Dangerous Fun In The House Of The Scorpion

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Wow. This is great! The way you've written everything is very evocative. Kudos!

Thanks! Word of advice about the subject matter, kids -- don't try this at home!

*wonders how fast they'll get it*

[RedImperator]

Wow. This is great! The way you've written everything is very evocative. Kudos!

Thanks! Word of advice about the subject matter, kids -- don't try this at home!

*wonders how fast they'll get it*

I probably wouldn't have if you hadn't pointed out the pun.

Damn, I wish you could come over to Villanova sometime as see "Hunger and Homelessness Awareness Week". The crowning glory of a week of rich college kids congratulating themselves on caring about the homeless so very, very much is the sleep-out, where the most "hardcore" carers camp out on Corr Field (kind of a little park squeezed between the main campus dining hall, the student union, the bookstore, and an old residence hall called Corr Hall. During the warm months, it's a popular sport to hang out on the grass in the sun and study or just watch underdressed hotties stroll about). It's held in early November, when the average nighttime temperature is in the low forties, high thirties. I strolled through at around 1:30 AM the year before last, when we were having an unusual warm spell and it was still more than fifty degrees after midnight. The caring brigade had sleeping bags, blankets, designer sweatshirts (I looked twice just to make sure--everyone seemed to have an Abercrombie and Fitch or Old Navy sweatshirt, which was just too ironic for fiction), footballs, frisbees, someone strumming an acoustic guitar, and two giant insulated tubs of coffee and hot cocoa on a cart full of sandwiches and cookies.

Alright, so the point was to raise money from sponsors--the longer you were out there pretending to be homeless in a way only kids from the Hamptons and the Main Line can pretend to be homeless, the more your sponsors would donate to helping the homeless. That's nice, I suppose. The real kicker was, though, one of them wrote a column in the student newspaper the next week and proudly proclaimed "Now I know what it's like to be homeless." I suggested in a column in my own newspaper the week after that that she try it again in North Philadelphia with nothing but Goodwill clothes and a crack habit and then come back and tell us she knew what it was like to be homeless (and perhaps that she should write the column to be published posthumously).

This is great shit, dude. I wish I had had this then--I would have passed out copies to the "Now I know what it's like to be homeless" brigade and the editors of the other newspaper, so they would recognize 1) how you really go about living like the homeless, 2) how to say you really know what it's like to be homeless without sounding like a clueless white bread twit, and 3) good journalism.

[Lagmonster]

That's a lot of kickass, Raoul. Don't assume that just because the replies are slim that the audience isn't there. I sunk into that melancholy, which is why the sci-fi novel I was writing currently lies sunken and incomplete several pages buried in the fanfic forum.

[LadyTevar]

But where are you walking? Come on! More, you're leaving me hanging here

It's coming, it's coming! (Get a towel!) Don't worry, the notes take time to process on something -- there's a week's worth of them, after all! What did you think of Day One?

Day one was great. HOWEVER, since I usually view this from work, your site is restricted. I have to wait until you post it here.

[Lord of the Lurkers]

Wow, great writing Raoul. Ought to be a sticky on this, I only opened it 'cause it had so many replies & views. I'll email your web site around to some folks. I liked them all especially the short ones and these:

The Girl With the Cards
Dance of the Pig Queen
Empress Donut Goes Home
and especially
You Can't Take It With You - ROTFLMAO

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

A lot of replies here... I'll respond item by item.

Red: Wow, man. Just... wow. I don't think I've gotten a reponse that good even here up until that one (with the exception of one other, and only then because it came from Mike, who for some reason I find it inordinately important to redeem myself after the whole Hate Mail Page-earning thing)

Lady: I'm glad you like them, and there are more coming. I'm sorry to hear that you can't access my site (especially since it's visitor-supported. This is Gonzo journalism, and I've left the Republic for it -- nobody writes my paycheck now except my audience.) I'll keep them coming as long as you keep reading.

Lag: Sorry to hear about the down streak, my friend. But keep two things in mind: this project I'm orchestrating (for putting these notes in order is surely as difficult as ordering notes of the musical variety) will serve two purposes you may find immensely helpful -- it will demonstrate a set of very fundamental problems from which you (hopefully) are not suffering; and it will hopefully make you laugh, now and then.

