Eliot Ness Was Not "Untouchable" to the TSA

Sunday before last I learned a lesson: I looked so good I was dangerous.

So I’m standing at the small local airport, head and shoulders visible above the curtains of a “privacy” booth, a TSA agent doing his damnedest to not let my shorts fall off as he’s running his fingers inside my waist band. The two dozen people going through security all saw the tall guy with the bright yellow polo holding his arms out to the side, getting some hands-on action courtesy of the US government.

My belongings, the few that I was carrying, went through the x-ray machine with no issue, and I had walked through the metal detector without error… at first. But instead of the usual alarm that triggers, in moments I had received a less urgent tone from the machine. I was the lucky winner of a random selection for additional screening! Yay! Eliot Ness, come on down! You’re the next contestant! But I wasn’t guaranteed a good junk groping just yet; first I had to win the lightning round: an agent was already snapping on blue latex gloves and had me hold my hands out, palms up, while she swabbed them with some paper discs and sent them through the analysis machine. When the sniffer dinged twice with a bold red screen: “Explosives detected”, they turned to the bin of my belongings. I laughed; surely the sandals I wore that day had soaked up some spilled gasoline the last time I mowed my lawn, and that was what triggerd the - nope, all clean.

After I received my complimentary pat-down, I asked the agent why my hands triggered the detector, if my clothes and belongings checked clean. He identified that I had pomade in my hair (check), was wearing cologne (check), and asked if I used some sort of lotion that day (just shaved my neck, after-shave moisturizer, check). Apparently, any one of those could contain nitro-glycerides which stayed on my skin. A good hand washing or rubbing alcohol would take care of them next time.

Rewind 15 minutes earlier: security doors open up and I decide to piss one more time before going through. Afterwards, I scoped myself out in the mirror, then realized I didn’t piss all over my fingers and I didn’t want my paperback book to get wet, so I’m not washing my hands.

***

After collecting my luggage at Lambert Airport in St. Louis, MO, my first task was to get my rental car. The company set me up with an “intermediate” sized car, after I specifically requested something to fit my 6’4”, 305 pound frame. “We’ve got you in this Mazda 3” the guy said.

If my life were a sitcom, this is where the laugh track would go.

Five minutes later I’m comfortable in a new Ford Escape at the additional expense of $4/day. I synced my phone to the onboard computer and it bumped some Prof from my phone automatically whenever I started the car, giving MO a little taste of MN underground hip-hop.

***

Everyone in our Missouri branch office is super friendly. The drawl was apparent in their voices, and the funny looks I’d get as soon as I spoke proved that my almost-Canadian accent was giving them enjoyment in return. A group of 9 joined me for lunch that Monday, and of course I wanted to get a good taste of some real BBQ. I was the first to speak up to our waitress for my drink order, and since I’m not drinking pop soda anymore, I was proud to get water.

Everyone else: “Sweet tea.” “Unsweetened tea.” “Raspberry sweet tea.”

I very quickly changed my order. When in Rome…

***

Every bar and restaurant with patio seating had giant metal fans running full-blast to provide a breeze. One particular bar’s fan was blowing the savory smell of the burger grill right at me. I laughed that by the end of the night, I’d smell so good I’d need a cattle prod to keep hungry people away from me.

The smell certainly didn’t make the wait for my Yogi Burger any shorter. I was told by our waitress (who almost looks like Sweet Dee from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) that the burger was huge, I’d not need fries. After five minutes of assault with kitchen smoke, I started regretting at least not getting the jalapeno poppers as an appetizer.

The burgers eventually did come out, though, and mine was a sight. Sitting solitary in the basket, the burger was not diminished by the absence of sides; it stood tall and wide like a monument. Onions drooped lazily over the edges of the beer-battered, deep-fried patty. Thousand Island dressing oozed out of both the top and bottom buns as I crunched through the burger with my first bite. Imagine the largest onion ring in your life, but instead of the sometimes-unwanted slimy bit of onion, it’s high-quality beef to be found inside. It was a damn good burger.

***

A delayed flight from St. Louis to Minneapolis meant I wasn’t making my connection home, so instead I took a 2 hour layover to get on a flight to Duluth. It was during those two hours that the 60-mph-wind, rain, and hail hit. I was already having a hard time finding a ride home from Duluth, but as the flight status kept creeping further and further into the future, my prospects got worse and worse.

