Red Wine and Blurred Visions. A true short story

Red Wine And Blurred Visions
by
Shane Grey

When I was a kid my mother used to do an extra turn around the block if there was a song she liked on the radio. If we were pulling down the street of our house, the radio blared some pop song she loved, the car would pass right by our house. I always watched the house pass and wonder what she was doing. The first few times she ever did it, I told her she missed our house. I had to tap her on the arm because she was in a trance. The music seemed to enfold her. Years later when I was playing guitar in bands and constantly blasting music in head phones and ear buds, I never once thought that maybe my love for music stemmed from those times in the car with the cars stereo cassette player. Today I do that. I will do a couple cruises around the corner to finish up a song, or sometimes even play a few extra songs I love to drive with and I'll cruise the city streets. Today though, as I write this, it was a warm Summer day. I drove one city over to run some errands and the a few songs came on that got me thinking emotionally. Then while my forearms burned from holding too many items in the checkout line at Wal-Mart. Something happened. I saw a girl two checkout lanes over. She looked like HER. Not my mother. But HER. The one that I had forgotten about, not really, but the one I tried to convince myself I needed to forget. You see I am crazy, so I think. My mental disorder is love sick. Love ill, the idea of being in love makes me want to vomit. But other days, deep in my soul, I want it. I want to hold hands. I want kiss under willow trees. I want to take  walks on a cool beach night. When I want those things, I want them with only one person. So because I don't want to hurt a hundred billion other girls feelings, I will not name that person here. Now, some who have read my previous writing may think they know who I mean. They would be incorrect. No matter. I saw this girl in checkout lane at Wal-Mart. My heart skipped a beat and got a rush of adrenaline. It was not HER, but it looked like her. Same lips, eyebrows, nose, hair, glasses, body type, skin tone. But the actual eyes, different, darker. Not like the melted chocolate eyes of HER. Seeing this imposter along with all the songs on my iPod, it caused a mental overload of thoughts. All the thoughts about her. I knew that tonight I was going to need red wine. Beer does not hold the power to mask these kinds of thoughts. Those of you reading may wonder who this person is? If not, and you're just reading, well thank you for doing such, but I feel the next paragraph is important. SHE was not my girlfriend. SHE never kissed me. SHE never held my hand. SHE did however not agree to go on a date with me. SHE never spent the night. SHE never walked on the beach with me. So because of that, most of my thoughts consist of 'why?' or 'why should I care?'. I have even been told by others to let it go and get over it. This was sage advice but far easier said than done. Why as humans must we pine over what we cannot have? I know I am not the first but to ever feel this way, but I feel I am the last. No one will ever feel this way ever again. Then I try to focus on HER flaws. The things that SHE loves that I would not like or that I don't agree with. It does not work. The dark sky the only solace in my insanity. Night time. So comforting. The red wine a soft kiss and blanket of safety. Seeing the imposter at the retail store offered some comfort. Perhaps there was someone out there that could be HER enough and can also love me and maybe that imposter won't have the flaws. I can turn the imposter, the fake, the impersonator into HER. It maybe wrong, but maybe that is the only way to be with HER. Turn the imposter to the REAL THING. Or maybe I have reached a new level of insane. All I know is that no other will do. I have tried and it will not work. No wonder how attracted I am to any other female. There is no urge to kiss them, hold them, walk with them even on a sidewalk let alone a beach. The dreams, oh, the dreams. When SHE makes a cameo in my dreams, it is torture. At the time of dreaming if anyone saw me, they would see a smile. That is what they call it I believe. Smile. I awoke the other night because my mouth in that position. There was a dream, it was of myself on a university campus... A university campus large and gothic looking in structures. A beautiful cloudy grey day. I walked along a courtyard. Basking in the presence of grand structures, making me feel inferior, I smiled at the beauty of such a campus. There was an archway, a dark hall to the other side. I walked through and smelled the damp smell of wet grass and wetness, the actual smell of cold. On the other side of the tunnel leading out of the archway, was HER. SHE was with friends, I smiled. Then I made eye contact with her. Like in reality, SHE didn't look up immediately, it took a minute or two, just like in reality. Only in the dream, SHE didn't acknowledge me. In reality SHE knows of me. But still in the dream I smiled, just be on such a beautiful campus, the same campus as HER. ...I awoke with that smile, which immediately vanished, I did not attend a university ever in my life. I was confused, then I lay back down, and I remembered HER. And I just wanted to be back there. The wine is my favorite mask to cover up thoughts about HER. The blurred vision caused by the wine reminds that reality can blurred. Therefore if I cannot quit HER then I will have to find an imposter. Until then, I hope this piece of writing will help get some closure and maybe I can trying to weave her into every fictional story I write. There was already a whole website dedicated to her, unofficially of course. HER. HER chocolate brown eyes. HER auburn chestnut hair. HER milk skin. HER precious lips. HER flawlessness in all my red wine and blurred vision. Goodnight, My Sweet.

