nocandyasses.com

Chapter One

     For those of you who have read my first article at kensocrates.com, you know that my employment, well perhaps employment isn’t the correct word. Employment usually involves some sort of compensation for services rendered. Let’s just call it My Position. My Position was made possible by a certain situation involving the Boston Bruins. Ken and myself had some unfinished business to take care of. The Bruins had become a thinly veiled farce of what they once were, which was a dominant force in the NHL year after year.

     Now, I myself am not what you might call a die-hard fan of the Bruins. I had enjoyed watching the hockey that the Bruins produced since the days when they were a part of the ‘Original Six’. Ken, however, was a Bruin fanatic. The majority of my teams had long ago disappeared from the NHL lineup. The Hartford Whalers, the Winnipeg Jets, the Quebec Nordiques. These were the teams I followed, year after year, win or lose. Boston was always there though. I liked their grit, their tenacity, their willingness to leave their blood on the ice to win a game. Now, those days too seemed to be gone.

     The 2005 NHL season started off with many trepidations. After the ‘04-‘05 lockout, nobody was really sure what was to come from the new CBA between the players and owners. What we all hoped for was some parity, a chance for the perpetual losers of the league to start to rise from the depths, and for the constant dictators to finally get taken down a notch or two. The game had also become, to be honest, boring. Not quite as boring as say, soccer, or ‘football’ as my European acquaintances so adamantly demand it be called, but it was heading in that direction. The game had begun to be known by the playing styles that were slowly rotting it out from the inside. ‘The Trap’. ‘The Dump-and-Chase’. Terms that still send the clammy feeling of salamanders crawling up and down my spine. The latter was an offensive style that developed as a response to the defensive style of the former. Together they were slowly strangling the game of hockey.

     The Boston Bruins had gotten off to a mediocre start at best. They went downhill from there. The calls from Ken started somewhere around the fourth week of the season.

     "Have you seen them play Oz? Pathetic is the only word for it."

     "Yeah, I’ve seen a couple games. Does Sullivan have them on something? Maybe Qualudes?"

     "Qualudes?" Ken snorted, " Jesus Christ, Ozzy. You’re completely out of touch living on that Goddamned ranch, aren’t you? ‘Ludes went out with Reagan. People don’t fuck around these days. Heroin is the downer of choice now. Sullivan’s probably got the whole team gathered in the showers shooting smack before each game."

     "Holy shit! Heroin huh? Well, that certainly would explain the situation."

     Conversations like this began to take place more and more regularly as the season progressed. The only things that changed were that the Bruins record got worse and worse, and with each phone call Ken seemed more inebriated.

     Then came that day that really set this whole story in motion. I heard the report on the radio, and I instantly knew that Ken would be going into convulsions over this one. Joe Thornton had been traded to the San Jose Sharks. The only player that had any potential to help keep the Bruins alive was now headed west.

     I waited for Ken to call, but the phone was eerily silent. I started to wonder if maybe Ken had just gone straight over the edge and had put a bullet in his brain, making things simple all the way around. Unfortunately for me, I was wrong.

     The phone jangled me out of bed, ruining a very nice dream I was having that involved large vats of ice cream and Kathy Ireland.

     "Ozzy?"

     "Ken, if this is you, you’d better be calling from Hell or I’m gonna reach through the phone and rip your eyeballs out through your nose."

     "Ozzy, izza mo fugga day ma live."

     "Wonderful, you’ve been drinking. Have a couple more on me, and with any luck you’ll die from alcohol poisoning."

     "No, no, Ozzy. Don hanup. I can tay na mer."

     "Ken, you need to get control of your tongue and make some sense, or I will hang up."

     "No! No! Ogay. Ogay. Tha traid im, Ozzy. Thoz mutha fugga Bruins traid im. Tha traid Joe Thornton ta tha fugga Shargs. The Sa Hoza Shargs. Fugga bassards."

     "Look Ken, I know you’re upset, but I really can’t understand what the fuck you’re saying, and I probably couldn’t care less anyhow. Have some coffee and go to bed. Talk to me tomorrow."

     I hung up on him. The poor drunk bastard. There’s nothing more pathetic in the world than a true sports fan who has suddenly lost all faith in his team. I had more important things on my mind, however. Kathy Ireland for one. I rolled over and went back to sleep. I didn’t have any more dreams starring Kathy Ireland, but I did have a vision of what must be done. It was a crazy plan, but it had to be done.

