I hated it!" He pointed to Walter and added:"Why don't you ask him?" before speeding off to the shelter of his patrol car with the firm intention of calling in sick for the rest of the day.

The retired history teacher sighed with relief. It was like being a British foot soldier on September 19, 1854, the day before the Battle of Alma. There was still hope for humanity. He carefully avoided Walter and decided to ask just two more people: If he got two more no's, that would make an even 877 as in 877, first sighting of Greenland by the Viking Gunnbjorn. He decided to play it safe and, despite his natural aversion, went over to a couple of teen-agers who were busy thumbing their phones while waiting their turn in line.

"Excuse me; do you like history?"

They looked up briefly with an annoyed, mild look of disbelief and went back to their occupations with silent but resounding headshakes - definite no's. That was that! The retired history teacher thanked them wholeheartedly and happily whisked off down the street whistling an old sailors' tune much in vogue among the Portuguese naval forces in the early 1700's.

Standing in the line, behind Walter, was a junior newspaper reporter, eyes and ears wide open. He had heard from various people (he called them sources), including from his uncle at the police station, about this man who liked everything. He figured it would make a good story, especially since, as a college sophomore, he had learned that days of drizzle were usually slow news days. It was time to check his info.

"Some drizzle, eh?" he began, his small Dictaphone discretely turned on.

"Yes, ever since this morning, except for that downpour," replied Walter.

"How do you feel about?"

"I like it."

That checked. So far, so good. "Hey, what about that nut - that guy asking everyone if they liked history?"

"I liked him. I like history."

Yep; no doubt about it. But just in case, the junior newspaper reporter tried a short list of other things that people generally disliked. But he didn't get the type of answers he was expecting. Walter seemed to like only things related to his direct experience, like alarm clocks, drizzle, turtles on the brink of extinction, getting dragged into a police station, etc. And couldn't really say whether he liked war, cancer, or things like that. He had no particular views on controversial subjects that could have an impact, a shock factor, for potential readers. Finally, maybe this interview was not such a hot idea and this guy was not that interesting after all \- just an annoying waste of time. Somewhere between disappointment and frustration, the junior newspaper reporter turned off his Dictaphone.

"Hey, Walt. Another dog... with relish?" Business had picked up for Joe. "I see you got a new umbrella. And brown; great color!"

"Yes, Joe. It certainly is."

There was no need for Joe to delve any further into what Walter might dislike, even if short, casual conversation was part of good business. A few quick gestures born from seventeen years of whisking out hot dogs and Walter was on his way home with extra relish.

He went up his front steps and closed his umbrella... no, it seemed to be stuck in the open position. He forced it a little and only managed to break some small plastic mechanism. Now it could close, or open, but it refused to remain either opened or closed. He had hardly opened his door before noticing a strange scent coming from the kitchen. It smelled like something was burning. Something was. The source was soon located: it was coming from his toaster. It was slightly glowing with heat, some of the plastic parts had started to melt and the bread crumbs in the little crumb tray had reached incandescence, giving off bread smoke. It was probably a faulty thermo-switch but there were no qualified toaster repairmen around to verify this. Toaster repairmen were becoming increasingly scarce.

Walter rushed over, unplugged the toaster and grabbed it. Ouch! That thing was hot! He dropped the toaster onto the floor and headed directly to the sink, bumping his thigh into the corner of his kitchen table. Knocking over his pile of dishes, he turned on the faucet all the way. A heavy stream of cold water hit a plate and sprayed across the room drenching Walter and the linoleum. Fortunately, this cooled down the toaster and the linoleum that had started getting weirdly lumpy, but Walter didn't notice this: he was too busy trying to cool his burnt hand off.

The phone rang, then it beckoned and finally commanded response/action as phones so easily do. Hand still wet, Walter darted off to answer. "Hello?"

"Hello. Is Margaret there? Is that you, Jim?"

"Sorry, there's no Margaret here. And no Jim either. My name's Walter. Didn't you call..."

"Oh, c'mon, Jim," interrupted the voice, "I'd recognize your voice anywhere. Quit joking around with your phony imitations. Is Margaret there?"