The wind and rain was an awesome sight through the airport observation deck windows, but the repeated severe weather alerts on the P.A. system only got more and more on my nerves. Text messages started coming through to my phone from work: our headquarters office was without power and it might not be on again until Sunday or Monday. Who can go in? Who can check these servers? Can we redirect the website to an external host so we can communicate with our employees? I sat nursing a $7 tap beer watching these come in, begging people for a ride home or a place to stay. Then the most stressful event of the night occurred:

With my flight delayed til 11:40, two and half hours out yet, the bartender said “I have to close soon. Last call.”

Preposterous Portions of Pancakes

Not long ago, mammoth blood was found preserved in a frozen carcass. This gets exciting, as visions of cloning these long-extinct beings prances through every John Hammond-wannabe's head. But if we could clone and grow our own woolly mammoth, what would you feed it?

You feed it the pancake feast at RJ Riches, that's what.

My loyal readers have seen my accounts of Ducky's housewarming party, and hopefully they will also have had a chance to visit Frank at Kinked Slinky to read his take on Saturday night. We both promised our joint telling of breakfast the next day. So be sure to read his post today after reading mine, because we're both two grown men of our word, and it takes two to tackle just writing about the pancakes we got. Hell, it would prove to take two just to eat one of them...

For two people who can no longer sleep in past 7:00 AM, even on the weekends, the morning after a party is fraught with tip-toes and hushed voices. Someone was asleep in every room, shoes piled haphazardly around the doors and patio. It didn't take too long for Frank and I to decide that if we kept waiting for Ducky to get up, our growling stomachs would wake everyone else up and hasten the households' oncoming hangovers.

Frank and I cleaned up the yard a bit, collected our belongings, and soon I was following him from Roseville to Riches. Frank was confident that we take Highway 10. Naturally he took County Road 10 instead, and we had to double-back through church traffic before we found the end of our pancake pilgrimage.

Frank: Walk into RJ Riches and you feel minutely as if you’re in the opening scene of “Reservoir Dogs.” Surrounded by scenery as dirty as the men involved, Eliot and I started our recovery from a … shall we say, inelegant night of partying (at least on my part) at this veteran New Brighton diner. The gem was the taste of breakfast, and two large men got killed by a gigantic pancake.

The family-owned restaurant was 1970's answer to the 1950's all-stainless steel breakfast diners like Denny's. Wood-grain laminate accents and decades-old glass lamp covers - none of which matching in color with the others - met us. The people working there could all have been family indeed, from the hot 20-something chick working the register; our hostess, the lone blonde, who might have been the adopted cousin; and the perpetually grumpy (but hospitable enough) portly aunt who served us. In the kitchen, visible through an old-fashioned brick pass-through, the type found in a pizza place, the father and the uncle of this family worked the grills.

Frank had foretold epic prophecy about RJ Riches' pancakes. “The size of your plate” he said, and a glance at the table next to us confirmed. The menus might as well have been 3 blank pages and a section titled “Pancakes”. The only option we had to consider was if we wanted the Pancake Feast, a cake, choice of meat, and eggs; or Rich's Challenge, which is all the above and a healthy serving of your choice in potatoes. I figured that I didn't need any extraneous carbs getting in the way of my cake, so I ordered the blueberry pancake, bacon (what else?!) and eggs, over-easy, which of course were destined to break yolk into my pancake.

Frank: For the first time in my life, I sucked down a whole pot of coffee. It tasted like the contents of a rain gutter, but you don’t aim for a Wolfgang Puck face at a family restaurant. I pooh-poohed the bacon for a slice of ham. The "premium" pancake blends cost a little over a buck extra, but if you've ever seen me pass up a chocolate-chip pancake ... you haven't, because it's never happened. I would have paid the tip of my pinky for chocolate chips on my pancake.

Somewhere between my third and fourth cup of coffee, the plates arrived. The ham and eggs looked like everyone else’s ham and eggs, but the pancakes … well, look at them.

