Birthday Suit

"You write next chapter now," she said.

And while I banged out words on the computer keyboard, words and sentences and paragraphs that seemed almost to have no relationship to one another, I monitored her in my peripheral vision.  She had gone to stand in front of the eyepiece for the peep show, and while she stood looking she slowly, almost imperceptibly, ground her pelvis back and forth, moaning softly all the time.

What at first seemed an incredible joke became a feverish writing activity for me.  Suddenly I was back on track, highly motivated to turn over that very next chapter to her, to begin the process of apparel removal.  Although I'd never written much in my life I felt as if I were setting some kind of speed record for generating text, and when, within a half hour, I had produced a modest chapter I eagerly sent it to her phone.  She read the chapter quickly, nodding her approval.

"Now you cooking with gas," she said, slipping off the enormous glove from her left hand.  "How many article of clothing I remove before I go?"

I got back to work immediately, churning out enough chapters to get her out of the right glove, the parka and both boots before our two hours were up.

Later, as she was leaving, I said, "I'll have you naked before you get out of here tomorrow."

"You talk cocky talk," she said.  "We see if you walk cocky walk."

I was writing when my dinner tray slid into the cell.  I was writing long after rigor mortis had afflicted the food.  I was writing way past the time I should have taken a third or fourth break to urinate.  I was writing when I should have rolled into my bunk for a necessary night's sleep.  I was writing when my breakfast tray slid into a rear-end collision with my dinner tray.  I was writing when Nanime reappeared the next day for our two-hour session.

When she addressed me--holding her phone out for me to see--she was smiling openly.  "You been busy beaver," she said.

I was confident I had written enough to get her stripped to the layer of clothing she was born in, so I sat back in my office chair, my hands clasped behind my head, eager to watch the unveiling.  I soon realized, though, as she peeled off a red turtleneck sweater to reveal a long-sleeve white blouse, that she was wearing extra clothing beneath the outer apparel, and I became uncertain if my chapter credits were sufficient to redeem the grand prize.

I began to perspire when I realized how close it would be.  I had watched her take off the long-sleeve blouse to reveal a type of crewneck undershirt, which she removed to reveal an A-shirt undershirt, the removal of which revealed a tube top which covered a strapless white brassiere.  When she took off the insulated thermal pants to expose a pair of denim jeans I thought, perhaps, I was one layer away from seeing her panties, but the jeans came off to reveal a pair of workout pants beneath which was a pair of frayed denim cutoffs.

When she stepped sexily out of the cutoffs, she giggled.  "You two chapter short," she said.

I turned to examine the analog clock above the computer.  There was half an hour left before our two hours were up.  I began to write like a maniac, trying hard to ignore her laughter and her words of discouragement:  "You never make it.  Time ticking away.  Only a few minute to go.  Time up."

Just before she mouthed this last I emailed the final two chapters, and the musical tone on her zPhone, The Laundry Bears' pageant to orgasms--I Live for Climax--informed her I had made it just under the wire.

I watched as she peeled off her bra and panties, standing unashamedly in her birthday suit, and I understood then that she was no girl, but a fully-developed young woman.

She said, "Shame we have no more time.  But wait.  Special offer for today only:  three-hour tutor session."  She laughed provocatively.

I was out of my clothing in record time, across the floor to envelop her petite magnificence, and we waltzed together in the nude to my bunk where we quickly deep-sixty-nined ourselves into a sexual fever.  Just as we uncoupled and repositioned for totally-gratifying consummation of this patently absurd erotic writing act, a piercing alarm went off in the cell.

It was deafening, akin to a flock of wounded geese all honking at the same time.  Within seconds the cell door flew open, and three guards wearing body armor and hooded helmets rushed inside.  One lifted Nanime as if she were made of balsa wood and carried her out.  The other guards, wielding chartreuse-colored nightsticks began beating me, whacking, as if they were chopping wood, at my thighs, delivering full-on blows to my buttocks and biceps until I curled into a fetal position on the floor and tried to wiggle my way under the bunk.  They departed as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me in a mangled heap.

They never hit me on the head, neck or shoulders, and none of my blood was let, but I was a bruised and battered pulp of incarcerated writer, suddenly convinced I would never make it out of the agententiary alive.