     The next morning I e-mailed Ken my plan. He was probably badly hung-over, and depressed to boot, so I didn’t expect to hear from him for a while. Around 4 o’clock that afternoon the phone rang once again. It was Ken of course, and he was excited.

     "Ozzy, have I told you before that you are an absolutely brilliant man?"

     "No, you haven’t Ken, and it’s about Goddamned time."

     "So, do you think we can pull it off?"

     "Probably not, but who cares? Worst case scenario is we spend a few days in jail and wind up paying some petty fine. You’re not scared, are you? We can’t stop now. It’s already in motion. It’s our destiny. We are talking, after all, about Barbarian Hockey here Ken."

     "Scared? I’m not scared Ozzy, you pompous bastard. You think I haven’t done my time in a few jails? With my habits it’d be unimaginable if I had avoided jail."

     "Alright, that’s what I want to hear, but I think we should wait for the right moment. If we try this too soon they’ll see us coming. I’m sure they’re going to be expecting some repercussion from this. Heightened security and all that. Keep your finger on the situation out there, and when it feels right, we’ll strike."

     I hung up the phone and stood in silence for a bit. This was going to get ugly, I could feel it in my bones. To take my mind off things, I grabbed my favorite pistol, a Colt Python .357 Magnum, and wandered out into the prairie to menace some wildlife.

     It was over a month later that I finally heard from Ken again. I had been out cleaning the barn, and when I came in Elsa, our maid, informed me that Ken had called.

     "Was he drunk?" I asked.

     Elsa shrugged, "Who can tell?".

     True enough, I thought to myself. I dialed the number, and Ken answered almost before the first ring had finished.

     "Ozzy, it’s time! I can’t take this anymore! Something has to be done, now!"

     "Alright, Ken! Calm down. Are you sure things are quiet enough there that they won’t suspect anything?"

     "Yeah, it all seems SNAFU here. We need to get this going while there’s still enough season left. If we wait too long the Bruins will be so far down in the basement we’ll need a drilling rig to find them."

     "Ok Ken. I’ll book the first flight I can and call you when I get to Logan. Don’t breath a word of this to anyone. Surprise will be our only ally."

     "Oh fuck you, 007. I may be a drunk bastard, but I can keep my mouth shut. Just get your fat ass out here."

     "Alright. A big steak dinner and a bottle of Glenfiddich will be expected upon arrival. Barbarian Hockey, Ken."

     "This is gonna cost me, ain’t it? Oh well, Barbarian Hockey brother."

     Out in the middle of nowhere, where I happen to live, we are lucky to have any kind of airline service available at all. What we have is just barely above none at all. I really shouldn’t complain, because it beats driving all the way to Denver International Airport, some 150 miles away. The drive to Laramie is considerably shorter, only around 40 miles, and the traffic is almost non-existent. I’m always reminding myself of this on the way to the Laramie Airport when I have to fly. It’s a vain attempt at rationalizing the fact that within an hour I plan to cram my above average frame into a seat made for an anorexic pygmy. The folks at Great Lakes Airlines are wonderful folks, don’t get me wrong. They are some of the most pleasant staff I’ve ever dealt with when it comes to air service. The pilots are a jovial lot, and their only detraction would be their affinity to try to land the planes sideways. I just wish they would take my criticism to heart and install a comfy loveseat in the back for folks of my size.

     Without too many discomforts I arrived at the bizarre freak-show that is Denver International Airport. By freak-show, I don’t mean the people. DIA is a strange place with many weird vibes coursing through it. Everywhere you look there are strange symbols, odd sculptures, and words without meaning. Seriously, along the walls in various places you will see words made of bronze embedded in the granite walls that are of some other language. I have been told they are Native American words, but nowhere is there any explanation of them. They just hang there, pleading to be noticed, yet unwilling to give up their secret. There are rumors that underneath the actual airport there is a vast military installation waiting in ready for some unmentioned future holocaust. Armageddon perhaps. Regardless, the place creeps me out and I can never get out of there fast enough.

     To help pass the time that I did have to spend waiting for my connection I slipped into one of the many lounges that had been smartly planned into the design, and ordered a Glenfiddich. I grabbed a newspaper off the bar and shuffled through it until I located the sports section.