Lord of the Lurkers: It's nice to see this work has dragged you, however briefly, out of the shadows. I'm happy to hear that you've enjoyed it so far, and I promise more to come, hopefully much more...

[XaLEv]

You really are an excellent author, Duke.

[RedImperator]

You really are an excellent author, Duke.

Seconded. The stuff you post here is just fantastic.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Wow... once again, thanks, guys. Day Three will be coming up tomorrow. If anybody knows of any newspapers or magazines that would grab it (for a modest fee, of course! lol) let me know. It should also be on the Dangerous Fun site as soon as I hear from Cap'n Hector about an uploading schedule. It may be that he's waiting until all seven days are present and accounted for here. Wise man.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Wow, great writing Raoul. Ought to be a sticky on this, I only opened it 'cause it had so many replies & views. I'll email your web site around to some folks. I liked them all especially the short ones and these:

The Girl With the Cards
Dance of the Pig Queen
Empress Donut Goes Home
and especially
You Can't Take It With You - ROTFLMAO

Personally, I'd like to see it stickied as well. I'd consider that a great honor. But only time, and the verdict of a mod, will tell...

[Frank Hipper]

I was up in your neck of the woods today, Senor Duke. Went to Hobby Depot down at Mill and Southern and Zia Record Exchange there at University and Maple. Always keep an eye out for our favorite Chronicler o' the Times.
(I'd probably bump into you and not know you, but it's the thought that counts. )

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

I was up in your neck of the woods today, Senor Duke. Went to Hobby Depot down at Mill and Southern and Zia Record Exchange there at University and Maple. Always keep an eye out for our favorite Chronicler o' the Times.
(I'd probably bump into you and not know you, but it's the thought that counts. )

Never shopped at Zia myself -- I've tried a couple of times, but every time I go in there I get waylaid by drama at the entrance. I kind of prefer Borders or Amazon.com for my music shopping, for some reason.

Whatever you do, don't give any business to Buffalo Exchange. I took an Armani denim jacket in there last winter; they declined to buy it from me, saying it just wasn't their kind of thing. Well, I was tired of carrying the fucking thing around in the truck, and nobody I knew wanted it (too light for the temperatures) so I donated it to them.

The very next day, it was on the rack for $38.00! Well, I made my displeasure known (in my own little way) and their manager assured me that donated items don't go on the rack for sale -- they get shipped out to a donation center.

So I had to point out the following bit of logic to her: even if the Armani denim jacket on the rack wasn't the one I brought in (which meant that it's previous owner would also have had to write "Buy the ticket, take the ride: on the liner in a drunken stupor, as I had done to my jacket) that meant that Buffalo Exchange had purchased a jacket from someone else identical to the one they had refused to purchase from me. She had no good explanation, but fortunately had the decency not to insult my intelligence by attempting one.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Day Three: Burn


I am sitting on the couch, cuddling with my girlfriend. This feels so much better. I lift a frosty bottle of Guinness to my lips, when she asks me a question. I didn't quite hear her.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, what did you say?"
She stares lovingly into my eyes and asks, "Mew?"
Huh?
"Mew?" she repeats, nuzzling my cheek. "Mrreow?" Her cheek is furry. I turn away as the dream -- and the comfort -- fade to bright, hot sunlight.

"Mrrrow?" the stray asks again as she rubs her cheek against my arm.
"Okay, okay."
She pushes something toward me -- what is that? A bird? A rat? "Breakfast in bed, huh?" I reach out and give her a scratch behind the ears; she pads over to James and repeats the performance. As I watch this, I am struck by the weirdly mythical quality of the scene -- the furry little mistress, waking her human children to send them off to another day at the school of hard knocks...

"So, does she do that every morning?" I ask James as we head for Starvation Army.
"Nah." James hands me a hand-rolled cigarette, lights his own. "Sometimes she lets us sleep in."

As we approach Salvation Army, I become intensely aware that I smell. I haven't showered since the day before yesterday, and with the days averaging upper 70s to lower 80s, combined with the increased outdoor physical activity, some most unhappy results have been achieved...

My feet, for example, are basting in sweat -- and it has also been two days since I changed my socks. They are now gluey, sticking to my soles. My toes feel like they are being microwaved.
My armpits, likewise, are quite pungent. Something on my scalp moves. I scratch at it. Every few seconds. I am Most Unhappy.