Seeking Rep

A few days after I was released from the infirmary, still sore and stiff from the beating--the eel-like red welts raised by the nightsticks nearly shrunken back to skin level--several guards entered my cell again.  This time they came to transfer me somewhere, and before leading me into the hallway one of them strapped a plastic bracelet with a bar code around my left wrist.

I was surprised when we got out to see most of the other inmates being escorted along the halls as well, a great mass of shackled humanity shuffling along the prison corridors.  Guards brandishing nightsticks and braintasers were stationed every ten feet or so to insure that prisoners were funneled into single-file lines against the inside walls.  Having only been in the agententiary proper two times before--once upon initial incarceration and once recently to spend a week in intensive care, where I was nursed back to health by the sweetest young woman (Candace Stryper)--I had no idea where we were going.

We filed down four flights of stairs before arriving at a huge space that seemed like an indoor holding yard for cattle.  I saw then that, interspersed at regular intervals around the entirety of the enormous room, were doorways that led into darkened chutes where prisoners were being led one-by-one.  The head of the line I was in ended at the nearest chute on the left, and we had to stand, literally, for hours before the queue began to move.  Another half hour more and I had reached the door and started down the ramp through a darkened corridor lit only by the kind of LED aisle lights found in old-time movie theaters.

There were guards close in beside the prisoners in the chute, and they made sure the line kept moving forward and that inmates weren't talking to one another.  A claustrophobic quiet reverberated within the dim tunnel.  Several times I had to ward off a near-panic attack, gripped by the need to turn and flee, to swim, like a crazed salmon, back through the raging current of prisoners to the well-lit holding pen.  But each time I calmed myself with relaxing breathing techniques I had mastered while studying Aikido at the dojo in Phoenix.

When there was only one prisoner ahead of me--a grizzled veteran whose gray-and-black goatee resembled the tail of a mangy geriatric cat--and the guard had dropped back ten paces to assist somebody with a pin-prick inoculation for what seemed to be an asthmatic attack, I whispered to the guy in front, "What are we doing?"

After a cursory look into my eyes he quickly scanned the corridor, an expression of distaste etched into his chiseled face.  "Twice a year we're all required to run the gauntlet at Agents' Row," he whispered.

"Agents' Row?"

"SILENCE!" the guard behind us screamed.

The grizzled veteran swiveled his head back around just as the door opened.  It closed behind him as he walked through.

A few minutes later the door opened again and a guard beckoned me inside.

Instantly I recognized the scene.  It was what I had witnessed in the peep show a week-and-a-half ago.  As I approached the first open station I noticed the grizzled veteran at station #2 holding his plastic bracelet in front of a scanner to the right of the seated representative.  When I stood in front of the middle-aged woman whose white name tag read "Valerie Teaburn" I held my bracelet up to the electronic reading device.  After the electronic beep of recognition I watched her raise her weary eyes to the monitor screen in front of her.  Tired, pea-green eyes magnified by saucer-sized, red-framed bifocal lenses scanned back and forth a few times before dropping to a keypad.  She quickly punched a key, the result of which was the production of an almost inaudible low tone resonating with rejection.

"No," she said.  "Next."

As I sidled over to the next station I realized she had never once looked at me.

Dressed in a white shirt that seemed as if it had been soaked in starch overnight the next representative's piano-keyboard smile went right through me as if I were a ghost smiling.  His name was printed in bold scarlet letters across the white name tag:  "Nathan Bronte."  After I held my bar code bracelet to the scanner and heard the corresponding beep, I watched as he passed his eyes back and forth along the upper portion of the monitor screen.  His phony smile instantly deflating into a frown, he said, "It'll never sell.  Didn't your tutor teach you anything?  Next."

And so on and so on for what seemed like hours until finally, somewhere in the middle section of the indeterminably long table, I stood in front of a woman representative whose name was "Mimi Motley."  Her chair, different from the others', had a comfortable-looking padded back, and it was raised higher than any of the previous chairs by at least six inches.  And, unlike the others, she wore some kind of hairpiece atop her head, a silver ribbon that bore the likeness of a slender crown. The bar-code-to-scanner routine had already become second nature to me, and I watched disinterestedly while she scanned the screen in front of her.  Slowly I grew aware of the fact that she was reading more of the words on the monitor than the other representatives had.  But when she finished, her handsome face grew grotesque under a mask of abject cynicism.