Walter's hand was still painful, as was his thigh; his toaster was shot; the linoleum had gone scorched and lumpy; his drizzle and rain-soaked jacket was now generously watering his rug while some woman on the phone was refusing to believe that there was no Margaret there... and \- Good Grief! - the wide-open faucet was still tenaciously spraying his kitchen floor.

Walter's simple, basic philosophy and usually uneventful life were not accustomed to dealing with event overloads.

All of a sudden, there were simply too many things for Walter to like at once. In fact, there was something definitely unpleasant about it. Dr. Gardocki might have concluded that Walter was re-becoming "sane".

Walter raised his voice a notch: "There's no Margaret here!" He hung up and dashed for the faucet. Faucet off - good. That's was two things off the list: in fact, two things that he did not and had not liked. At all. There were still quite a few immediate and unpleasant chores that Walter could have done without; like mopping up his linoleum, seeing if anything could be done to improve the melted spot, bandaging up his hand, trying to dry out his rug, getting a new toaster... and many more.

So that's what he did the rest of the week-end. Some things he liked, some less. Some not at all. He even had a hot dog on Sunday at Joe's. Without relish.

*****

At 4:17 PM Agent Smith walked into the precinct with two men.

"What's up, Smith?" asked Captain Wright, not used to seeing Agent Smith bringing anyone in.

"This is Mr. Rodwell, Captain. He's a nuclear physicist. And this is Dr. Rosenberg. He's been teaching anthropology for nearly thirty years."

"... Oh," replied Wright, unable to comment any further and suspecting not the worst but the least.

"They both had some free time on their hands," clarified Smith.

Things weren't any clearer to Wright. "And?..."

"Well, they're both very intelligent. I figured they know a lot of things, so I brought them in for questioning. They don't mind."

Captain Wright's phone rang. He shrugged his shoulders and let out a brief sigh as he headed for his office. "Hmmm, good idea Smith. Carry on."

****

The word was out. Joe Barnes had escaped from prison. Captain Wright was quickly distributing printed-out portraits to all the boys while giving his recommendations: "He's got family around here, so he might be coming through town sooner or later. Keep your eyes peeled. He's almost seventy now and in pretty bad shape: but don't forget: he's armed and dangerous and he probably doesn't feel like going back to prison. So proceed with caution and don't hesitate to call for back-up if you spot him."

Captain Wright handed Agent Smith a print-out and sighed: "Here ya go, Smith; just in case Barnes should walk in here, here's what he looks like. No need to write a report, though, unless you actually see him."

"Got it, Captain," answered Smith, studying the portrait and then adding: "I see that this here mug shot is over ten years old."

"Yes. Well I suppose that once they're locked up, they don't get their picture taken every week," frowned Wright.

"How about if I added a few wrinkles here and there – just to get a more convincing and accurate version of what Joe Barnes might look like now?"

"Uhh, alright... Good idea, Smith. Go for it," nodded Wright.

****

A HORRID LITTLE GIRL

Young Gretchen was just finishing her treacle when she heard the crash. Judging from the long screech, then the resounding bang outside, it was a good one; perhaps with blood-spattered victims squashed in mangled steel wreckage or sprawled across the street. At least she hoped so as she quickly licked her thin, pale lips.

Her little brother, Sean, was off to school, her father was at work and her mother wouldn't be back for another hour. Except for Toby, the aged family dog, the house was empty. "What luck!" she smiled, jumping out of her wheelchair and racing upstairs for a bird's-eye view of the show.

Cautiously, she parted the curtains before venturing a peek; she couldn't risk being seen upstairs by any stupid neighbors who might be on the scene. It would be hard to explain to her parents how she got up there. For, apart from Toby, no one knew that she was perfectly capable of walking around. And it was a good thing for Toby that he couldn't speak.

It was a pretty good accident, judging by what she could see; not as spectacular as the one she and her family had suffered a few years back, but it was still a great show with plenty of broken glass, a fuming radiator, a growing puddle of gasoline, (she hoped it was not water), and someone's arm hanging limply from the side window of the small delivery van. The other car, an older Buick was sitting crab-wise across the road, its hood sighing out a small cloud of steam. It seemed disappointingly not too damaged except for its crinkled front end.