Failure by Design

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The Rules Of Cheating Part 2

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The Rules Of Cheating Part 2

The Apple store, dark. Closed. Apparently the store closed early on Sunday, at 7pm to be exact. Out of vodka and juice. I needed more booze and maybe a twenty-four hour Apple store. I wanted to play Tetris so bad I could taste it.

I wanted to let my fingers do the walking on an iPhone.

Life sucked.

I got into the car and started the engine. My pre-paid phone rang. I answered it. Darren's voice on the other end worried me.

“Dude, I need help. Meet me in the hills, please. I need help with it.” Darren said, then hung up.

I had nothing much to really do. I did however need more liquor. The warmth of the buzz was wearing thin. It didn't really matter anyway. Nothing did. Ever, anywhere, at any time that ever existed.

The hills were just that. The hills towered over the Inland Empire. The giant white letters that were build into the side of the hill, those letters, they spelled out: Choose Life.

Republicans were insane but Liberals were retarded, there was no real way to win.

I drove the small path, the path that ended behind the obnoxious sign. Parked next to Darren. The black sky appeared gray, reflection of the stark city lights. The cool Spring air lingered. No one came to the hills. A year ago some Satanic cult slaughtered cats up there. That kept even the Cholos and Blacks at bay.

Darren leaned against his car, smoking a cigarette. His head lights illuminated the beginning of a hole, some lone shovel appeared strewn to the side.

“I couldn't even dig my own fucking hole. I feel like Pesci in Goodfellas.” He said.

“You gonna bury the hillbilly?”

“You gonna help?”

“I guess.”

“You get an iPhone?”

“Store closed.” I said.

“That's fucking gay.”

“I know.”

“You got coke?” He asked. It was sort of rhetorical, Darren knew I had coke.

I chopped four lines on a Violent Femmes CD case. We each did two lines with a rolled up Chinese restaurant pamphlet. Then we had the power to dig a seven foot deep hole. Then the hillbilly thudded into his final resting place.

“Should we say something?” I said.

Silence a beat.

Darren whipped out his dick, started pissing on the hillbilly corpse. I laughed, then joined him. I hated being on coke, but when in Rome and when the Percocet and Vicodin and Xanax runs out, you must resort to whatever you have in your blazer pocket. I needed a downer quick or I would start to “coke freak” it was something I had done in the past.

At the liquor store. I bought three bottles of cheap vodka. Darren only drank beer when he was on coke. He had a six pack of Pinky’s Pilsner under his arm. I picked out three bottles of pineapple juice. The store smelled like sour milk and cheap cigars.

In the parking lot, we drank.

“I need more downers.” I said.

“I know a guy in Fontana.”

“I'll follow you.”

On the freeway, traffic was non-existent. All the neon electric signs I passed were hyper-realistic. I felt like a mouse stumbled into a Las Vegas casino. The colors and noise. I realized that the stereo was turned to its limit. The Ramones screamed out of my speakers.

“I don't like Burger King, I don't like anything...” Joey Ramone sang.

I exited at Sierra, following Darren north bound. I drove past Fast food places, mini marts, bars, pizza places, bums, cops, more and more neon lights. Eventually everything got nicer and not as bright and then I realized we were not in Kansas anymore.

Darren parked along a curb. I parked behind. The street, residential. Track homes that all looked the same. A Beamer here, a Porsche there, Range Rovers a plenty. I finished the first cup of vodka and juice. The buzz throbbed, mild euphoria blanketed my soul. I wanted to be even more down.

I got out of the car. Darren met me at my door. He had buttoned up his coat, a tire iron in his right hand.

“Pit stop. After this, my connections place, it's further south. He always has good Percocet and Vicodin.” He said, his face dark.