It didn't take long for our food to arrive, and though I had already spied our neighbor's pancake, nothing had prepared me for the one destined for my mouth. The breakfast was served on two plates: a smaller plate for the meat and eggs, and a large dinner plate dwarfed beneath this huge pancake. If Bob - “His name is Robert Paulson” - had taken his shirt off for Fight Club, I could imagine seeing two of these pancakes as nipples on his bitch tits, “the way you think of God's as big.” The edges of the pancake nearly drooped over the edge of the plate to touch the table top. The crust was an even golden brown, and the cake was thick yet fluffy. When I make pancakes, I'm lucky if one out of 3 of them turn out as well, and mine are hardly poured larger than a DVD. This behemoth before me was perfection.

Before we dug in, we made good on our pre-breakfast deal of flavor-swapping. I took my butter knife and tried to assess the best way to attack this task. Carving out a chunk to share was like trying to dissect a blue whale with an X-acto knife. If we had a real estate agent present when we swapped the large tracts of our pancake territories, we surely would have needed to pay closing costs.

The first bite I took was of the chocolate chip, sans syrup. And let me tell you, it couldn't have tasted any better if served to me in a picnic on the fields of Elysium. I made short work of the chocolate chip, and finally turned to a piece of bacon. Yes, the cake was so good that I gave it priority over bacon.

At this point, both Frank and I were able to start forming words again, and we started discussing the ideas you'll find in these words here. It was interesting to hear that while I was chewing in reverent silence, brainstorming just the words I'd say about these enormous cakes, Frank admitted he did the same thing. In fact, he said it was nice to not have to worry about keeping up conversation.

Now, to my blueberry. I carefully cradled the two over-easy eggs and placed them on the two-thirds left of my cake. They looked comically inadequate, and once broken, the yolk barely lubricated the fluffy cake. I supplemented it with some maple syrup and started in: the blueberries were warm, unbroken, and juicy, meaning the cake had been stirred with care. A few bites of egg-soaked cake, the rest of the bacon, and I chased it all with the remainder of my orange juice (with sufficient pulp to prove that it was either home-squeezed.. or at least it was the expensive store-bought kind that mimics home-squeezed). My hunger was satiated, tummy straining at its limits, and as I sat back in the booth and relaxed, I realized that a full half of my monster cake remained.

I looked up at Frank, who hadn't made it even as far as I. “The wife will appreciate this, at least” he stated as we asked for our to-go boxes.

Frank: Yeah, I had eaten a pathetic portion of my pancake. The balance was cut into sections, like a damn dinner table, and stacked on top of each other in a styrofoam container. It took my until Wednesday to finish it. Just know that entire pizzas came and went at our house during this pancake's lifetime. This pancake lasted longer than Petoria ... I think.

With each of our bills under $15, both Frank and I came to the conclusion that RJ Riches was a step above your commercial “family-styled” restaurants. Whether all the employees there were truly related or not, I never got to ask. It matters little, though, with pancakes that weighed more than the wood-carved box Grandma kept the recipes in, a Thanksgiving dinner atmosphere, and reasonable prices, RJ Riches earned our future return.

Keeping the Peace, and Keeping to Myself

I’m the third “Jason” – and the fourth “Jay” – at this party. Since it’s not really kosher to arbitrarily assign nicknames like “Ranger” (since he’s the only other Jason here from Da Range) or Fingertoes (since that Jason is inexplicably wearing Vibrams instead of sneakers), I decided I’m going to from here on out introduce myself solely as “Ness”.

Ness found himself at a housewarming party in Roseville. “Ducky”, to affectionately loan a nickname from Kinked Slinky, and his what-she-lacks-in-height-she-makes-up-for-in-beauty girlfriend, let’s call her, um… “Shorty”, have extended this 200+ mile invitation my way to help them celebrate being property owners, so I made sure to grab my ball cap and packed an overnight bag. I prepped my truck with a fresh oil change the night before, and loaded a tent and sleeping pad in the back, just in case we avoided any thunder and the night proved decent enough to sleep outside. I was happy to help deliver Marine Vargas (sorry, never did quite learn your proper rank) to the airport for her return flight to California the same morning, then I found the street I was directed to, but did not see the promised balloons-tied-to-mailboxes that universally indicated “PARTY OVER HERE!!!” (is that a Family Guy joke? I feel like it was…). Before I can call our hosts liars, though, I see a car pull over to park on the side of the street, and out pops Shorty herself, pulling the strings of three helium balloons.

Guess who ended up tying them to the mailboxes. It was one of my few contributions to this party.