A man was slowly getting out of the Buick. "Darn!" sighed Gretchen, shifting her attention back to the van: nothing new there – the arm was still motionless. Dopey neighbors were now gathering, exchanging comments, and the distant sound of a siren signalled the imminent arrival of help, either a police car or an ambulance. She was hoping for a patrol car, less equipped to deal with such emergencies, but she would have to wait; and that was fun too.

"Yay!" she silently cheered as a patrol car pulled up: it would still be a while before the ambulance or firemen arrived, and the patrolmen were not taking any reckless initiatives with the van's unconscious driver. For the moment they were talking to the Buick's driver who was sitting on the curb, still in partial shock, and were asking around if anyone had witnessed the accident.

A few minutes later, the firemen arrived, spread some sort of stuff on the gas puddle, cautiously extricated the unconscious driver from the van and carried him away on a stretcher. Within half an hour the road was fairly well cleaned up and ready for new traffic. Gretchen's mother would soon be back, probably stopping to get the news from the neighbors who were still outside. It was time to zip back into her wheelchair. "Not a bad morning," she mused, giving old Toby a passing kick as she skipped down the stairs.

Margaret Doffmeyer, arms laden with groceries, managed her way into the house, slammed the door shut with her foot and put on her cheerful voice: "I'm home, Gretch. Boy, Janet Wimbley just told me there was some sort of accident outside. Did you hear anything?" She had hardly finished asking the question before silently reprimanding herself: how thoughtless could she be, asking about a car accident? The crash that had paralysed her poor daughter was surely indelibly engraved in her little mind.

It was.

"Yes, I did," answered Gretchen with a perfect dose of feebleness. She had had just enough time to spill the milk on the kitchen floor before her mother's arrival. "It startled me and I'm afraid I spilled the milk," she explained.

It was a pretty good puddle despite Toby's efforts to lap up as much as he could. Margaret held in a sigh. "Oh don't worry, dear; it's nothing," she consoled, cautiously circumventing the whitish liquid and putting down her grocery bags. True, it wasn't much but it wasn't "nothing" ascertained Gretchen, smiling in her mind, as her mother grabbed the mop.

"Is it today we're going to the doctor's?" Gretchen loved these monthly visits to Dr. Jacob's clinic: they were always a good occasion to polish her acting skills and the looks of disappointment on her parents' faces were priceless.

"Yes, it is," sighed Margaret, wringing out the mop. "Ummm... I'm afraid daddy won't be able to come with us today. He's got a lot of work to catch up on and..."

"But mommy! He promised!" cried out Gretchen, the tears welling up in her eyes – a little trick she had practised for a great many hours while she was alone watching TV. And since her parents felt responsible for what they thought was her present condition, it always paid off.

"You know daddy has to work hard to..." (Margaret stopped herself, not wanting to bring up the costly visits at the specialist's that were taking an increasing toll on the family budget) "...Well, OK; I'll call him up and see if he can come."

"Oh, goody!" smiled Gretchen. "I've been practising hard. I think I can wiggle my toes a little... sometimes."

"Oh! That's great, honey." Margaret forced a half-smile as she put away the mop. "Daddy will be so happy to hear that. I'll call him right now. Oh, by the way, I met Mary's mother at the grocery store. She said that Mary will be coming over to see you next Tuesday."

Mary was Gretchen's only friend; or at least she thought she was. She was an exceptionally kind and loving girl who had been brought up with the charitable principle of caring for the more unfortunate. Gretchen despised her, but it was always fun scheduling Mary's visits on rainy and/or cold days and watching her shiver in her wet clothes as they talked. Gretchen would have to check the weather forecasts to see if Tuesday was suitable or not.

Harald Doffmeyer, (his office friends called him "Doff"), arrived half an hour later, looking worn and nervous. His recurring absences from work were tolerated due to his problems at home. However, his boss did little to hide his annoyance at being forced to pay someone for catching up on what he hadn't done. And Doff's costly visits at Dr. Jacob's seemed to do nothing to help his daughter's condition, or even to reduce his feelings of guilt that left him little respite.