“O.K.” I didn't care about Darren's personal drama. I had nothing to do anyway. I followed along. Drunkenness shadowed reason.

Behind the track home, there was a pool. The pool illuminated the backyard with underwater lighting. I plopped into a pool side tanning chair and lit a cigarette and Darren smashed a window with the tire iron. He crawled through the gap in the window. I sipped vodka and pineapple from the juice bottle.

“Hey. Come here.” Darren's head stuck out of the hole in the window. I stood up and walked over to the hole and looked at Darren. He smiled like a demon. “This is the place. Come on inside.”

Inside the house had nice furnishing. Latest gadgets and TV mounted to the wall, surround sound, Blu-Ray. The carpet smelled fresh. Darren searched through drawers. I looked at pictures on a fire place mantle. The girl in the pictures I recognized immediately.

You know that moment in life when everything doesn't make sense? Stars and science and violence and politics and shit. Even the technology behind the very iPhone I had been wanting. Sometimes though there are moments when everything makes sense. This was one of those moments.

The girl in the picture was clearly porn star Hilary Hennessy. Except instead of a dick in her mouth or butt plug up her ass or semen on her face, she wore clothes and regular clothes that. No hot pink bikini, thong back panties, black thigh high stockings, nor ridiculously large heels. Just jeans and t-shirts with family and friends and even little siblings.

“Why did you break into Hilary Hennessy's house?” I asked Darren.

“Go through everything, try to find an address book or file cabinet.”

“O.K.”

“Her name isn't really Hilary Hennessy.”

“She just looks like her? I'm positive that's her.”

“Oh no, it's porn star Hilary Hennessy alright. But her real name is Blanche Matthews. She was raised a hardcore Mormon in Utah, but she rebelled and moved to Hollywood to pursue acting. One thing lead to another and POOF. She became Hilary Hennessy.”

“O.K. Why are we in her house?”

“You are in her house because you followed me in here upon my request. I am in her Summer house, by the way, because the one-hundred and forty-fourth rule of cheating is never get caught off guard by the person you are cheating with.”

“O.K. So you and Hilary are fucking?”

“On the contrary, quite the opposite, we were fucking. She stopped fucking me, then came the restraining order and blah blah blah.”

“Who is she with?”

“No one, she's single.”

“So no one is cheating.”

“Wrong. I'm the one cheating.”

“Huh?” I said. This was confusing because I had known Darren for years. Granted I had never seen where he lived or met any of his family nor did we speak of such topics.

“This is what I believe is called a next level move in a friendship.” He stopped looking through things for a second, he looked at me. “I'm married.”

“Hmm.” Was my reply.

“I'm also in love with Blanche Mathews aka Hilary Hennessy and I need to find the address to her home in Hollywood.”

“You want to drive out to Hollywood just to tell Hilary Hennessy that you are in love with her?”

“No, I'm going to drive to Hollywood to kill Hilary Hennessy aka Blanche Mathews so that she doesn't run her mouth off to my wife. The fifty first rule of cheating is to tie up any loose ends.”

As I helped Darren rummage through Hilary's private property I realized a few things. There was an Apple store in Hollywood, Darren actually had a wife, and I wasn't sure, but Darren may have been making up the rules of cheating as he went along.

To Be Continued...?

(New Short Story)The Rules Of Cheating

A new short story free for all the readers here!!!!
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The Rules of Cheating

by

Shane Grey

I wanted to play Tetris.

For some reason I wanted to do that since I woke up. Even after I puked my guts out and realized that last night limits were tested. In the mirror the reflection didn't recognize me. I didn't recognize the reflection either.

I wanted to buy an iPhone.

I had had a Blackberry. Then I an Android. I still had the Android, but now it seemed obsolete. Everything eventually sucked or got old or died. Really there was no point in even having a phone. Shannon couldn't talk during the day anyway, even if she did call me. The only person that called me was Darren. The clock said 4:25pm. Darren would be waiting for me.

“Dude, lemme get this straight, you could be fucking Shannon, you could have your dick deep in her pink tissue, but you're not?” Darren said.

“I can't fuck her because I'm sitting here with you.” The hangover that rested in the front of my skull, it radiated toward the back. A reminder to not mix red wine and vodka and vicodin. “Besides, she's married.” I said, adjusting my sunglasses. They helped from the light, but not much.

An 80's moment when Darren spit out his Coke. All the people in the diner looked at us. A little kid laughed.