"I'll guarantee you I've read far more of this book than all of the others combined, and I can say without reservation that it's mediocre at best.  This all comes out of lust, a perverse masculine need to sexually objectify all women in order to subjugate them.  There are no real characters here--just sexual acts meant to fulfill one man's distasteful fantasies--fantasies that might be believable if the MC were a recently-pubescent adolescent with raging hormones.  It's back to the drawing board for you, mister.  I suggest you scrap this whole project and begin again.  There isn't a kernel of meaning here worth salvaging."

During the dressing down the decibel level of her voice had risen in a crescendo that culminated in a high-pitched shriek, attracting the attention of everybody in the vicinity.  I looked at her in stunned silence, noticing that her carotid arteries were bulging like high-voltage electrical cables.  I was so pissed I felt like screaming at her, but before I could, she said, "Next."

I don't think I calmed down until I was ten or twelve representatives away from her, and only then because I caught a glimpse of the table's end.  By the time I reached it I was literally numb, and I stood in front of the final station watching as the grizzled veteran ahead of me was shown to a door and ushered out of the room by a guard.  While I waited for the final verdict, which could be any of several different responses--"Won't sell," "Not commercial enough," "Not up to snuff," "Doesn't target a large enough readership"--I took a glance at my surroundings.  The enormity of the whole project was stunning:  incredibly long tables paralleling each other throughout the space, line-upon-line of inmates moving from station to station, doors to feeder chutes opening and shutting to eject prisoners--like pieces of candy from an ancient Pez dispenser--into the main chamber.

Turning back to the last representative, an affable-enough looking man whose neck fat had swelled to near-goiter proportions, I watched as he lifted his battleship-grey eyes to stare at me.  Nodding his head, he said, "Right.  I understand.  I'll give him the message."

It was then I realized he had a miniscule listening device in his right ear, and he was talking into a tick-sized microphone at the end of a wire no thicker than a strand of angel hair pasta.

Pointing to a glass-walled booth which stood at an oblique angle ten feet removed from the table, inside of which a dark-haired young woman dressed in a tan business suit sat behind an elevated desk, he said, "You are to report there."

She was waiting for me when I arrived at the door, and she nodded to signal I should enter.  You couldn't have missed her name even if you were nearly blinded from advanced cataracts.  It was emblazoned in bold orange letters on a green placard:  HORTENSIA NARANJA.  Across from the desk was a tasteful grey leather chair, and she gestured toward it.  "Please, sit," she said.

She was a classic Mexican beauty:  black olive eyes, a Roman nose, full ruby lips, the latter of which were smiling at me.

"I think I understand what you're trying to do here," she said, the timber of her voice like the low notes of a cello.  "If you're willing to work with me I think we can come up with something really decent."

I couldn't believe my ears.  I had just been through an exhausting ordeal, yet her words of encouragement were energizing.

After monitoring my face briefly, she said, "So what do you say.  Do we have a deal?"

"Deal," I said.

Prep Time

The next morning after breakfast, while I sat at the computer trying to envision the kinds of revisions Hortensia Naranja might require I make on Utomepia, I couldn't get past the nagging feeling that there was something bothering me--something, that is, in addition to my ongoing incarceration and the physical abuse to which I had recently been subjected.  For the life of me, though, I could not put my finger on it.  So I had just determined it would distract me from my task not a second longer when the cell door opened.  Before turning I tried to savor momentarily the satisfied look of accomplishment I expected to find on the face of the lovely Nanime, who surely was justifiably proud of both me and herself.  But when I pirouetted in my office chair I was startled to discover a man standing there.

"Hello," he said.

He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, an unkempt splash of ebony hair smudged across his broad, white forehead, Wooly Bear Caterpillar eyebrows arched over iris-less bituminous eyes, a five-o'clock shadow as coarse as macrogrit sandpaper, and a lopsided smile that revealed a crooked canine badly in need of a seeing-eyetooth.

I said, "Who are you?"

"Max Prompter.  Hortensia asked me to make you my special project."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

He laughed, an outburst that crossed the line from snort to guffaw.

I said, "Where's Nanime?"

"Last I heard they had transferred her to the federal facility at Remainderland."

"I've never heard of that place.  Where is it?"

"The north of Finland.  Does it matter?"

"She did a lot for me.  I'd like to think she's okay."