"Hey, Shelley," I ask the receptionist when she hands me a box of Buttermilk doughnuts, "is there anywhere to get a shower around here?"
"There's the Methodist Church," she rubs her chin. The sun is streaking through the window, bringing out the chestnut brown of her hair. "But that's not til the day after tomorrow."

I hang my head for a second. "Thanks, Shelley."
"You're welcome!" she says cheerfully.

Approaching the Regulators' usual table at Coffee Plantation, I hear,

"And then this guy, right, he was from Tombstone, but he was a Navajo, right? So the Army drugs his family with some kind of mitochondrial Kool-Aid, and then he wants to go on the war-path and everything, except he can't, 'cause they stole his name! So then they make him a Navy SEAL, only they take this rubber dinghy and they make him this special suit out of it--"

What... the... fuck? I take a seat next to James. I give him an inquisitive look. Shrug. I look to Sparky, sitting next to him. Sparky shakes his head. New kid, apparently; a Lost Boy for sure. He goes on:

"So then they take this rattlesnake from Colorado, and they dress him up in clown pants, right, only they make him sign a waiver first--"

"Excuse me," I ask this kid, "but are you aware that you're talking a whole lot of completely nonsensical shit?"
"No, wait." he says, a look of confusion on his darkly tanned face. "This really happened. It was in 1942. I saw it." He pulls out an old-fashioned pocket-knife and scratches his beard with it, nicking himself. "Ouch." he notes, and puts the knife away. "So then--"

New table! The kid wanders away, continuing his hypermumble. "So how come we're not camped out in the park?" it occurs to me. "It'd be a lot less risky than Craterville."
"Oh, no it fucking would not." Sparky shakes his head.
"Well, obviously not without a permit." I point out.
"I've never even heard of anybody getting one of those." James says. "I'm going in for iced tea. I'll be back."
"Has anybody ever tried to get an urban camping permit?"
Sparky shuffles his Magic cards. "I don't think so."
Now it's my turn. "I'll be back."

The Tempe City Tax & License Office is also located at Centerpoint -- only a few dozen steps, in fact, from the table where I was sitting. As I reach the door, a man in three-piece suit makes his exit. He eyes me up and down suspiciously, but says nothing.

The lobby is small -- cramped, actually. The scent of industrial detergent lingers in the well-conditioned air. Two theater-style ticket windows intersect; to one side, a door grants employee access. On the other, a black multi-line telephone adorns the wall.

"May I help you, sir?" a dark-haired twenty-something peers at me from behind horn-rimmed spectacles.
"Yes," I rest my arm on the small shelf in front of the window. "I'd like to apply for an urban camping permit."

Her eyes narrow suspiciously behind the very fashionable glasses. "I'm afraid I don't have any information about that." she says quickly.
"But this is the City Tax & License office," I object, "if you don't know about this license, who does?"
"As far as I know, sir," her tone borders on contemptuous now, "there's no such thing as an Urban Camping permit."
"And yet," I let my frustration show a little now, myself, "the signs in Papago Park explicitly state that camping there is prohibited without an Urban Camping Permit. Which would be incredibly stupid," I pause for emphasis, "if there is no such thing as an Urban Camping Permit."
She huffs. I stare. She puffs. I glare. Finally, she snatches a Post-It from a dispenser on her desk, and scribbles a number on it. "Here's the number for Parks & Recreation. You'll have to call them."
"Thanks." I take the note and step over to the phone, over which is a sign that reads: THIS TELEPHONE IS PROVIDED FOR TAX & LICENSE RELATED CALLS ONLY
"Excuse me," Ms. Horn-Rimmed calls from the other side of the glass. "I'll give you the number, but you'll have to make the call Somewhere Else, sir." She pronounced it, "s-i-r," but from her tone, she was obviously spelling it, "c-u-r."
I hold up the Post-It she's given me. "Is this not City business I'm inquiring about?" I want to know.
"Don't make me call Security, sir." she warns.

Fine. The last thing I want is to get arrested. I'll do a lot for a story, but I draw the line at becoming a guest of Sheriff Joe Arpaio. We'll talk more about him another time.