“WHAT THE FUCK DUDE?” Darren said. The silverware dropped off my napkin as I picked it up, using it to dry my sunglasses and face of Darren's saliva swimming cola.

“What the fuck what?” I said. Put the sunglasses back on, then took another bite of sour licorice. My hangover food consisted of candy(fruity or sour or both), water, and beer.

“Shannon? The oh-my-god-I-think-I'm-in-love-with-her-Shannon? The Shannon is married?”

“Yeah. She is.” I said, indifferent.

“But you could fuck her?”

“Yeah. I mean, why not?”

“Why not? What do you know about seducing a married woman?” Darren said. He wasn't making a statement, he was setting up one of his epic lectures.

“I can charm women, Darren. Didn't mean for that to rhyme.”

“So you're worried she won't cheat on her husband with the likes of you?”

“Wife.” I said.

“Huh?”

“She's married to a woman. Shannon is married to a woman, I think her name is Kelly.”

“You're fucking crazy. The seventh rule of cheating is never do it(cheat)with a dyke.”

“That word is incredibly offensive.” I pause a beat, remembering it's just Darren. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked, put the licorice down, sat up a bit.

“The rules of cheating. You know?” Darren said, oblivious to my own ignorance.

“I have no fucking clue, that is why I ask.”

“There are a lot of rules, man. But I follow the basic ten.”

“Great. I can feel one of your speeches coming on. I want to hear it. But first, follow me to Walgreen's so I can get a six pack of Big Flats.” I said.

Big Flats lager had to be my favorite beer at the time. But I never was one to judge beers or choose favorites. If it gets you drunk and has bubbles, it was my favorite.

“I'll meet you there. I gotta stop and say hey to Debbie.” Darren said.

Debbie had big tits and a small waist and lots of straw blonde hair. Darren worked on getting her to give him a blow job. He'd heard previously that she was really good at it. Debbie also had a boyfriend. He was some loser hillbilly bouncer at some shit kicker line dancing dive bar. It never seemed to bother Darren that maybe if hillbilly found out he might come looking to kill him.

I strolled the cooler of Walgreen's until I came across the six packs of Big Flats. I grabbed two and headed to the cashier. At the register I bought a pack of Camel Lights, a green Bic lighter, breath mints. The girl at the register rang me up. She smiled and I figured if I told her my car was a Porsche, she would fuck me. But I drove an old Toyota.

Behind Walgreen's I sat on some plastic milk crate and cracked a beer. At some point later Darren showed up, smiling.

“What's up?” He said. He took a seat on a red milk crate and took one of the beers.

“Are you fucking glowing?” I asked.

“Yeah. She did it, man.”

“Who did what?”

“Debbie. She sucked me up, even let me titty fuck her.”

“Good times. How did you pull that off?”

“I followed the basic ten rules of cheating.”

“Alright, let me hear these rules.” I said.

Darren stood up, chugged his beer, tossed the can aside. Then he burped loud. Then he said:

Rule #10

Get a pimp phone(aka burner phone). This is a no contract phone available anywhere.

Rule #9

Never do it with the same girl more than twice. That includes oral, hand jobs, anal, genital fondling.

Rule #8

Never do it at your place of living or business.

Rule #7

Never do it with Lesbians or bi-sexual chicks. Same rule applies if you're gay(never with straights or breeders).

Rule #6

Be safe. Condoms, etc.

Rule #5

Keep your personal affairs personal. Don't share your place of business or living or even favorite song.

Rule #4

Use a fake name or alias. I.e., Todd or Kyle(if your name isn't either of those already).

Rule #3

Enjoy yourself.

Rule #2

If you get caught see rule number one. In the event you do get caught, deny it and take it to the grave.

Rule #1

Don't get caught.

The list would be better read bottom to top.

Darren grabbed another beer. I sighed, my headache slowly faded, but it still lingered.

“What else did you get?” He asked

“Smokes, Tylenol, a lighter.”

“Can I get a smoke?” I gave him one and lit it up. “You took Tylenol after a night of drinking?”

“Yeah.” I said.

“I figured you would understand not to do that.”

“Why? Cause of the whole possible liver damage?”

“Yeah.”

“That's an old wives tale.” I said.

I still wanted to play Tetris. I still wanted an iPhone, a white one. I wanted to play Tetris on my new iPhone. I was about to ask Darren where the Apple store was, but this loud roaring echoed the alley.