He nodded his understanding, waited just long enough for a respectful moment to pass, then said, "We've got things to do.  I'm going to give you recommendations and suggestions--some stronger than others--about how you should proceed to polish this work.  Hortensia sees real promise here--and believe me, where the Queen of Agents finds merit it exists.  So we need to be diligent.  First up:  you need to tone the sex scenes down.  Any future sexual encounters mustn't even hint at the lewd or lascivious.  You've already accomplished your purpose with your prior sexual scenes, and you've set the audience up perfectly.  Finding 'tamer' trysts will convince readers that more explicit relations await them in future chapters, forcing them to read on eagerly."

He fixed his lump-of-coal eyes on me in a look whose message was clear:  do you understand the instruction?

I nodded my understanding.

"Additionally," he said, "we need more action.  The opening of the book is brilliant, and you keep the reader's eyes riveted to the pages.  But it's bogged down a bit after the capture and incarceration.  No physical violence, though; that will come later in the denouement.  Agreed?"

"Agreed."

He said, "Also, we need to begin preparations for your coming out."

"Coming out?  I'm going to reveal that I'm really gay?"

"Don't be absurd," he said, struggling not to burst out laughing.  "Your 'coming out' at the literary ball."

"Will I be required to wear a tuxedo?"

"Most likely," he said, quickly dismissing that particular comedic track.  "The kind of preparation I'm talking about revolves around you writing reviews of other people's books in your spare time.  You'll visit all the social media sites, whether they're dedicated to writers or not, and you'll click on as many links to their books as is physically and psychologically possible.  Most will take you to the world's largest online bookseller--Ambargutenpress.glo--where you'll leave your reviews.  Each review you deposit is like money in the World Bank, accruing interest until that moment in the near future when it's time to cash in your chips."

Max Prompter was a highly-motivated young man, and I couldn't help but admire his intellect.  He and Hortensia Naranja had--for whatever reason--high hopes for me, and I wanted to make sure I did everything in my power not to let them down.

When he left a few minutes later, he said, "You're going to get back to work, right?"

"Absolutely."

And I did.  I edited and revised right until dinnertime, and afterwards I began writing reviews of other people's books.  Some could only be described as "pure crap," but I sucked it up and lied my ass off about the relative merits of each and every one.

Later, as I lay in my bunk, the nagging sensation of an unidentifiable worry returned.  This time the object of my concern was a little clearer.  It had to do with Hortensia Naranja.  But what?  Naranja.  The disquieting feeling seemed to revolve around her last name.  Naranja.  It was a word in Spanish.  I had studied a little Spanish as an undergraduate, and the word naranja existed somewhere in the Dictionary of Foreign Words and Expressions located on the bottom shelf in the lower level of the library buried deep inside my mind.  But I couldn't find the volume.

I thought about Max Prompter and what he had called her:  "The Queen of Agents."

I grew drowsy as the words that had been knocking around inside my head transmogrified into a tiny flock of sparrows that twittered around the base of a tree whose trunk was painted white a third of the way up.  The birds lifted off the ground all at once, flew in a tight spiral around the green crown of the tree, then disappeared inside the leaves, except for one who landed on a globular fruit of the tree and began pecking at the thick rind.

My eyes opened and I stared at the dark ceiling of my cell.  "Naranja," I said aloud.  "Orange."

I sat up, flipping my legs over the side of the bunk, planting my feet firmly on the tile floor.  I said, more boldly, "The Queen of Agents."

Standing, I walked into the bathroom, switched the light on and stared at myself in the tiny mirror.  I watched as my reflection mouthed the words that had suddenly sprung to mind:  "AgentOrange."

Breakout

For about a month after our first meeting I worked intensely with Max Prompter, eight hours a day or more every day of the week.  Not only was he fervent about helping to polish my book to a professional level, but he showed me all of the tricks involved in setting up a social network to insure future success.  Until then I had no real conception about how many such websites existed.  Sure, I had heard of the early forerunners--some of which were still around--like Facebook and Tumblr, Linkedin and Mammie'sMilk; but VoyeurDaze, SelfieHeaven, LikemePleas, WannaBeez?--no.  Max also taught me everything there was to learn about keywords and hashtags and how to use them to maximum effect.