Gretchen smiled to her father. It was a small but genuine smile. She was focusing on her dad's right eye: the twitch was coming back. It was time to work a bit on that. She focused more attentively on the twitch, knowing that her father was fairly self-conscious about it whenever it came upon him. 'Hmmm,' noticed Gretchen, 'an extra twitch – it's picking up slowly.'

"Daddy! Did mommy tell you... about my toes?... How I can wiggle them... a little... sometimes?"

Doff did his best at a smile. "Yes, she did, honey. That's great news," he grinned, teeth clenched as his twitch picked up pace.

"Look – I'll try now," she announced enthusiastically. Her parents were quickly both down on hands and knees on the still-damp kitchen floor, rooting for their daughter's toes. Gretchen pulled her "making an effort" look out of her large bag of facial expressions. She was also particularly good at remaining motionless: the toes didn't move and she let out a long sigh of disappointment as her parents were getting up off their knees. Doff started looking around for a kitchen towel to wipe his pants with; it failed to fill the silence.

Then a surprising piece of progress happened, much to Gretchen's joy: Doff's left eye let out a twitch, almost perfectly synchronized with his right. A fixed stare could improve on that but the timing wasn't right. Her mother's back was turned, often a sign that she was beginning to cry; but that was no big deal. The situation, however, did call for an extra pinch of poison. "Oh, well," she muttered, almost hiding her disappointment. "Maybe it will come back later... this week."

"What a brave little girl," complimented Doff. "That's the spirit!" blink, blink, blink. "Well, it's almost time to leave for Dr. Jacob's. I'll just run upstairs and put on a fresh pair of pants."

Gretchen could have asked, in a slightly anxious tone, who would be driving – a strong move – but she didn't want to overuse the question. It was always a winner but best kept for moments when things were getting slow. And today, things were going well: already bad enough to silently celebrate. She decided to give it a rest before working on her father's nervous blinks later on during her visit with Dr. Jacobs.

Doff was soon back downstairs, slightly more composed, and Margaret was putting on her coat. He slowly wheeled his daughter out to the front porch, then gently lifted her as his wife got the wheelchair down the three front steps, ready for reception. It was always more fun for Gretchen when Margaret had to manage the maneuver by herself but still, seeing her dad's present condition was worth the sacrifice. There would always be plenty more opportunities for increasing Margaret's tenacious backaches.

Dr. Jacob's waiting room was full as usual. Doff blankly thumbed through one of the women's magazines, wondering why waiting room magazines seemed always exclusively designed for women readers. Then again, he didn't read much anyway. He looked up from a breath-taking account of how a famous actress had lost 18 pounds in three weeks, and smiled weakly at Gretchen. "It shouldn't be much longer now, honey."

Gretchen noticed Dr. Jacob's secretary approaching. "I have to go to the bathroom, Daddy," she half-whimpered, her voiced tinted with a touch of urgency. Of course she knew that this was Margaret's job but those blinks needed upkeep.

"Sure, sweetie." blink blink blink. "Mommy will take you there right away."

The secretary walked up to Margaret. "Dr. Jacobs will see you now, Mrs. Doffmeyer."

"Yes. Just a second, Sally. Gretchen has to go to the bathroom," she explained apologetically. "We'll be right there." She quickly wheeled her daughter down the narrow hall and into the small bathroom before going through the various maneuvers, trying not to wince too visibly as her lower back sent out sharp little pains.

Gretchen did her best to keep everyone waiting but all good things eventually come to an end and, ten minutes later, the Doffmeyers were wheeling their daughter back through the waiting room to Dr. Jacob's office, under the annoyed stares of his impatient patients. The specialist went through the preliminary gestures and questions that went along with, for lack of anything better, selling hope to people he couldn't help.

Margaret finally spoke up: "Gretchen told me that she managed to wiggle her toes a little bit... when was that, honey?"

"Ummm, the other day... just a little, I think."

"Well, that's great news, Gretchen," beamed Jacobs. "Could you try that now?"

Gretchen went through her immobile toes routine, savoring the adults' reactions.

Dr. Jacobs cleared his throat. "Don't worry, Mr. and Mrs. Doffmeyer. It's still good news. These things take time. I'll schedule a few more tests for, let's say...2 or 3 weeks at my clinic. I'll have Sally set up an appointment."