A large chopper motorcycle with an even larger hillbilly on it.

The bike stopped in front of us. Turned off. The hillbilly put it on the kickstand and stepped off. He took of his sunglasses. I left mine on. So did Darren, but he stood up from the crate.

“Which one of you fuckers is Dweasel?” The hillbilly said.

“That's me.” Darren said.

“My lady gave you a blow job, now her tits smell like your baby batter. I ain't cool with that, man.”

“Sorry, but it was a personal quest of mine.” Darren/Dweasel said.

What amazed me was the coolness of Darren. He seemed to not be scared. The hillbilly had a least a hundred and sixty pounds on skinny Darren. I myself skinny from all the alcohol and pills. I hardly ever ate actual food.

The hillbilly pulled his fist back, Darren pulled a gun from the back of his pants, he shot the hillbilly in the head. Blood and chunks of brain matter exploded everywhere, like a watermelon at a Gallagher show. I finished what was left of my beer. Stood up.

“What the fuck?” I said.

“Sorry, man. I didn't know he followed me from her place.” Darren said, wiping blood from his sunglasses. “Can you help me get this into my trunk?”

I helped him put the headless hillbilly in his trunk. He left the bike there. We said our goodbye's, until tomorrow, we would meet at the diner. Before he left I asked him a question.

“Why do you have a gun?”

“Rule number sixty-four. If you sleep with married women, or just generally cheat long enough, it may come back to bite you in the ass, so carry a gun.” Darren said, putting on his sunglasses.

“Is that really the rule?”

“Something like that. I just like carrying a gun, it makes me feel cool.”

Afterward, I washed my face off on the in the bathroom of Walgreen's. The reflection didn't know who I was, nor did I know who he was. I bought a bottle of vodka, a quart of pineapple juice, one of those protein shaker cups.

On the drive to the Apple store I drank the vodka and juice.

The Cheapest Whiskey Ever...

We have all had the cheap, generic, store brand version of liquor. Right? Of course we have. What doesn't make sense to me is that any Vodka, no matter how cheap or the brand, is awesome. But whiskey and or Bourbon can sometimes suck ass. Now, I know the process to creating these delicious beverages are probably both long, hard, tedious(that's what she said). Still, we can't find a common ground. Can't we find a way to make whiskey so that it tastes the way Vodka tastes? Meaning, the same all the time!
I am writing this because of Gran Legacy Blended Whiskey. It is sold at CVS Pharmacy and it takes a lot of it to catch a buzz. The flavor is that of old cola, sweetener, and shoe polish. It goes pretty good with Dr. Pepper or Diet Dr. Pepper. I tried a sip of it straight and it tasted like a Tijuana back alley abortion. And that's an understatement.

The moral of the story is, if you're gonna go cheap, go Vodka.
The culprit is the one on the right end. Yuck!
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McMuffin's and Nice Ass in the Morning

For those of you that do not know me, you should know it is hard for me to blog, due to the fact that I save everything for my fiction. But this time I have an interesting anecdote. I had worked a sixteen hour shift. When I do that I usually like to bring home McDonald's breakfast for my grandfather and I. After cashing my paycheck it was about eight-something-in the morning. I stopped at the McDonald's on the way. It was a Saturday morning and talk about fucking crowded. The line of cars at the drive-thru almost was touching the street. I decided to go inside. In front of me was a beautiful assed girl that wore those spandex jeans that look like Pj pants. Her ass was amazing and her tits were also sweet little morsels. I enjoyed the view. It was my turn almost immediately, I ordered six sausage McMuffins with Egg. The cashier smiled, took my money, then my name. I walked away to await my large breakfast order. I caught glimpses at the ass. Fifty seconds later, no joke, they called my name. I was in there no longer than ten minutes. Thank you McDonald's. It was awesome. Go inside if the drive-thru line seems long, it just may be worth your while. -S.G. Thanks for reading.