He was so certain that what we were involved in producing was going to be a phenomenal success that some of his confidence began to rub off on me.  It was after one such satisfying day, after he had gone and I had consumed two extra post-dinner Somales right before going to sleep, that I realized just how quickly the changes would come.  I had crawled into my bunk and dropped immediately into a profound sleep.  Sometime in the middle of the night I thought I heard the cell door open and shut rapidly.  I lay listening for movement; when I heard nothing for several minutes I decided I had dreamed the incident.

But when I rolled onto my right side and faced the wall somebody slipped into the bunk, a warm naked body snuggling against me.  My first thought was "Nanime," but a whiff of citrus-blossom perfume told me otherwise.  It was her:  Hortensia.  When I turned I could just make out her face in the thin green glow of the computer's power-on light.  She was smiling.  She was beautiful.

"How did you get in here?" I said.

"I have my ways."

"Why are you here?"

"Why do you think?"

I didn't know what to think, but I was already aroused in a strictly non-platonic way.

She said, "I love your main character--he's rugged, yet sensitive, intelligent and emotional all at once.  He's impulsive, but not pushy, practical, yet willing to take chances."

"That's quite a compliment coming from you."

"It's the truth," she said, accidentally brushing against the stick of pepperoni that had suddenly materialized in the bunk.  "It's time for you to breakout."

"Breakout?  This is a maximum-security facility."

"Not that kind of breakout, payaso.  The kind where you emerge on the literary stage as a legitimate player."

"Really?"

"Absolutely.  You have no idea what I'm going to do for you.  You'll be out of here before you know it.  I've already arranged for them to reduce your sentence from two books to one, and you'll only have to share an equal cut on all profits from sales.  I have connections in the film industry.  All I need do is call in a few markers and we're on our way to movie magic.  Before we're through people will be throwing money at you to write a sequel.  You'll be the most famous prisoner ever released from Paso del Norte."

"Why?  Why do all these things for me?"

"Because any man who can write a main character like this one deserves nothing less than ultimate respect--and success."

Our faces were just inches apart.  We stared at each other like leading actors in a movie.  We looked at each other's lips, carefully examining them.  We cocked our heads as we went in for the kiss, our mouths converging in agonizingly slow motion.  It was undeniably the tenderest kiss I've ever had.  Her breath was so sweet I momentarily worried about halitosis, but she seemed satisfied.

I said, "You're doing everything for me-what can I do for you?"

"I was hoping you'd ask," she said, pressing her warm, nude body into mine.  "Ever since I first read this book there's only one thing I've wanted from you."

"Anything."

"Let's cuddle through the night.  Let's avoid ruining this special metaphysical relationship we're embarking upon."

"Cuddle?"

"Yes, cuddle."

I did as she requested, and within a few moments she was snoring softly.  Half an hour later the blood finally started coursing again through the rest of my body.

One Year On

I sat in the Green Room watching the 72-inch monitor suspended on the far wall, marveling at how lifelike the 3D images of the show were.  There was the handsome Euan McCloud and the beautiful Bonnie McRae, host and hostess of the "Show-n-Tell Show," interviewing Morph Wonderson, star of the long-running hit TV series "Watch My Dog."  They were just wrapping up the segment before going to a break, and I was certain a crew member would soon come to collect me.  I wasn't nervous at all because I'd been running on pure adrenaline ever since my early-out from Paso del Norte.  The phenomenal success of my book, Utomepia, just served to stoke the fire.  Things were rolling forward, gathering momentum, just as Hortensia predicted they would.

The door opened and a young woman whose complexion was entirely too white said, "They want you on the set now."

I followed her down a narrow hallway, through an opened double door and onto a stage behind a heavy, red-velvet curtain.  A makeup man dabbed a blotter beneath each of my cheekbones as I listened to the chattering murmur of the live audience.  All the while the near-albino young woman kept hold of my wrist as if I were a fun-seeking puppy who might bolt at any moment. When the makeup man was finished, the woman led me nearer the left-hand side of the curtain.

The band's jazzy rendition of "Reading a Book" signaled that the show was coming back from break.  A second later I heard Bonnie say, "Welcome back.  Well, we have a huge surprise for you in our Arts and Entertainment segment today, the author of this month's best-selling dystopian novel, Utomepia, Lee Rowe."

