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     ## ##  ###    I S S U E   # 0 7 0        0 6 - 0 2 - 0 0   ###  ####   
    ###  # ###                                                   #######    
    ####  ###              "Adventures in Houston"                 ###       
     #######                      by Meekay                                   
      ####                                                                  

        This is a Story of meekay's adventures in Houston.  The three primary
 Players are myself, and Marc and Tink, whom I was visiting for the weekend.
 At the time of the Story's beginning, the three of us were sitting at their
 apartment watching First Knight, a movie in which Richard Gere as Lancelot
 steals the bride of Arthur of Camelot, played by Sean Connery.  Of course,
 the concept is pure fantasy; in the Real World, Sean could snap Gere in
 twain with one bitch-slap with his Twenty Three Inch Excalibur without
 losing a moment's concentration on pussy galore.

        Now, Marc is a Computer Professional, which means that the IRS deems
 him to be currently unemployed.  He does, however, have an impressive
 collection of dead 386 boxes and books about Borland compiler products.

        Tink, on the other hand, is engaged in a Profession which, although
 by no means the Oldest, is pretty damned old: the profession of Taking One's
 Clothes Off To Make Money -- or as she calls it, "dancing".  She does this
 because she is addicted to PokéMon, and needs the money to satisfy and fuel
 her cravings.  It should be noted that this profession is perfectly legal,
 and appears, in fact, to be highly popular.  Often she receives a phone call
 at 10pm on a Saturday night to inform her that some Miller-Lite-saturated
 Frat Boy is willing to pay $100 or more to watch her take her clothes off
 over the course of a half hour.  It should also be noted that the way to
 maximize one's profit in this Profession is by wearing *more* clothing,
 thus increasing the amount of time it requires to take them off, and
 decreasing the amount of time one spends in a potentially vulnerable state
 of Wearing Little Or No Clothing before collecting the Pay and pulling a
 disappearing act.  On this evening, Tink received such a phone call and
 prepared for it by changing into a black velvet cocktail dress with
 accessories.

        Thus dressed, she left the apartment and passed by the two parties
 who shall be hereafter known as Home Boys One and Two.  Said Home Boys had
 been through a long day of drinking and assessing the world from their high
 position atop their balcony, and were thus seeking some form of distraction
 from their rough life.  The Home Boys witnessed the spectacle of her leaving
 in a black cocktail dress, and interpreted it as a sign of impending
 reproductive activity.  They thus began performing the Mating Ritual, which,
 in their culture, appears to consist of wolf-calls and shouting.  Home Boy
 #1 became aroused, reached into his pants to produce a Male Genitalia, and
 began waving it around and rubbing it vigourously.

        I would very much like to know in what part of the world this Mating
 Ritual actually has a decent success rate, so that I might go there and live
 very happily indeed.

        At any rate, Tink deemed the display both Alarming and Excessive,
 especially given that she works in a Profession where dealing with such
 people is not a rarety.  She continued on her way to the parking lot, and
 called Marc from her cell phone to describe what had happened.

        Marc is the protective sort.  He walked outside, looked up and saw
 the Home Boys still in their spot basking in the glow of their triumph.
 Marc yelled at them about Respect for Females, and how one shouldn't make
 lewd remarks or gestures.  The Home Boys responded with anger and demanded
 to know what Marc's fucking problem was.  Marc walked back inside and closed
 the door.

        Home Boy Number Two followed Marc, and came downstairs to bang on the
 door and yell drunkenly demanding to know what Marc's fucking problem, man.
 After a few minutes of this, Marc got fed up.

        Marc opened the door and was met with a stench of fermented grains
 and screams and curses and threatening gestures and demands to know what his
 fucking Problem was, man.  Marc is not the shy, passive type.  His answer
 was to produce a Weapon -- my untrained mind registered it as a .38 Saturday
 Night Special, but I'm sure Home Boy Number Two, who got a much closer look
 than I did, could have told me the make, model, serial number, and perhaps
 even been able to construct a pretty good approximation of the Weapon's
 ballistic signature based on the grooves in the bore.  Fortunately, he
 apparently wasn't able to see that the Weapon was unloaded and the safety
 was on.

        With such a device for emphasis, Marc was able to convey in no
 uncertain terms that there would not be any more banging on said door, nor
 any more Harrassment of Females in, on, or around that apartment complex.
 The Home Boy responded by turning around and running, as fast as his beer-
 sodden muscles could take him, all the while shouting that he was going to
 call the fucking cops, man.

        Now it should be noted that I don't exactly agree with this course of
 action; it's easy to laugh at what happened in retrospect and from two
 hundred miles away, but at the time I deemed it both Alarming and
 Excessive.  I myself am of the opinion that any firearm less than about a
 foot long was not manufactured with Home Defense in mind.  That said, it
 should be noted that had Marc used an unloaded crossbow or a skillfully
 wielded sword (both of which were available), it would likely have had the
 same Result; and that furthermore, Marc did not cross the Threshold of the
 Home with said weapon, in line with the spirit of Defense of the Home.

        At any rate, the Home Boys certainly considered it Alarming and
 Excessive, because about an hour later there followed another banging at the
 door.  Marc checked through the security viewer, and opened the door to
 answer an Officer of the Houston City Police Department, with an embarassed-
 looking Home Boy Number Two in tow.  Home Boy Number One, the Wielder of the
 Male Organ, was nowhere to be seen.

        The Officer inquired as to what might have gone on around here.  Marc
 answered by telling the story, presented much as it is here.  The Officer
 considered the story, then asked Home Boy Number Two for his side of the
 story again, then considered the matter for about thirty seconds.  He then
 turned to the Home Boy and asked, "What were you hoping to accomplish here
 tonight?"

        Marc and I politely refrained from comment or open laughter.

        At this point Senor Dos may have realized that when one commits
 Indecent Exposure, Sexual Harrassment, Public Drunkenness, and Assault, the
 best course of action may not be Let's Call the Cops.  He therefore decided
 the best tactic now would be to display a sudden and complete non-
 comprehension of Standard Oral English.  In fact, the trauma rendered him
 unable to speak or understand English or, as far as I could understand,
 Spanish, and instead he reverted to what sounded like some kind of syllabic
 ancient Sumerian tongue.  The tirade about 'Mericans and their Fucking
 Problems that followed seemed to fail to impress the Officer, who,
 incidentally, was neither Caucasian-American nor White yet possessed an
 excellent command of Standard Oral English.  During the course of his
 tirade, the Home Boy started to slither away, obviously disappointed in the
 American Legal System and its ability to solve his fucking problems, man.
 The Officer rolled his eyes, made some comment about how he was Underpaid
 and Getting Too Old For This Shit, bid us goodnight, and was on his way.

 ****************************************************************************
 # (c)2000 aNAda e'zine                             aNAda070 .*.  by Meekay #
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