     Denver is a football town. Being one of the few major cities to host teams in all five of the big pro sports leagues ( football, basketball, hockey, baseball, soccer, and now the number six big league, lacrosse) it never ceases to amaze me how football dominates the sports sections of The Denver Post and The Rocky Mountain News. Even in the off-season football is the dominant sport. So it was with some difficulty that I found scores for the previous night’s hockey match-ups. Boston had taken another one on the chin, while the night before that the San Jose Sharks had once again dominated, with Joe Thornton getting a goal and an assist. In a recap article of the game, the Bruins coach was keeping up his image as a blithering idiot by stating the presence of one player would not have made a difference in the outcome of the game.

     "The hurdles we are facing right now cannot be solved by one player. It goes much deeper than that. We need to find a solution as a team."

     Apparently he forgot that Joe Thornton was just the latest in a long string of top Bruin skaters to either get the boot or jump ship.

     Enough of that drivel. I finished my scotch just as the first boarding announcement for my flight boomed over the PA system. Well, here we go, I thought to myself. I hoped that Boston was ready for what was about descend upon it.

Chapter Two

     They say that New England in the Autumn is beautiful. I’ve been there in the autumn and I would have to agree with them. New England in winter, however, is ugly. Very ugly. Cold, gray, dirty, and that’s just the people. Maybe somewhere out in the country there stands a little cottage, back in the woods, with a fire burning in the fireplace, smoke rising from the chimney. Deer paw the new fallen snow on the front lawn. Ahhhh! Beautiful...........

     I awoke from this dream into the nightmare that is Boston in January. The big Boeing 767 descended out of the clouds, but it was hard to tell. The ground was the same dirty gray as the clouds. The snow that had fallen the day before had been churned by the tires of cars, buses, delivery trucks, and semis, into a sand-and-salt Slushee. Daylight was just starting to fade as we made a wide sweeping turn out over the Atlantic Ocean on our final approach. The sea looked cold and cruel. My own personal fear took hold of me. Even at 5000 feet, I could feel the weight of the water closing in around me. I started to sweat, and gripped the armrests tighter. I had broken my self-imposed rule of never taking a window seat when there was the slightest chance of flying over the ocean. I forced my eyes away from the view below, focusing on the little tv screen on the back of the seat in front of me. It didn’t help, so I closed my eyes completely. I didn’t open them again until I felt the wheels touch the concrete surface of the runway.

     We touched down at Logan International Airport nearly thirty minutes late. I’ve never understood the need of people to rush through life. It always amuses me to watch the mad chaos that starts even before the flight attendant announces that debarking may commence. The intense struggle to remove carry-on bags from the overhead compartments. The disgusted impatience of those closer to the rear of the plane aimed at those ahead of them, as if they’re being delayed purposely from some matter of obscure importance. Many times this is my favorite part of flying. I enjoy sitting back and taking in the show. There always seems to be at least one person who, after being hurtled through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour and miraculously surviving this feat along with nearly two hundred other people, now regards those same people as some ugly, foul line of defense that simply cannot be penetrated quickly enough. The flushed face, the bulging eyes, the furtive glances at a wrist watch. Nowadays these tell-tale traits are also accompanied by a cell phone conversation, fitfully trying to explain the reason for this infernal delay. Only after the hectic crowded cattle-line of the impatient has passed do I begin my move towards the exit. There is always a sense of relief from the crew to see my lumbering bulk waiting to the last to attempt to make my way to the exit.

     Once I had fumbled through the nightmare of every airport, baggage claim, my first thought was of liquid refreshment. I searched for a lounge that showed promise of quality beer. I always seem to crave carbohydrates after I fly, and beer is one of the finest sources of carbs known to man. I took a seat at the bar and when the barkeep came by I took a shot in the dark and ordered a 5 Barrel Pale Ale. He gave me a blank stare for my effort. It was a long-shot at best in this part of the country, so I shrugged and changed my order to a Pete’s Wicked. This produced the desired effect and with arrogant approval the barman produced an ice cold 12 ounce bottle.

     As he turned away to tend to other customers I asked, "A glass, please?"

     He froze in mid-step and paused for dramatic effect, just to show me that I was now an inconvenience to him. He turned back to face me, and without losing eye contact reached into a rack of steaming beer glasses fresh from the dishwasher. I held his gaze and waited until the glass was a fraction of an inch from the bar.

     "A cold one. Please."