The near-albino practically shoved me forward, and I emerged from behind the curtain to a rousing applause from the audience.  Euan met me several paces from the couch, and I marveled at his size.  He was much larger than he appeared on TV, a good three inches taller than me.  He was still shaking my hand as I stepped onto the platform and crossed to greet Bonnie.  Early in her career she had been renowned for her legs--best in the business--and had been affectionately dubbed the "Good Gams Girl."  I couldn't help but notice, as I sat on the couch directly across from her, that they were still gorgeous.  She crossed them slowly beneath her form-fitting sequined electric-blue dress.

"So good to meet you at last, Lee," she said.

"Yes," said Euan.

"Good to be here."

Bonnie said, "Lee, yours is a fascinating story regarding how this book--the one we're all so much a part of now--came to be.  As I understand it you were on the run, trying your best to avoid writing it.  Is that correct?"

"Yes, Bonnie.  Like many people--perhaps some in your audience here--I was reluctant to fall in line.  I was, in fact, something of a rebel when it came to book writing."

"Something of a rebel?" Euan said, repeating the phrase for emphasis, looking at the audience to prompt laughter.  "You were captured near Mexico, sentenced to two years hard writing at the federal agententiary in Ciudad Juarez, Texas, and you escaped custody when the van transporting you to Paso del Norte crashed in the desert.  You were then befriended by several women who ultimately turned you over to the authorities, and you were incarcerated in West Texas."

"That pretty much sums it up, Euan."

Bonnie said, "You've managed to incorporate so much of those events into the novel, Lee, one has to wonder how much of it is autobiography and how much pure fiction."

"Well, Bonnie, we're all aware of the writing tip 'write what you know.'  I've written what I know.  What more can I say?"

"And good writing it is," Euon said, "number one on the Sinaloa Times' best-seller list for four weeks in a row now."

"AND," Bonnie said, squealing with practiced delight, "it's been made into a movie."

"That's right, Bonnie, a film starring two of America's best actors:  Brick Hoven and Xochitl de la O."

Turning to the audience, Bonnie said, "We have a big treat for you today:  a clip from the movie, which is called 'Freedom Fugitive.'  Can you tell us what we're going to see, Lee?"

"I believe this is a scene from the second half of the movie, when the Brick Hoven character is about to exact revenge on the people who betrayed him."

"Let's watch," she said.

The lights on the set dimmed, the red-velvet curtains slid apart, and the video began to play on an ocean-liner-sized screen at the back of the studio.  It was the scene in the small jail, where Hoven had the two women--Dolly and her friend, Mindy--Dolly's boss, Mr. Seelion, and Sheriff Buford locked together in the narrow cell.  Hoven pulled a wooden chair within five feet of the cell door.  On the seat were five sticks of dynamite duct-taped together, their fuses twisted into one, like braided hair.  Hoven removed an old Zippo cigarette lighter from his jeans pocket, flipped the cover open and snapped down on the thumb wheel, sparking the flame into life.  He looked at his prisoners before touching the flame to the fuse.

"You'll never get away with this," Buford said.  "They'll hunt you down and kill you like a rabid dog."

"Stop kidding yourself, Sheriff.  If I put this scene in a sequel and the sequel sells big, nobody will ever care what happened to you."

Dolly said, "Please, hun.  We didn't mean to do you wrong.  We were just being selfish, like most people these days.  But if you feel you must kill people to get revenge, kill these three and let me go.  I can make you happy.  You KNOW I can make you happy."

Hoven lit the fuse, and while the spark began its slow descent toward the sticks of dynamite he smiled at the prisoners, thoroughly savoring the look of anguished panic in their eyes.

"Adios, scum," he said, exiting the jail.

A black Harley Davidson hog waited out front, a monocycle decorated with orange flames painted along the gas tank.  The hog roared to life when Hoven started it, and he barreled down the main street of the small town just before the jail blew to smithereens.

As the video faded out on the screen, and the house lights slowly went up, there was raucous applause from the audience.  Bonnie McRae clapped enthusiastically.

She said, "How very exciting."

"Exciting, yes," Euan said.

"Thank you," I said.  "Thank you."

"There was mention in the movie about a sequel," Bonnie said.  "Are you planning a sequel?"

"I'm working on one right now."

Euan said, "Good stuff."

"I want to thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to appear on the 'Show-n-Tell Show,'" Bonnie said.

"Yes, thank you," Euan said.

"It was my pleasure."