Doff was slowly writing out the check under Gretchen's keen eye. There was a short muted discussion between him and Sally – probably about waiting a bit before cashing the check. In any case the nervous blinking was finding its stride; and hopefully, it would become a permanent feature, a new, twisted source of entertainment for her daddy's little "honey".

The Doffmeyers rode back home in silence, wondering how they would pay for another set of costly tests and if they would be of any real help. The kitchen floor had dried and Gretchen was rolled into the living room, just in time for one of the TV shows she liked to watch, mostly because her mother would have preferred to watch something else.

Sean was soon back from school and was happily greeted by Toby. The boy and the dog made a playful and loving pair and Toby always seemed to awaken from his lethargic old age whenever Sean was around. Gretchen found their camaraderie annoying. She hadn't come up with any definite solutions for Toby yet but she was fairly certain that it wouldn't be long before the problem was resolved. And thinking up new schemes was her favorite pastime. She darted a quick glance at Toby's wagging tail and thought: 'Go ahead; wag that stupid tail while you still can.'

The next few days went by slowly. The week-end was finally over with. Gretchen despised the week-ends, where her entire nitwit family went about their business or felt the need to gather in the living room or kitchen. Sometimes their friends would come over for a quick visit \- visits that had become quicker and sparser with the help of Gretchen's remarkable talent.

No visitors this week-end. No opportunities to make the family's friends uncomfortable. But it hadn't been a total loss. Gretchen had pulled off another very convincing fake nightmare, waking the whole family up an hour before dawn on Sunday. And since then, Doff's blinks were heading for posterity.

Mary would be coming by to visit Gretchen on Wednesday. Gretchen had checked out the weather reports: Tuesday wasn't sure, but Wednesday's forecast was definitely heavy rain. She started toying with an idea: perhaps she could ask Mary to wheel her around the block. Struggling with wheelchair and an umbrella at the same time could make for some good entertainment. And once they were back in, she could always fall on Mary's umbrella, leaving the poor girl drenched for at least two hours – or more if Gretchen could stretch out their conversations. Plus another twenty minutes walking home with a broken umbrella. Yep, it was a good scheme, transforming Mary into a walking sponge. 'Spongewoman Goes Straight to Heaven!' chuckled Gretchen.

Monday and Tuesday had also been devoted to coming up with a little something for her brother. There was no reason why Sean shouldn't become part of her game. But he was harder to deal with because of his absence of guilt for his sister's condition. Even Sean's occasional dumb friends who stopped by didn't seem to be particularly shaken by Gretchen's handicap, lost as they were in Nintendo-land. And so, Sean was hard to get a grip on.

But he surely did love Toby. And Gretchen didn't love either of them. 'That's it!' she finally exclaimed late Tuesday night. She would have enough time and privacy Wednesday morning to chew up her brother's X-Box, wires and video games – something hard to forgive or forget, and perhaps even harder to take for an innocent dog. Gretchen slept soundly that night.

The next two weeks had gone according to plan: Mary was now in the hospital recovering from a mild case of pneumonia, Toby had spent a good week in the dog house after being held responsible for chewing up Sean's equipment, Margaret's backaches were getting worse and Doff was blinking away a mile a minute.

Although the developments were certainly entertaining, it was time to move on: Sean and Toby were starting to renew their solid friendship, especially since Doff had offered to replace Sean's X-box with a newer version. This would take a bit more work.

'Hmm,' thought Gretchen while at home by herself, 'It's time to do something bigger, better about Toby.' There was one thing that could clinch it. If Toby suddenly started biting, especially a poor handicapped girl, his days would be numbered! Her mother was out shopping again and wouldn't be back for another hour. Gretchen raced upstairs into Sean's room where old Toby liked to sleep.

There he was, lost in his dog dreams. She silently edged up to his bed and grabbed him sternly by the neck. She forced the dog's mouth up to her leg, shouting: "Bite me, bite me, you stupid dog!"

Surprised as he was, it simply wasn't in Toby's nature. The damn dog refused to bite, even with his nose firmly squashed against Gretchen's calf. He finally managed to squirm out of her grasp and headed for the stairs, quickly followed by the screaming, horrid little girl.