     His eyes blazed with anger. "We’re out of cold ones, buddy. It’s a busy night."

     Great. A barkeep with an attitude. I quickly scanned the room and took a mental estimate of the number of patrons present. I counted less than thirty. I stood up so that my height could take full effect on this poor misguided soul, who I now sized up as a college punk who thought that being a barkeep was some sort of status symbol in the real world.

     "Alright, look. You seem like a bright kid. Bright enough to know I’m not stupid. All I want is a cold beer in a cold glass. Now, do you expect me to believe that your manager is so inept that a small crowd like this could deplete your entire stock of cold glasses? I think not. When I sat down just now I watched you pull a cold beer glass from that cooler right in front of you. I’m a sporting man, kid. I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt."

     I reached into my wallet, pulled out a hundred dollar bill, and slapped it on the counter, hard, with a loud bang. This got the attention of a good portion of the rest of the bar.

     "Now, I’m willing to bet this c-note that there’s another cold beer glass in that cooler. You wanna look again?"

     He produced a frosty cold beer glass like he was pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I flashed him my biggest, friendliest grin.

     "Now, you see what you can do with a little effort?"

     He smirked at me and wandered off to do whatever it is that snooty bartenders do when they’re not being assholes.

     I set my briefcase on the bar and opened it, searching for the piece of paper that I’d scribbled Ken’s phone number on. I needed to get out of this airport. I don’t cope well when I’m out of my element, and my element usually involves large open spaces, something I had a bad feeling I wasn’t going to experience for a while.

     I live on a good sized chunk of land in the middle of the Wyoming prairie. My nearest neighbor is five miles away as the crow flies. I like my solitude. The house that I live in is the house that I was born in. Mother still lives there too, tending to a handful of cattle. She’s a wiry little lady, of rancher stock. She’s been ranching all her life, and would die if that were to be taken away from her. Mother is up in years, so I only let her raise what I know she can handle.

     I raise alpacas. Champion alpacas. Stud fees alone keep the ranch going, Not many people have ever even heard of alpacas, so it’s almost odd that there is that much demand for alpaca studs, but believe me, it’s a very lucrative business. On top of that, alpaca wool is softer and warmer than the most expensive cashmere. The sale of their wool affords some luxuries. Elsa, our maid, is one of those luxuries. I would expound on her talents, but this is a story about hockey, and I really should get back to it. Perhaps another time.

     I eventually located the wrinkled piece of paper that held those magical numbers that would lead me to a face -to-face meeting with Ken. This wouldn’t be the first time. We had hung out together a few times. A couple here in Boston, once in Montreal at a Canadiens game, and even once (by complete chance) in Los Angeles. Ken is not one that I care to share a close friendship with on any kind of long term basis. Not that he’s a bad person. He’ll bend over backwards to help out a friend. He’ll do somersaults to help out brief acquaintences. He’ll even do handstands to help out random street people. He’s a very friendly sort of fellow. The problem is, he’s just so.......intense. Intense doesn’t do Ken justice, as a word. Ken is passionate. Intensely passionate. Ken enjoys many things, and anything he enjoys he is passionate about, and anything he is passionate about he insists on doing to the extreme. Now, add to that a nearly uncontrollable libido, and you have a pretty realistic portrait of Ken’s personality.

     I drained the last half of my beer in one gulp and motioned to the bartender. He sauntered over with a disinterested look on his face. I had a sudden urge to sucker-punch him, but decided that might be detrimental to the mission, so I instead asked him the location of a public phone. He motioned to the door that led back out into the terminal and said, "Out there. To the right."

     I flashed him my best serial-killer grin and thanked him. I turned to leave, then had an evil thought. I turned back to face him and asked, "What time do you get off?"

     His eyes got real big. "What?"

     "What time you get off?"

     "I’m out at.........." He stopped short. I could see the thoughts running through his head. The serial-killer grin had done it’s job. He’d seen this sort of thing in the movies. The chance encounter with a seemingly harmless stranger, who just happened to be a deranged cannibal trying to secure his next meal. Hannibal Lechter with an out of control pituitary gland.

     "I work really late." he finally croaked.

     "Yeah?" I hit him again with the grin. "Huh. That’s too bad. You’re cute. It coulda been fun."

     With that I turned and walked out. With any luck he’d be jumping at his own shadow for the next month thinking that some 6'7", 350 lb. gay-cannibal-cowboy was lurking just around the next corner.