I shook his hand as I stood,  When I crossed to Bonnie and shook her hand she pressed a piece of paper into my palm.  Then she gave me a huge hug, her perfume a powerful drug that literally made me feel lightheaded.  Whispering into my ear, she said, "Call me.  I want to jump your bones."

When I backed away I struggled to keep the excitement off my face.  But as I retraced my steps toward the Green Room I couldn't help but fantasize about a future tryst with the vivacious Bonnie McRae.

Hortensia was waiting for me outside the studio.  She had witnessed my interaction with Bonnie from the audience.

"What the hell was that about?" she said.

"What was what about?"

"Don't think I didn't see the way she threw herself at you."

"She throws herself at everybody like that.  Don't let your imagination run wild."

"Just be very careful.  If you see her again it could result in dire consequences."

During the limousine ride back to the hotel, while Hortensia distractedly surveyed the passing landscape, I slipped the note Bonnie had passed to me into my mouth and chewed inconspicuously, swallowing the paper after a few minutes.  I could only hope when I retrieved it later I'd find that it had been penned in indelible ink.

Intervention

I left my monocycle in the alley behind the studio, going to the rear door, the gray one with the red X on it, like Bonnie had suggested when I called her.  "If it's safe for you to enter I'll have left the back door propped open slightly," she had said.

I was ecstatic to find the door minutely ajar, kept from closing completely by a micromemory plug.  I caught the plug in my left hand when I pulled on the handle, then cautiously stepped inside.  The lights were dimmed in Bonnie's dressing room, but I could see her in the full-length mirror against the far wall, admiring herself while she stood almost completely nude in a flimsy gauze dressing gown unfastened at the front.  When she caught sight of me she smiled broadly into the reflecting glass.

Turning, she said, "Lee--I'm so glad you came."

As I quickly closed the gap between us, I said, "Not half as glad as I am."

We embraced and kissed.

Leaning back, she said, "I hated to have you come here, but I can never get away.  It seems like my entire life is devoted to this show.  Don't get me wrong--I love it, but it takes a toll."

"I don't mind coming."

"But there's a certain element of danger."

"You're worth it."

I had just begun to pass my hands gently across her voluptuous breasts when the front door of the dressing room burst open and Euan McCloud stepped partially inside.

"I had a feeling this might happen," he said to Bonnie.  Speaking out into the hallway, he said, "He's in here."

A second later Hortensia came in.  Staring coldly into my eyes, she said, "You were warned."

I said, "I don't see--"

"Shut up," she said.  To Euan, she said, "Have the others bring the PUV round back."

He quickly exited the dressing room.

Bonnie hurriedly tied her robe as we stood awkwardly waiting for Hortensia's next move.  It was stunning.  To Bonnie she said, "Enjoy your very last show tonight.  Your replacement will be here tomorrow."

Bonnie said, "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're through," Hortensia said.  To me she said, "Your thirty-days-of-fame period has expired."

The rear door I had entered swung open and two BookForce marshals entered.  One was wearing a Mark4 visor, and its laser sight made a red dot in the middle of my chest.  The other marshal said, "Let's go," and they led me outside into the night, where a black, penal utility vehicle was waiting.

Hortensia climbed into the back seat with me.  Through the rear passenger window I could see Euan McCloud standing behind the studio smiling at me.

As soon as the vehicle pulled forward, Hortensia said, "You'll be required to serve a two-year tour-of-duty with the BookForce as a junior marshall.  For the first year you'll be on the Fugitive Reclamation Squad.  If you successfully carry out your Year One responsibilities you'll be enrolled in AARP--Agent Assistant Reading Program--where you'll comb through all books produced by agententiary inmates in an effort to find works exhibiting potential.  A person of your intelligence should be able to graduate quickly, and in no time you'll find yourself promoted to full-fledged agent, assuming your rightful place at Paso del Norte, helping to funnel worthy authors into publishing contracts which will bring them their requisite month in the limelight.  Play your cards right and within a decade or so--if your book keeps selling moderately well--you may experience a one- or two-week revival period."

As the PUV pulled into the airport and made its way behind the main terminal it struck me:  the flame that burned brightly during my brief period of fame had just been snuffed out.  I would soon be part of the prosaic, mundane work-a-day world from which I had tried so hard to escape.