"Come back, you stupid dog!" she bellowed, closely behind him. Toby had made it to the top of the stairs as fast as his arthritic legs could carry him.

"Oh no you don't!," shouted Gretchen in all her fury. One way or the other, this was going to be it for Toby, and she let fly with a powerful kick at the dog's rear end.

It was close, but she missed. Off balance, Gretchen toppled down the stairs heavily.

There was a crunch; a sort of muffled, deep and disgusting crunch in her spine as she approached the ground floor, two feet away from her wheel chair. There wasn't much pain, for Gretchen had lost consciousness. When she finally awakened, 45 minutes later, she was still alone. Toby had gone off to hide somewhere and her mother still wasn't back from shopping yet.

'I'll get you next time, Toby!' she screamed, making for the comfort of her wheel chair... nothing. She couldn't get up! Her arms were OK, but her legs refused to move. Toby had sensed a dilemma and was squeaking compassion from a safe distance. Her mother's car was soon pulling into the driveway. Not good.

Upon seeing her daughter lying on the floor once again, Margaret dropped her groceries. "Oh dear, poor sweetheart," she exclaimed. "What happened?! Let me help you up."

"I can't move my legs!" shouted Gretchen, unable to offer an explanation. "I'm paralysed!"

"Yes. I know, dear," sighed Margaret, holding back a tear but trying to remain positive. "I got you your favorite cupcakes at the market."

*****

Agent Smith was working on another graph when Captain Wright walked up to his desk. Judging from Captain Wright's expression, it looked pretty unimportant.

"We have some news for you, Smith. Do you remember that vacant lot case, a few months ago, Third Street and Main?"

"Yes, very clearly, Captain. That was a tough one – not many leads," recalled Agent Smith.

"Well, the word's out that someone has been parking there lately. That's all we have for the moment, but it seems like something you should check out."

"Right, Captain. I'll get right on it," answered Smith, already getting up from his chair.

He meticulously thumbed through a large, greenish file cabinet behind him. "I should still have a copy of my report somewhere; the one with all the plate numbers on it – just in case one might correspond with any parked car there. That could always be useful if..."

Agent Smith turned around, stopped and looked up. Captain Wright was already heading back to his office. Well, he could always find his report later; so he donned his overcoat, grabbed a notebook and was off on his case.

Once behind his venetian blinds, Captain Wright carefully watered the geranium plant on his window sill, before crossing "Smith" and "geranium" off his list of things to do.

*****

After his two-day stake-out, it seemed clear to Agent Smith that Captain Wright's tip was correct: yes, people had started parking regularly in the once-vacant lot. But none of the licence plate numbers matched the ones on Smith's list. So on his third day out, he started nonchalantly asking around, and his discrete investigation finally paid off.

Captain Wright was having a cup of coffee by the machine and discussing another matter with Detective Reilly and a couple of his other men when Agent Smith walked in, holding his notebook.

"Smith – you're in early," observed Wright.

"What's new at the lot?" asked Detective Reilly.

"You were right, Captain; people are starting to park there regularly. But I think I've cleared that question up now. The lot belongs to the new dry-cleaning place that opened up recently. I have it here: it's called Happy Harry's Cleaners. I verified – the owner's name is Harry, although I couldn't be sure whether he was happy or not.

"Anyway, one of the cars, a black Chevrolet SUV belongs to Harry, the boss, and another one, a blue Buick, belongs to one of his employees.

"Sounds like you've been pretty busy, Agent," commented Detective Adams with a half-smile.

"That's not all," added Smith. "While I was staked-out, fourteen different cars parked there. I have the plate numbers. Twelve turned out to be customers and..."

"Good job, Smith," complimented Captain Wright, gazing blankly at his coffee. "Don't forget to get that all down in your report."

"Don't worry, sir, I won't," assured Agent Smith.

*****

WRONG ADDRESS

"That does it! I'm outta here," shouted Randolph, nodding his head emphatically. "I can't take it anymore: I feel like a total stranger in my own house!"