     I found the public phone, right where the bartender said it would be. I dialed Ken’s number, and he picked up almost immediately.

     "Yeah?" He sounded edgy, but then again, this was Ken.

     "Where the fuck are you at Ken?"

     "Ozzy! Oh thank God! It’s about fucking time. I’ve been driving around this airport for an hour, you son-of-a-bitch!"

     "Ken, why have you been driving around the airport for an hour? I told you I’d call you when I got here."

     "I know. Nervous tension, man. I was going crazy sitting around waiting. I had to move. You know what it’s like, when you just have to move?"

     "Why didn’t you just come in and hang out at the lounge?" I said it before I could catch myself.

     "Are you out of your fucking mind? You know what they do there. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. I’m surprised you made it. Of course, they wouldn’t fuck with someone as big and obvious as you, so you’re pretty safe. People like me though, just the average Joe, we’re the ones they take. Sonsobitches! They know I know things. I know things they don’t think I should know. I’m on to them and they don’t like it."

     Ken had developed this theory that airports were the prime spots for "government agencies" to abduct citizens and haul them off to God knows where to conduct scientific experiments on them.

     "Security checks. That’s where they get you." he had told me once. "You see it all the time. That poor guy traveling alone. That’s the one they always pick. ‘Just routine procedure, sir.’ they always say. Then the poor bastard is escorted off to some private room and you never see him again."

     "It’s just an extra safety measure." I had countered. "Of course you don’t see him again because you’re catching your flight. He probably misses his and has to re-book. They do that when something suspicious shows up. It’s just to make sure the guy’s not a terrorist or something."

     "That’s what they want you to think. See? Even you fall for it. You don’t have to worry about it though because you’d be noticed. They won’t risk that. It’s always some average, non-descript person. Someone that nobody will pay any attention to. I’ve read books, Ozzy. I’ll loan ‘em to you sometime. It’s all in there. It’s documented. There are people who have been looking into this for years, brother."

     We won’t go any further into that for now. Ken’s not paranoid, he just seems to have a very vivid imagination, and is abnormally susceptible to conspiracy theories. I wish I could find a way to get him inside Denver International sometime. His head would explode with the conspiracy theories running rampant in that place.

     "Ok, look Ken, just pick me up out front."

     "Alright. Which terminal are you in?"

     "I think I’m in C. Yeah, terminal C."

     "Great. 5 minutes. Be ready."

     I made my way out to the passenger pick-up area with my two modest bags. It dawned on me that I had forgotten to ask Ken what he was driving, so I had no idea what to be watching for. I moved further down the pick-up zone, away from other traffic so that Ken would be able to see me better.

     Not thirty seconds later I heard a commotion starting down towards the other end of the terminal, in the direction that traffic was coming from. Horns were blowing, people started yelling, and in the distance I could see some sort of chaos starting. I hoped in my heart it wasn’t what I thought it was, but when chaos is involved, Ken Socrates can’t be far behind. There was a sudden explosion of bodies on the concrete pedestrian walk. People were scrambling and leaping to get out of the way of some sudden danger. Then, through the crowd came a menacing beast. It was huge and loud and the same color as the Atlantic Ocean just off the Bahamas. If you’ve ever been to the Bahamas you know what I mean. A bright, aqua-greenish blue. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was a car and not some slavering monster recently born from the harbor. It was a car. It was a huge, gaudy, eye-popping machine that looked like it should belong to some pimp from the old Starsky and Hutch tv show. As I looked closer I could see Ken behind the wheel, wide-eyed, cussing at everything that moved and leaning on the horn like a crazed New York cabby.

     When he spotted me his whole demeanor changed and a smile spread across his face. He hit the horn a few more times just to clear the last remaining stragglers from in front of him and gunned the car right at me. For a brief moment the thought crossed my mind that he had finally cracked and this whole adventure had been a setup for him to take me out. It passed quickly, because I knew that Ken was not a violent man. Not on purpose anyhow. When he was about twenty-five feet from me Ken slammed the brakes and cranked the wheel hard to the left, putting himself into a maniacal slide. In a cloud of smoke the car came to a rest not more than a foot from me, rocking violently on the springs. The trunk popped open by itself and I threw my bags in. The passenger door opened as I shut the trunk lid and I quickly jumped inside.