Zen Monk's Daughter

It was late July--just after the monsoon season had begun in the Sierra Madre Occidental--and I was clinging to a dangerously narrow trail in Barrancas del Cobre (Copper Canyon), not one hundred yards from Basaseachic Falls, tracking down a freedom fugitive who was almost certainly on the path ahead of me, possibly heading my way.  I had been sent down from Paso del Norte to hook up with a BookForce squad out of Creel, which had pursued the fugitive down the Chihuahua-Pacific railroad line to Divisadero near the "Three Canyons" overlook.  From there the marshals had split up, and I was sent out on a flanking maneuver meant to confront the fugitive head-on.

I stopped for a break, removing my Mark4 visor in order to wipe the perspiration from my forehead with a red-checkered bandana.  I rubbed my hands on denim-clad thighs to dry my sweaty palms.  Nervous about the upcoming confrontation I took several deep breaths of fresh canyon air, surveying the magnificent mountain scenery in this section of Chihuahua State that had once belonged to the country of Mexico.  Years ago, when the Dempublicans were still in the control of the U.S. government there had been a bill in congress designating Copper Canyon the newest National Park, but once the Coprolites ascended to power all pretense of environmental stewardship flew out the window.  Regions already designated national parks were serially removed from the registry, and all areas of the country were reopened to resource production and urban development.  Within a decade the U.S. began a prolonged period of imperialistic expansion, referred to in history texts as "Manifest Destiny Four," and the U.S. Gruntrines conquered vast regions of our neighboring country to the south.

I moved forward cautiously on the trail, stepping off of it after traveling just twenty feet to climb a small rock promontory.  From there, through an opening in the tree canopy, I could see all the way to the spot where the Basaseachic River dropped precipitously over the cliff edge, the water plunging straight down for 800 feet.  That's when I got a look at him, a sleight man dressed in a camouflaged khaki uniform.  From this distance I saw that he was dark-complected, but couldn't discern the details of his face.  He had paused on the trail just this side of the river, and he swiveled his head left and right, aware, perhaps, of an imminent confrontation.

I wasn't sure I could get close enough to apprehend him without incident.  The sheer face of the cliff wall to my right represented true peril, and I imagined engaging in a physical struggle that would send both of us plunging to our deaths.  I wondered if I could stay where I was, wait for him to come to me, jump him as soon as he passed.  But what if he was wary enough to detect me, and armed to prevent capture?  I could set the Mark4 on "stun," hit him with just enough juice to knock him off his feet.  I would have to put it on the lowest setting, though, because this guy was small--maybe just over a hundred pounds.

I removed the Mark4, turned the control dial to calibrate the power, then raised it back to my head.  As I did, though, the sun glinted off the transparent alumina visor, reflecting a beam of light directly up the trail.  I held my breath as I looked to see if he had seen it.  He had.  My only hope now was to run at full speed to catch him.  As I did I noticed that he wasn't running away.  Instead he seemed to be hooking something around the trunk of the large pine tree behind him.  When I had closed within fifty feet of the fugitive I realized he had attached a static line to the tree and was in the process of jumping from the cliff.  I could only watch in horror as he launched himself out into space.

Looking over the edge I watched the topside of the orange parachute as it floated swiftly downward.  I sincerely worried for the guy's safety because the terrain at ground level was incredibly rocky, and the pool that received the water from the falls churned violently.  Just then a gust of wind rose up-canyon, carrying the chute toward a grove of tall trees.  A moment later the parachutist was snagged in the crown of what looked to be an ancient sycamore.  I could see him hanging limply, like a rag doll.  From here I wasn't sure if it was an illusion, but only the flimsiest bit of the chute's orange fabric seemed caught on a branch.  If it came loose the fugitive would almost certainly fall to his death.

It took me nearly half an hour to wend my way down the steep mountain path to the land below, and when I reached the tree from which the parachutist hung I wasn't sure what I could do to rescue him.  He was a good fifty feet above me, and there seemed no safe way for me to scale the massive tree and shimmy out on the limb to where the chute was snared.  While I stood craning my neck looking up, another gust of wind swept through, billowing the chute like the mainsail on a boat, lifting the material away from the snag.  It didn't fill up sufficiently to completely break the fugitive's fall, but it slowed him down enough for me to circle underneath in an attempt to catch his limp body.  I couldn't have been more surprised when he ended up gently cradled in my outstretched arms.

The biggest surprise was yet to come, though, as I realized that the sleight fugitive who lay in my arms was really a beautiful young woman.