Let’s fast forward through setting up the volleyball net, hiding from slight rain showers, the arrival and introduction of further guests, the tapping of the keg, and the eventual arrival of Frank and his tailgate- (and junkyard-) ready PT Cruiser. Alright, so the only other person I can expect to know is here, it’s time for Ness to get super smashed with some bros, right?! “PK DRINK!”

While my intentions might have been as high as Pokémon-shaped parade balloons, my spirits were a little more bounded to Earth. I just don’t know what it is. I feel like I owe Frank not one but two weekends of jovial camaraderie now: both recent times I've visited I've felt like my damage meter was at 210% and a slight poke would knock me away. (If you haven’t picked up on the video game references yet, than that last one was like a home-run bat to the head. Ok, ok, I’ll stop now… and start with other nerdy pop-culture references!)

I had stayed in and got some decent sleep the previous two nights, yet I still felt thin, like too little butter scraped over too much bread (thanks, Bilbo). I sat in my Big Boy camp chair (over-sized and reinforced to support my fat ass) and drank keg beer. I paid attention to the lavish praise Frank received on his weight loss efforts while glancing down with loathing and despair at the manboobs still hiding within my green Harley t-shirt. Here I am, prime opportunity to meet many new people – women – but years of lethargy is taunting me from the past. I realized that my fake-it-til-you-make-it has run out, and I make some lame excuse to myself to allow Frank to baste in his due glory, promising myself that my time will come when skinny-Frank is old and busted, and skinny-Ness will be all the rage.

So I sat in my silence, making cursory conversation only when addressed by someone who feigned interest out of pity, it seemed. Nobody really cares what I do for a living. A brief spark of personality leaks through when I get to talk about my dog, but nobody wants to suffer a pet-lover's monologue that extends into bat-shit crazy territories. And in return to anyone suffering through my rantings and ravings about my sweet Juno, I won’t give a shit about your Maltese.

I listened in on conversations, soaking in snippets from one acquaintance to another, trying to make sense of these strange windows into strangers’ lives, trying to drown out the rising depression snaking its way up my spine. I just don’t get it. Am I just that tired, though I've done nothing but drive a few hundred miles and walk for 30 minutes in the Mall of America? Is it the dreary cloudy weather and clingy damp cold that screams more of April than June? I've successfully navigated the societal landmine field of rooms full of strangers before, and managed to even provide some life to a party or two. I have no shortage of things to talk about, but today I was more an anti-social Butters than I was a floating social butterfly, and it sure stung like a bee. Maybe if I imbibed drinks as mixed as my metaphors instead of beer, I would have loosened up a bit more. But as it was, I had stood there struggling to initiate conversation with a woman I would never ever see again in my life.

As the sun set and I took an inordinate amount of trips down the long driveway to my truck to change into progressively warmer clothes – first from shorts to jeans, then from Chuck Taylors to boots, finally to grab a hat and jacket – the party reached a crescendo and everyone adopted the roles they would carry for the rest of the night. Two of those particular roles were Super-Frank, the BAC-fueled hero that Gotham needs but nobody asked for right now, and Disciplinary Officer Ness, whose sole task it became to make sure Super-Frank didn't hurt anybody or himself in his antics. Read Frank’s accounts over at Kinked Slinky to get a good feel of how the evening went. Unnoted, however, was how I was forced to get uncharacteristically aggressive with some Mr. Smartass Commentary, who did not find Super-Frank in any way agreeable. There are few times I leverage my size and weight advantage over someone, and this jerk cowed pretty easily. To be fair, I did ensure Super-Frank hung up the cape and settled down for the night, and fisticuffs were averted.

Almost as if it burned the last of the fumes in my gas tank, this keeping of the peace was soon followed by a sojourn to the bathroom that became a turn-in instead. It was very easy to get comfortable in front of the TV, which was playing Men in Black. The big guy who was somber, brooding, and seldom of words, the guy who probably outwardly seemed like some aloof asshole but inwardly struggled with demons of inadequacy and loneliness all night, the sleeping bear that roused only when necessary to protect him and his own, soon fell asleep on the couch.

I can't imagine what conversation went on about me out around the bonfire, or if my absence was even noticed. Every party has to have that guy and I feel like I was definitely one of them. People probably dared sidelong glances at me and formed their opinions about me, wondering why, if I couldn't have any fun, did I even stick around the party. 