     "Welcome to Boston, motherfucker!"

     I fixed him with a steely glare. "I really don’t need this shit Ken."

     "Of course you do! You’ve been hanging out on that ranch of yours for too long. Your adrenal gland is out of shape, and you’re going to need it on this trip. Don’t worry. I’m sober and in complete control. Sit back and enjoy the ride."

     "What the hell is this thing anyhow?"

     Ken let out a laugh like a little kid. "This is my new toy, Ozzy. 1972 Buick Riviera, 455 cubic inches, 400 Turbo-Hydromatic, 24 inches of rubber on the rear. Hang tight!"

     Ken slapped the gas pedal and the car bucked like a Brahma bull. The tires spun, creating a new cloud of smoke as we jumped down off the curb and back into the traffic lanes. The tires suddenly grabbed the asphalt and we rocketed off into the cold Boston night.

Chapter Three

   The American Pronghorn is the fastest land mammal in North America. It can run at speeds up to 60 miles per hour. It can maintain speeds of 30 to 40 miles per hour for incredibly long distances. They have fantastic eyesight, being able to see movement up to 4 miles away.

      I had grown up hunting these amazing animals on the ranch, and they were a frustrating adversary in the best of conditions. I can’t count the number of times I had spent over an hour crawling on my belly over sagebrush and prickly pear cactus, making what in my mind was the perfect silent stalk, only to peek over that small ridge, to be greeted by the sight of those familiar white rumps racing off across the high desert, already a half mile away.

     Of all their defenses, speed is the most effective. You can find ways to avoid their spectacular eyesight, or at least to fool them about what they are seeing, but once they are on the run, it is game over. However, I will never forget the one whose speed was his downfall.

     I don’t know what had spooked him, perhaps a coyote, I didn’t care. I was taking a lunch break, sitting on a rock in the shade of a scraggly Bristlecone pine, just short of the upper end of a wide draw. Suddenly, some 1500 yards back down the draw a huge Pronghorn buck came racing over the upper lip of the draw. He was coming towards me at an incredible clip, staying halfway between the top ridge and the dry-wash that ran through the bottom. He was coming at me so fast that I was afraid I wouldn’t have time to drop my ham sandwich and pick up my rifle. Experience told me that he would soon slow to a speed that would allow him to scan the draw for anything unfamiliar. Experience failed me that day. This fella just kept running full-bore. Something had spooked him bad. He was about 500 yards away when I finally was able to shoulder my rifle and find him in the scope. I knew he had to slow soon, hopefully stop to catch his breath, but he just refused. In what seemed like seconds he had closed to 200 yards, then 100. At 50 yards, he quickly pulled up, stopped, and turned to look back down the draw, apparently to check to see if whatever had spooked him was still there. I don’t think he ever suspected I was there. Game over, for him this time.

     This memory kept playing through my mind as we careened down the streets of downtown Boston. The Riviera had balls, big ones, and Ken was showing them off. It cornered quite smoothly for a car of such size. The tires wailed in protest, but they held on. The color of the traffic lights didn’t seem to matter to Ken. If they were green he tore through them without a second thought. If they were red he would slow just enough to time the crossing vehicles and shoot through the narrow gaps.

     I couldn’t believe we hadn’t caught the attention of the police yet. In fact, I hadn’t seen a single police car for the duration of this mad run through Beantown. It was weird.

     “Don’t you think you should slow down just a bit?”

     “No. Speed is safety. Stay on the move and they can’t catch you. Survival of the fittest.”

     “Ok, look Ken, we’re in an aqua-blue Riviera, doing 60 down city streets. I personally feel that keeping a low profile would be the best plan of action, especially after that stunt at the airport. You know somebody called the cops. This boat on wheels is a little conspicuous, don’t you think?”

      “No. Keep on the move and the enemy is always behind you.”

     “What if there’s another enemy at the top of the draw, holding a Winchester Model 70 .243?”

     “What?”

     “Never mind. Look, just slow down a little, ok?”

      “Relax, Ozzy. I’ve got a secret weapon.”

     “A secret weapon? Don’t fuck with me Ken. You know what flying does to me.”

     “I’m not fucking with you Ozzy. I’ve got a secret weapon. The cops will be the least of our worries on this little adventure.”

     “What are you talking about Ken? You’re starting to scare me.”