Wanda just stood there, not knowing what to say or do. Finally she mustered up her courage. "But this **isn't** your house. What are you doing here, mister?"

"See what I mean?" argued Randolph. "Even Spot ignores me," he added, indicating the ginger cat sleeping on the arm chair near the radiator.

"Her name is Biffy," corrected the woman. "And if you don't..."

She stopped, cut short by the arrival of her husband, Kent, who had been waxing his surfboard in the garage. Kent shot a quick glance at the stranger and turned to his wife: "What's up?"

"This man claims this house is his. And now he says he's leaving!"

"That's right, mister. And I'm not coming back. **Ever!** " announced Randolph.

"Oh no you don't, there, buddy," ordered Kent, picking up his cell phone and barring the front door. "I'm callin' the cops. So don't move."

Randolph stood still, intimidated by Kent's powerful orange frame from which dangled an epoxy shark's tooth. And the osprey tatooed on Kent's sinewy shoulder indicated a man to be reckoned with. A young boy entered, curious to see what was happening. He looked to be about ten but was actually eight.

"Billy! What are you doing here?" asked Randolph.

"His name's Keyth, mister. And stay away from him!" yelled Kent, grabbing Keyth by the arm. "You know this guy?" he asked his son.

"Nope. Who is he?"

"This man says that this is his house," explained his mother, "and he says that he's leaving and never coming back. The nerve of 'em." The door bell rang. In fact, it was a chime but, due to the circumstances, it sounded like a ring. It was the cops; Kent opened the door.

The senior officer briefly examined the entrance before asking: "What seems to be the problem here?"

Kent spoke up: "This man says that this is his house and he's leaving – for good."

The senior officer turned to Randolph: "Is that right, sir?"

"Yes, that's right, officer. And this man here won't let me leave."

"OK, then. Let's see some ID," he ordered, hand on taser. Slowly he examined Randolph's credentials. "Hmm," he muttered, "the address checks out." He then considered the orange-chested, barefoot man in beachcombers standing before him. "So, you're a surfer, then? We don't get to see that many surfers in Nebraska. How about showing us some ID, buddy?"

After a rapid examination, he called over his partner, a rookie named Windsor. "Call home and have them do a 39-821 on a certain Kent Waters."

Nine minutes later, the results came back and an extra squad car pulled up, packed with sixteen special agents wearing bulletproof vests, followed by a portly, important-looking lieutenant with a bad tie.

"OK, Waters," he announced. "Looks like you and your family are in the wrong house: you should be in Oxnard, California. I'm afraid you'll all have to leave, sir."

"But **he's** the one who wants to leave – not us," tried Wanda.

"She's got a point there," observed Windsor. Two of the special agents came through the back door. "We just bashed in the garage door, Lieutenant. No firearms or drugs, but there was a freshly-waxed surf board and a few Jan and Dean records in a cardboard box."

The important-looking lieutenant turned to Kent with a dubious eye. "Well, Waters – what do you have to say to that? You're gonna have to come with us."

Kent, Wanda and Keyth stared blankly at each other, wondering where they had gone wrong. Biffy just continued to half-sleep, purring with folded paws, dreaming of California.

*****

Agent Smith was stepping out of Happy Harry's Cleaners with three newly-pressed shirts when he heard the distant sounds of police sirens. Although still far away, they were getting closer.

Suddenly a car screeched into the lot. An old man jumped out, shouting and waving a gun in the air. Agent Smith recognized him immediately; it was Joe Barnes, the escaped killer, no more than twenty feet away and running towards him, his few straggly teeth clenched, and sweating profusely.

But before Agent Smith could reach for his weapon, or even take cover, the old man staggered, stopped and then dropped – dead at his feet! Heart attack.

Detectives Reilly and Adams quickly veered into the lot, followed by two other police cars, sirens blaring and lights flashing. All jumped out, ready for action; but it soon became clear that Agent Smith had closed the case and was already comparing his up-dated, wrinkled portrait with the real-life (so to speak) version of Joe Barnes – no doubt a detail that should figure in his report.

"Ummm...Good job, Agent," complimented a puzzled Reilly. Looks like ya got 'em."

"Yes, it does," replied Agent Smith, taking out a fresh pencil.

###