"Suffice it to say," I tell Sparky and James as I return from Salvation Army and a decidedly unhelpful phone call to Parks & Rec, "It is illegal to sleep outside in Tempe, Arizona. So much for that."

And here comes the Minimum-Purchase Nazi. Screw it. We make arrangements to meet back here later, then we disperse. Borders is interesting for awhile -- the new issues of Loaded and Front have arrived, and thank God for British magazines!

After an hour, though, tedium begins to set in. Time to spice things up a little. I flip through the latest issue of Superbike -- and voila! The centerfold! "Ha!" I exclaim with delight. "Boobies!"
Someone passing in front of me stops. "Excuse me?" asks a sultry voice. I look up. Oh. Hmm. More boobies. The tall brunette sees what I am reading, and then realizes I wasn't being crass, after all -- at least, not directly toward her. She winks, then leans waaaaaay over to have a look at the blonde on the Suzuki. "Mine are better." she asserts.
I look up instinctively. The view is spectacular. She smiles. "Yes." I agree. "Indeed." Now if only I had money... wait. What the hell is wrong with this woman? I reek! I haven't shaved in days! I look like I just got off the set of a Spaghetti Western, and... oh, well, she's gone.

A pattern is emerging, a routine is setting in -- Coffee Plantation, Borders, Graffiti Shop. "Hey, Osiris."
"Hey, man. What's up?" Osiris has the "water pipes" sitting in a neat row on the counter, while he dusts their customary shelf.
"Can I steal a cigarette from you, man?" I ask. Just then, Talia arrives. I've known Talia for a little over four months; 5'7", trim but curvaceous build, and absolutely gorgeous. I will have her. But not if she sees me looking like this.
"Hey, man," I tell Osiris just before she gets around the rack of t-shirts and spots me, "Gotta make like Hanes and haul ass. See you around!" That was close.

I've been trying, throughout the course of this assignment, to stay away from the ladies as much as possible... my current unkempt state and, shall we say, piquant aroma are not exactly conducive to affairs of romance... even if I had time. I'm shocked, then, when I reflect on how many of these kids have sexual partners. It is even more frightening and saddening, then, to note how often they apparently trade them.

I hear more talk about this when I get back to Coffee Plantation, but to be honest, I notice it only as a peripheral annoyance... the situation with my feet is almost totally unbearable now. The simple act of walking is an exercise in agony. I want nothing more than to strip off these fucking sponges my socks have become, sit in a hot bath for approximately six years, eat a hard of cows right on the fucking hoof, and then slip into some nice soft, dry, clean flannel boxers, slide myself between some cool, refreshing cotton sheets and sleep until humanity grows up.

I don't have that luxury. I can't even manage the walk back to my apartment, not even if I give away the sleeping bag to lose ballast. I am Committed, now, for good or ill. I have hit the deck, and it's sink or swim, as much so for me now as for any of the Regulators. Buy the ticket, take the ride. Indeed. Truer words were never penned.

"No socks here." James shakes his head. "You'll have to wait until Friday. Gretchen's usually got socks."
"I can't wait that long, man." I am desperate.
"Well," James scratches his red beard, evoking the image of Erik the Red contemplating conquest, "Your only other option, really, is to try and sp'ange for 'em. Gap has socks, four bucks a pair."

Oh, Christ. Sp'anging is the last thing I want to do. Being a fairly open-minded guy, I'll try almost anything once -- but I've given panhandling its chance, and... and the only other option is Friday. Fuck.

But at least I can modify the approach. I stagger back to the Graffiti Shop, literally doing everything in my power not to create any more friction on my burning, itching toes than necessary.

At the threshold at the top of the steep stairway entrance, I stop and listen for Talia's voice -- nothing. Good. Can't let the girl see me like this. Amazing how some priorities stay with you even under the worst kind of duress. I descend the stairs gingerly.

"Hey, Osiris."
"Hey hey. I thought you might be back. I bet you want a cigarette, don'tcha, fucker." Osiris has been putting up with my mooching for a day or two now, but he's still being good-humored about it. I resolve to buy him a carton when this is over.
"Do you have any spare cardboard in here, Osiris?" I ask as I light the Marlboro.

Fifteen minutes later, it's ready to go:

HUNGRY & TRYING TO GET A HOTEL ROOM

It is, Osiris assures me, the new Why Lie? I Need A Beer! Very popular in all the most posh skid row alleys. We'll see if its reputation is deserved.