Attack of The 90's Pamela Anderson Robots! (a three part series)

ATTACK OF THE 90's PAMELA ANDERSON ROBOTS

by

Shane Grey

-Part One-

As I write this, even with all that is going on in the world, I still miss her. The one that got away. We had a perfect relationship. Her name was Mitsy Mittens. She was long bodied, firm, toned. Jet black hair. Her occupation was exotic dancer, stripper, I called it. Our relationship was perfect because she'd never talk, she couldn't. I mean she could if she wanted too, but if you're a hardcore mime, you never talk.
Mitsy Mittens, the love of my life, the apple of my sodden eyes, was a stripping mime. In the two years we were together I never saw her without her white face paint. She had little black hearts with daggers through them forming little x's painted on her cheeks. Her silent laugh was so beautiful I was sure I heard it every time. Once we went to a movie together. I insisted we have an official cheesy couple date. The kind where you eat dinner then sit in a crowded theater. I also insisted that I pick the place to eat and she pick the movie. The movie she chose had to be a chick flick I told her. She was so annoyed she trapped herself in a invisible box for three hours, pouting.
I never could penetrate her stupid boxes. I would have to stand outside the box and shout that she was behaving like a spoiled mime brat. Eventually she would come out, snatch me up with her invisible lasso, pull me to her and hug me and kiss me. That meant she wasn't mad anymore. Most of the time we would celebrate with hot steamy post argument sex. Her silent orgasms were so beautiful, I swear I heard them every time. A few times she faked it, but it was all good. She always apologized by making a heart shape with both index fingers and thumbs and place it on her chest, on top of her real heart. Then she would make pouty lips(“I'm sorry”).
I understood some nights she was just so tired from her mime stripping. It was a complex routine, I had seen it a couple of times. But I always got jealous and had to leave early. Luckily none of the club patrons got to see her beautiful nude body(It's mime stripping, only invisible clothes come off)but there is a lot of grinding and thrusting. Mitsy also did superb pole work and was a master at working her invisible clit.
The cheesy date didn't work out. I took her to a Sloppy Joe and BBQ Ribs place. She had no choice but to order off the menu. The place was so primitive they didn't even have silverware. It was encouraged and mandatory to eat with your hands. Needless to say BBQ ribs and Sloppy Joe's do not go well with white kid gloves. Mitsy finished her ribs and Joe but was pissed off because she didn't have a change of gloves. The popcorn at the movie had similar effects. I ended up having to cram handfuls of popcorn in her mouth when elbowed to do so. Her gloved hands were stained orange, red, yellow. The colors made me smile and I told her she looked as if she were a drunk five year old on a finger painting kick.
Mitsy spit Mountain Dew in my face and rushed out of the theater. I looked for her but couldn't find her. After stealth ninja sneakiness I managed my way into the ladies bathroom. Mitsy sat in the corner of the bathroom, in an invisible box, eating JuJu Bees. We made up before anybody spotted me breaking the age old rule. But none of these things is why she left.
Mitsy Mittens, the love of my life, the apple of my sodden eyes, the only mime I ever loved, was murdered. Murdered in cold blood...by Pamela Anderson(The 90's robot version).
The year was 4055...Not really, just kidding, the year was 2001. I was living in a small studio apartment in between Los Angeles and where Wyatt Earp was buried. Blane Brick they called me. Number one short porn writer in So. Cal. At the time. I wrote short porn stories and scripts. You ever see a twenty minute porn scene? That could've been mine.
Happy would be one way to describe my feelings. I wanted to be a main writer for commercials. Things like: 'Have it your way' 'They're Greeeeeeeeeat!' 'If it doesn't get all over the place, it doesn't belong in your face' 'Once you pop, you can't stop.' That was the goal for me. So I remained working at home while Mitsy picked up the tab. Occasionally my folk's sent money. They were rich but I wanted none of their help. One day I would be the next, 'I'm lovin' it'.
It was October, I was very excited for Halloween. But I knew Halloween that year would have been weird anyway with all that happened on September 11th in New York. Paranoia had already been spread to the mail, what would stop the panic from leaking into trick or treat candy? That's not Fun Dip! It's anthrax! I could hear it already. Of course, Mitsy, was going to go as a mime again. Just her nature. I guess if you're a mime every day is Halloween for you.
The world had had some changes in 2001.