I know that reality is probably more sonderous than that. Nobody gave two shits about me, everybody had their own internal struggles at the party, whether it was over the game of bags they were playing, whether they should get up and grab another beer, or if they should stay by the warm fire and just be done for the night. I know I wasn't anything more than a background character to everyone else's story that night. It's still hard to find solace in that sonder, though. I still have the harshest critic nagging me from within, my own R Lee Ermey screaming obscenities at me, and unlike Gomer Pyle, I'm stuck enduring it without an easy way out.

I woke up shortly an hour or two later when Shorty, a woman of three-quarters my height and much less than half my weight, tucked me in like I imagine she’s done with her own son, giving me a blanket and pillow and even taking off my eyeglasses. I chuckled at the absurdity of it all as she did the same for Frank on the love seat opposite me, and I quickly found the sanctuary of sleep again.

Next week you’ll find the first of our (hopefully many!) double-team restaurant reviews, where we exhaust the English language, and maybe some Spanish, French, and Klingon, of ways to describe the largest pancakes we've ever attempted. I promise it won't be as morose as this entry! Scope it out Monday!

Triboelectric Filanges

I've just had the strangest reaction to the most mundane daily event today. This past weekend, I sliced my fingertip open – the index finger on my right hand. In absence of super glue, and the presence of a lawn party, typing work on a computer, and a night of volleyball, ensures that this split skin isn't going to heal very quickly. It’s a small gash, but it’s open nonetheless. It is into this open skin that a static shock charge leaped from the handle of the bathroom at work.

Now, who enjoys receiving static shocks? With the arrival of June, one would think we've survived the dry, electrical winter and should enjoy a nice reprieve from unexpected jolts, no? Apparently my office is dry enough to facilitate a buildup charge, and that homing bolt found exposed subdermal.

And it HURT.

Usually one’s reaction is to jerk their hand away, maybe gasp in sudden surprise. I actually exclaimed out loud a bellowed “OW!” and shook my offended hand violently. My finger throbbed, even long after the electrons dispersed throughout my body. Soon this pulsing pain was accompanied paradoxically with a numbing tingle falling over my fingertip. From first knuckle to the end of my nail, my finger fell completely numb.

“I might have just caused permanent nerve damage…” I pondered as I stood at the urinal (nature was calling and static shock in a surprisingly vulnerable spot or not, she wasn't going to wait for me much longer). Even now, a half hour beyond the critical event, my finger tingles.

I wonder if I could somehow take advantage of this rift in my skin. Maybe if I stick my finger into some radioactive ooze or gamma rays, I can make it glow like E.T. and heal things by booping them with my fingertip. But then I might as well just jump right in full-body and become a super hero like... Starving for Blog Content Man.

Fun fact to finish off this short little entry: did you know that the ooze that created the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is the same radioactive ooze that blinded Daredevil?!

Stay tuned for an epic joint effort double-team blog entry where Frank of Kinked Slinky and I tackle the largest pancake we've ever eaten.

Keep Calm and Don't Worry, Be Happy

Chicken wings have become all that ties together a group of friends. It used to be Magic: The Gathering (a nerdy-yet-very-competitive strategy game based off building decks out of a huge pool of cards, then playing the decks against an opponent), but with the closure of the local gaming shop, I've been unable to keep up with the crew via the game. Instead, I see them mostly on Wednesday evenings, 6:00, when a local eatery has a chicken wing special.

This past Wednesday was no exception, and the crew gathered, ate extreme amounts of cheap wings, and conversed about Magic, Memorial weekend plans, and work. Three of them all work at the same hardware/home improvement store, which provides as many entertaining stories as that Dane Cook movie would have you believe. Do yourself a favor, you don’t have to watch that movie, just take my word for it. Nobody needs to see any more Dane Cook.

After my bill was settled up, I stood up to leave, saying I've got yard work to procrastinate on, but Moped was studying two of the bills: hers and that of her boyfriend, Kaiba. It appeared that despite having two less wings than he, Moped was charged nearly a dollar extra. Whatever, we got cheap wings on special, Kaiba was paying for it all anyways, no big deal, right?