     Ken started to giggle. His eyes had a crazy look to them. The giggle turned to snickering. It sounded like Ken was trying to clear his sinuses. His eyes were nearly closed and tears were starting to trickle from the corners.

     “Ken, if you’re going to go into a fit I’m going to have to insist that you slow down. Now!”

     He slammed on the brakes and skidded into a parking lot, pulling into the first empty space he could find. He was shaking uncontrollably now, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was laughing so hard now that he was having trouble breathing, and he sucked air in great sobs, pounding the steering wheel with his fist.

     Laughter is contagious, and I was now starting to giggle along.

     “Tell me, you fuck! What’s your secret weapon?”

     The sobs continued from Ken. He could only shake his head, indicating that he was unable to say anything at this moment. I was starting to laugh out loud now, not even knowing why.

     ”You son-of-a-bitch! Don’t make me beat it out of you. You gimp! Tell me, you lobster-fucker!”

     I made my left hand into a fist, with the second knuckle of my middle finger sticking out, and I rammed it into Ken’s ribs.

     “Ow! You Goddamned llama-farming freak! What the fuck? I think you broke my ribs!”

     “Bullshit, you candy-ass! And they’re alpacas, not llamas.”

     “Fuck off, you pituitin whore! Jesus Christ! Let a guy have some fun, for cryin’ out loud.”

     “I just got off of a long flight, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m in no mood for bullshit. Fun comes later. Now, are you going to tell me why we don’t have to worry about cops, or do I show you what pain really is?”

     “Alright! Alright! Damn, you grumpy old bastard! Ok, here it is.” He started to giggle again, but when I cocked back my fist he stopped immediately. “Do you remember Erma?”

     I could feel the blood drain from my face. A chill raced down my spine, stopped for a rest at the bottom then did a slow crawl back up.

     “Erma? Esther’s sister Erma?”

     “Yeah.”

     A sudden flashback raced through my brain. What had it been? Five years? Six? It had been my first visit to Boston since my wrestling days. It had been my first face-to-face meeting with Ken. His wife, Esther, had a sister, a sister who happened to be single. Ken thought it would be entertaining to try to hook myself and Erma up on a date. Now, I must admit that it is not easy for a man of my stature and personality to get a date, and when Ken showed me a picture of Erma, well, let’s just say that she was not an ugly woman. I tend to like ‘em on the plus side. Ken explained that she was a bit of an eccentric, but that she was overall a good woman. So, to make a long story short, I agreed to go out to dinner with Erma. She turned out to be a manic-depressive, vampire worshiping dominatrix. The date was less than successful.

     “Oh, c’mon Ozzy! She’s just a little excitable.” Ken insisted when I told him what I thought should be done to his sister-in-law.

     “Excitable, Ken? Excitable? She told me she wanted to take me home, tie me up, slit my throat, drink my blood and eat my heart!”

     “That’s just her way of making up for her shyness.”

     I shuddered at the memory. “What the hell does that murderous sea-cow have to do with the Boston Police?”

     Ken suppressed another fit of the giggles, “She’s got a little thing going with the head of the Internal Affairs Dept.”

     “You’re kidding me, right?”

     “Honest to God, Ozzy. I’m enjoying some new found freedoms. I mean, I can’t get away with murder or anything, but minor traffic offenses are a thing of the past.”

     “How long have they been together?”

     “Three weeks.”

     “Shitballs!” I shouted. “And he still likes her?”

     “Yeah. They met at an S & M club. That’s where my new found freedom found it’s roots. Nobody else knows he’s into that shit, and he wants to keep it that way.”

     “Wow! This is big, Ken. He’s got to be a complete balls-out nut-case if he actually has feelings for Erma after three weeks. This calls for a celebration, my friend, and I believe you owe me a steak dinner and a bottle of Glenlivet, so you’ll be buying. Got anyplace in mind?”

     “As a matter of fact, I do.”

     Ken opened the car door and stepped out. I looked around and quickly realized that Ken’s choice of parking spaces was no random occurrence. He had placed us directly in front of a large rustic building with a big neon sign proclaiming it to be “Frank’s Steakhouse”.

     “Is this place any good?” I’m picky about my steaks.

     “This is Boston Ozzy. You will never find a steak here to your liking, but I assure you this is as good as you’re going to get on the East Coast. Get your fat ass in gear, I’m thirsty.” He turned on his heels and walked towards the front door.