The Uni-bomber, Timothy McVeigh had bit the dust via execution. I wanted to trick or treat in a hoodie with shades. I didn't have the balls to go that far. Halloween was going to suck. That 70's Show was awesome and I wanted to bang Donna. Apple Computers was going to release something called an iPod, I didn't quite understand it at the time but I was excited and wanted to get one.
On the day the world changed yet again, I was on my typewriter trying to come up with new slogans for products that had yet to be invented. Just little things that would work for any situation. Mitsy was at work. I stared out the third story apartment window at the dark clouds forming so early in the evening.
There was a loud knock, three times, at the door. A knock I recognized. It was Jimmy Grass. Jimmy was sort of my only real friend and he ignored all the flaws in my life. I did the same for him. He was short, stocky, dressed in a three piece suit always, complete with fedora. Jimmy Grass wished it was the 20's or 40's or 50's. He was a good cat, just paranoid too much.
I opened the door, then sat back down at my typewriter. Jimmy stormed into the room, sweating. Another thing about Jimmy Grass. The guy was always sweating.
“Ya hear the news, baby?” Jimmy said. He called everyone 'baby'. I continued typing pretending not to listen. “Well, it's serious, Blane. You still got the cookies by the bed? I need a snack, baby.”
“Yeah. Go'head.” I said. Jimmy bee-lined for the bedroom. Mitsy kept Chinese take-out food cartons of fortune cookies on the night stand next to our bed. She believed the cookies had the ability to effect our day, I assumed, the mind of a mime could be so silent.
Jimmy loved to snack on the fortune cookies when he stopped by. He just threw the little fortune paper in the trash. Which I thought was cool, he didn't care what some idiot cookie figured how he should do things. I however had made myself part of it and I believed it. That particular day, the fortune in my pre-tooth brush cookie. The message read: “The invasion will begin shortly.” It didn't make sense to me.
Jimmy came from the bedroom, handful of fortune cookies, he crushed the cookie tossed the shells into his mouth. But he did something weird, he read each tiny fortune. Something I shoulda' figured him being crazy and drunk for, he never did that.
“You hear about the invasion?” Jimmy said as he crunched pieces of fortune cookie.
“Nah.” I said. The problem that was on my mind, the thing that worried me at that time, my relationship with Mitsy. Clearly she had been less physical lately. She didn't want to cuddle as much. I needed to get our old spark back. I loved Mitsy with all my heart.
“What invasion?” I asked.
“Robots, baby. Futuristic shit. A scientific experiment gone bad.” Panic was creeping into his voice, he began sweating more.
“I got some Diet Rite in the fridge, nice and cold. Grab one will ya?”
“Want one too?” He asked.
“Yeh.” I said. Turned from my typewriter, sat on the sofa. This was going to be another one of Jimmy's freak outs over some paranoia shit he read off the internet. I couldn't blame him though. Once one of the fortune cookies told me I was going to get hit in the head with a rubber mallet, strange I know, but that didn't stop me from looking over my shoulder all day and even wearing a hard hat until the waitress at the Denny's told me to take it off. Later that night when Mitsy got home, she couldn't stop silent laughing and rubbing her flat tummy. She pointed at the hard hat. Pointed at herself. Mimicked the movements of typing and opening a fortune cookie(“I wrote that fortune on your typewriter, man it is hard to come by that tiny paper, I can't believe you fell for it. I hope you didn't wear that hat all day”).
If you can avoid falling in love with a mime, I would recommend it. You don't learn their hand gestures over night. It takes work to love a mime. It's not like sign language, it's like charades.
Jimmy tossed me the can of soda, he cracked open his own, took a long pull off it. The collar of his button down was now drenched in sweat.
“The economy hasn't been the same since the towers fell, ya know what I'm sayin' baby?”
“No. Keep going, get to your point.” I cracked my own soda and took a good sip. Jimmy paced a short distance, trying to put his thoughts in order.
“A scientist and some robotics geek down in Mexico in some secret lab were working on a project for the CIA.” He paused looking scared. “The project was to be some type of synthetic human life, more like a cyborg or something kooky like that, ya following me, baby?”
“No, I guess I'm not following, it sounds insane, but it's entertaining.” I laughed and put my feet up on the coffee table. “Keep going.”
“So the cyborg robot things were having malfunctioning problems right off the bat. BAM! Three technicians killed the first month of the project! They couldn't get the damn things to obey!”
“Awright, take it down a notch, breathe deeply.”
“Fuck you, baby, this shit is scary.” He downed his soda.