I set myself up on a planter just off the main thoroughfare across from the Post Office. A streetlight just over my left shoulder provides lighting to the sign. I sit and watch small, tight clusters of people in Abercrombie & Fitch... Gap... Old Navy. My chances appear slim indeed.

"Hey." I look over. A guy who walked right past me a minute ago is holding out his hand. In it is a dollar.
"Thanks." I give him a small smile. "I appreciate it."
"Just don't drink it, buddy." he says, then wanders off. I'm not sure whether to be offended by the underhanded accusation or not, but there's not point in dwelling on it.

"Try getting a job!" someone yells as they pass by.
"Hire me!" I challenge, before I think better of it. The guy stops, sees the expression on my face... and keeps walking. Oops. The city's ordnances make panhandling illegal -- but what I've just done, under city codes, would be considered aggressive panhandling -- I'm not sure of the exact consequences for violating this particular edict, but knowing Tempe's municipal laws, it's probably decapitation followed by hanging, followed by a steep fine.

Someone else, a rather frumpy but friendly-looking woman in her mid-forties, hands me a dollar will wordlessly. I thank her, and she smiles as she moves on.

"Hey!" Oh, here we go again... A young, angry-looking woman storms up to where I'm sitting. "I saw that! You don't take money from women! Dumbass!" I think she meant to do something more than yell, I honestly do. But as she approached, I stood up -- my decision being to relocate before the scene she intended to start could have consequences.

Unfortunately, she took my attempt to flee as a threat. "You better sit back down!" she yelled. "You better--"
Finally, her boyfriend -- I'm guessing that's who he is -- corrals her. "Hey, sorry man," he mutters, shaking his head as he hands me a third dollar bill over her emphatic protests. "Needs her medication or something." He turns to her as he pulls her away, "What is wrong with you?! What if he'd had a knife?!"

Oh, god... what if he'd had a knife... I'm not even a person, anymore. I'm... what the hell am I? If people can look at me and see a dangerous animal dressed up in a pair of jeans and a leather jacket, instead of a human being who is suffering what may be the worst kind of existence possible in a modern, industrialized country... doesn't that mean that I am an animal? Just a dumb beast begging for a pair of fucking socks. And the worst part is, her reaction tells me that I hurt her somehow, by being out here... that somehow my very existence here is an attack... and even her very rational, very clearheaded friend there agreed. How long, he must have wondered, until this vile predator revealed his true, bloodthirsty nature?

This hurts. Oh, christ, this hurts. I sit here with my head in my hands, and it takes everything in me not to lose composure completely. Suddenly, the neon and the halogen and the flourescence are gone, utterly wiped away, because in reality this street is blacker than the Stygian Pits and colder than the Arctic Plain. This is Hell, and I am writing the guidebook. The more fool I.

My throat and chest are tight, and there is a hollow ache in my stomach that has nothing to do with what I haven't eaten today. The wind gusts, kicks a crumpled piece of paper against my leg. It blows away, and I want nothing more than to blow away with it.
I have not dropped the sign.

"Excuse me." a small voice says.
Please, God, no more.
"Excuse me. Do you want to go somewhere and get something to eat?"
I don't think I heard that right. "I'm sorry... what?"
An angel is standing there. Well, not literally, of course, but she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I'm almost certain of that. Beautiful, dark almond eyes twinkle in a perfect face framed by long dark hair.
"Come on," she says brightly, and reaches for my hand. I don't object. I couldn't if I wanted to.

"What's your name?" she asks as we pass Coffee Plantation.
"Daniel." I keep my answers short, simple. The less I tell her, the less I risk exposing why I'm out here. Somehow, letting her in on what's really going on here seems like a bad idea.

"I'm Nancy. Are you okay?" she asks, noticing that I am limping. Even I hadn't noticed until now that that is actually what I am doing.
"Um... I need to get a new pair of socks." I tell her simply. I regret telling her even this much.
"Oh!" she stops in front of the Gap. "Well... wait here." Now I'm really uncomfortable. I want her to stop. I want her to get angry, get dismissive, decide she doesn't care and wander away, because this isn't normal!

Wait a minute. Is it?