“Okay, but the robots are in Mexico, not here, so take it down a few notches.”
“Can I have another? Please, baby.” He shook his empty can. “Sorry I said 'fuck you' this shit is just too real, baby.”
“Help yourself, man.” I said. Still was having trouble buying into it and I hadn't heard anything in the news. Why would robotic engineers and the CIA need robots? I thought, they have drones, trigger happy racist Americans were signing up for to die righteously all over. No need for expensive robots.
But the government was insane sometimes. I wouldn't put it past them. Robots? Not that far fetched I supposed. Jimmy came back into the room eating a ham sandwich, I looked at my watch, he hadn't even been gone that long.
“You work fast.” I said. He handed me my second soda with his free hand.
“You know I get hungry when I'm nervous, baby.” He said. Bread crumbs, a cheese slice corner, lettuce fell from his mouth.
“You were saying?” I said. I waved my hands to encourage him.
“I got a disc a friend of mine from San Diego sent me. I got it yesterday and let me tell you,” Pure fear was in his eyes, “The invasion has begun, baby.”
Okay, so say your paranoid period piece obsessed only friend in the world showed you a disc. On the disc was crappy home video footage, we watched it in Windows Media Player, the footage was disturbing. Not at first.
The shaky footage showed a downtown area, full of people, they all seemed oblivious. Just shopping and eating ice cream. It seemed normal enough, until, I noticed Pamela Anderson crouched behind a dumpster. But it wasn't nowadays Pamela Anderson, it was her from the Baywatch days, or maybe just someone that looked like her.
Pamela Anderson leaped to her feet fast, grabbed a woman closest to her, the woman wore a fanny pack and shades. Pamela snapped her neck sideways. The woman hit the pavement, dead. The guy filming this squealed. The woman's husband panicked for a split second, until Pamela took him by the arm, they both smiled and continued walking.
The rest of the footage was the same thing happening all over different parts of downtown. All the Pamela Andersons' were dressed different, but they did the same thing, hid off to the side and snapped the necks of women that were with men. Some of the Pamela's even tore out the throats of women with their bare hands. I had to look away at times. I couldn't believe it.
“Why the fuck did your friend film all this?” I asked in disgust. There was no reply behind me. I turned to see Jimmy Grass crouched in the fetal position on the floor. “Jimmy, keep your cool. Don't freak out on me.”
“The guy...He's a film student...He was just filming random exterior shots, baby. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“But this is good! We can use this to expose the invasion!” I couldn't believe I was saying that. This shit was so far from being my business.
“It's not good for him, baby.”
“Are you kidding? With this footage? This is a key for him to open all the doors in Hollywood. He'll be set.” I said, excited for his friend I never even met.
Jimmy got up off the floor. He grabbed my cordless phone handset. His face grim. Dialed a number and handed me the phone.
I put it to my ear, it rang.
“Ask for Tommy and then ask who is speaking.” Jimmy said, low.
The phone clicked with someone answering.
“Hello?” Came the sweet feminine voice. It was the voice of Pamela Anderson, circa 1993.
“Is Tommy in?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“No he isn't.” The voice was so sweet and attractive.
“Can I ask who's speaking?” More cracking in my voice.
“Doris. His wife. Can I ask-”
I hung up. My stomach churned. I looked at Jimmy, we shared a mutual look of doom, his shirt was soaked in sweat now.
“How long until they're here?” I asked through a dry throat.
“They are here, baby. I spotted six at the doughnut shop this morning. Just right there, in plain sight, on the arm of some guys. No one noticed. I swear Blane, it was like everything was cool, no one could see they were Pamela Anderson.”
“What do they want?” I asked.
“I don't know, baby. I think terrorist intellect snuck into the secret lab in Mexico and turned the technology against us.”
“That sounds like a vague bullshit theory.” I said, angry.
“Not a theory, baby. I still have a guy. One that is single and lives in his parents basement. He has intel on the subject. All he does is work on the internet.”
“OK. Then we go see him.” I said, grabbing my coat.
“WAIT! Why?” Jimmy shouted.
“Because I can't allow this shit to go down. I'm gonna be the next: 'I'm Lovin' It!'”
“Huh?”
“And I will not allow Mitsy to get her neck snapped or throat ripped out.” I headed for the door. Turned back. “Let's go. I'm driving.”
“Baby, you don't know how to get to that cats house?”
“No, but you're gonna tell me. And we're not going there first, we gotta make a stop.”
“A stop where?”
“Silent Seduction. I gotta pick up Mitsy, so I know she's safe.”

Part two coming soon! In the mean time read: http://mybestfriendsbucketlist.com/