She returns with a playful bounce in her step, then notices me shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, the grimace on my face. As soon as I notice her notice -- which is too late -- I do my best to reign it in.

"Well, come on, soldier." she says, and we make our way toward Jack In The Box... and cheeseburgers, fries and Strawberry-and-Orange Minute Maid suicides. Nancy asks me what happened; I tell her I used to write for the Republic, and leave it at that.

It is after midnight when I make my covert entrance back into Craterville... James and Meredith are bundled up together, moonlight painting their faces the color of ivory... or the color of life lost. I sit and think for another hour, until a pair of green eyes appear in the shadows.

"Mew? Mrrreow?"

And the evening and the morning were the Third Day.

[Kelly Antilles]

*laughs* funny.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

*laughs* funny.

Um... which part, dear?

Just to let you all know, I had planned to have Day Three compiled, composed and posted by 5 o'clock today. However, I'm periodically having trouble with my computer, so whereas I will try, I can't promise it.

[LadyTevar]

Day Three is great!

Made me want to give the receptionist the finger.

Keep them coming!

[Kelly Antilles]

All of it, dear. All of it. You certainly earn your title as God of Naughty Little Boys!

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Day Three is great!

Made me want to give the receptionist the finger.

Keep them coming!

Gratse, gratse. Now, please understand that Day Three is still not complete yet, but I feel I need a wee break for a bit. So I'm going to go outside in the (relatively) fresh air and sunshine and step away from the computer for at least a good six hours. I expect plenty of PMs and emails when I get back. (Because I'm unrealistic that way! )

All kidding aside, I'll be back to finish up Day Three today. Promise.

[Sriad]

Day Three is great!

Made me want to give the receptionist the finger.

Keep them coming!

Gratse, gratse. Now, please understand that Day Three is still not complete yet, but I feel I need a wee break for a bit. So I'm going to go outside in the (relatively) fresh air and sunshine and step away from the computer for at least a good six hours. I expect plenty of PMs and emails when I get back. (Because I'm unrealistic that way! )

All kidding aside, I'll be back to finish up Day Three today. Promise.

This is fascinating stuff, thanks for posting it. Methinks I'll check out some more gonzo journalism next time I'm at the library.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Day Three is complete.

[Sriad]

Day Three is complete.

It certainly is. Reading the "bleak despair" section reminded me of my Philosophy of Society class. I recommend you check out Quinn when you have a chance, I rememmber we discussed some interesting stuff about homelessness while we were studying him.

One thing we discussed was the origin of America's overtly hostile attitude towards the homeless. I recall one story about resturaunts in New York that would poar ammonia or something on the food they threw away so that people couldn't dumpster dive for it. What the hell is that supposed to say? "Even our trash is to good for you"?

Apparently what Quinn suggests is responsible for this are the four basic memes of society-
1: The best way to live is to grow all your own food, (meaning the society, not the individual. Basically means agriculture)
2: Society must continue at all cost,
3: Our way is the only right way to be human,
4: Civilization is the highest level of human invention. It's especially the last two; homeless people represent a different (and "inherently inferior") social paradigm, so they have to be forced into acceptable roles in society or else persecuted into non-existance, thus the reactions like "get a job!" or the ammonia example. I don't know how much I agree with everything he says, but it's interesting stuff, and definately relevant.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Interesting commentary...

Day Four will be in the works today, and should be done by tonight or tomorrow.

[Lagmonster]

All of it, dear. All of it. You certainly earn your title as God of Naughty Little Boys!

He's a what-what of the what, now??? I am positive that even at my age that I am TOO YOUNG to hear of the depravities that would earn one that title.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

All of it, dear. All of it. You certainly earn your title as God of Naughty Little Boys!

He's a what-what of the what, now??? I am positive that even at my age that I am TOO YOUNG to hear of the depravities that would earn one that title.

I'm not entirely sure I understand the genesis of the title, either... I hope that it is simply a declaration that I am the Paragon of mischievous little ne'er-do-wells, the character of Tom Sawyer personified to the mythic level. I hope.

Otherwise, Kelly thinks I'm a pervert. And I am... just not that kind of pervert.

[Kelly Antilles]

"Tom Sawyer personified to the mythic level." I like that.

And yes, that's waht I mean. Most naughtly little boys are very good... especailly at being naughty.