Guess so. When our artsy-hippy chick server (I say that most lovingly) returned, Kaiba brought up the discrepancy. The poor girl was already having a rough night; every table of the restaurant was filled and the pressure already manifested in some minor ordering errors (I’m not going to complain, those errors had resulted in me getting some free wings). So she exasperates “That’s because she’s got BBQ wings and you didn't, and since they aren't part of the special there’s an extra charge. Really, I undercharged you.” I laugh at Kaiba, who did in fact have BBQ wings and just talked his way out of a discounted meal. Our server comped the drinks and rang the bills up fresh for them, and I figured the issue was resolved.

Moped wasn't satisfied. She studied the subsequent slips with as much skeptical scrutiny as she did the prior bills. “Where does this dollar come from?” Those of us at the table explained that it’s the upcharge for BBQ sauce, just the way it works there, and how it’s been since we've all started meeting there for wings. She was not content, as the dollar charge did not appear on Kaiba's bill, despite him having BBQ sauce as well.

I was already standing to leave, and had to laugh at the situation. “Is that dollar worth all the stress and worrying you’re doing about it?!” A few others agreed with me. I just hope they left the poor server alone after that… and a tip, too.

It’s an interesting point to consider. Is a dollar worth your well-being? What is the cost of giving a fuck?

DGAF: Don’t Give A Fuck. It’s a philosophy I first heard of from some of my friends’ more underground stoner hip hop artists from Subnoize Records (Kottonmouth Kings, et al). Think about it, though. How often do we allow ourselves to get worked up over nothing? How many extraneous fucks are we giving over mundane or benign experiences?

Giving fucks is dangerous at times. Scenario: you’re driving a carload of friends to a concert. Music is playing, windows down as there’s always that one guy in the back smoking a cigarette, traffic all around you as you arrive to the metropolitan center of wherever. You’re paying attention to the cars around you, doing your best to not become tonight’s news story. The guy next to you is scouring road signs for your exit, but then that joker in the back seat is makes some wise crack and you’re watching him do his best Jack Nicholson impression through your rear view mirror. Suddenly you’re astute and observant navigator shouts “That’s our exit! Go right!!” Do you A) swerve across a lane or more of traffic in a sudden jerky of the wheel to cut through the yellow lines and narrowly avoid the retaining barrier of the exit, or B) not give a fuck and say “We’ll take the next exit and double back.”?

Damn. I just realized that probably nobody does Jack Nicholson impressions anymore. Um… Arnold works, right? Stallone?

There are times where giving a fuck is important, too. Most of them fall under human decency: family member or friend diagnosed with cancer, huge tornado devastates Oklahoma, that huge project is riding on your shoulders and deadline was three nights ago and clients are calling you up hourly for status reports. Shit yeah, give a fuck, and get your shit taken care of! Every once in a while there’s some story of people giving many fucks that just redeem my faith in humanity. Whether it’s Christian Bale dressed as Batman visiting a dying fan in the hospital, or kids comfortable in their homes at their computer screens setting up VPN connections for people in Libya or Syria so that they can continue to use social media and the Internet to organize and report on their social uprisings against oppressive governments who have otherwise blocked net access to their nations. I've seen people track down the perpetrators in a video showing puppies being inhumanely tossed into a river for sport and that allowed the local jurisdiction to bring them to justice (of course, though, we've seen with the Boston Marathon bombings that internet vigilantism can backfire extremely easy as well).

I encourage everyone to steady their knee-jerk reactions to events that happen to them just long enough to ask yourself if it’s worth getting worked up over. I don’t preach any Zen Buddhist meditation or anything, just a few breaths and a moment to reflect before reacting.

Some idiot cuts you off in traffic but there was no risk of collision? Someone yells “Run faster, fatty!!” while you’re out jogging? A dollar charge on your bill that’s already barely over $5?!  Give no fucks, let it slide, don’t stress out, and your life will be much more valuable without that dollar.

Mosquito Musician

So last Thursday night I downloaded the Twitter app and resolved to increase my usage of the popular social media outlet. I noticed one of the new tweets came from Felicia Day, that adorably cute geek goddess from The Guild, and it espoused her involvement with Geek and Sundry, which is basically a collection of nerd-culture vloggers talking about nerd-culture things.

Of the recognizable featured vloggers, I was drawn to Nika Harper, known for her League of Legends videos. Her first entry was about short story challenges, topics of discussion suggested and completed by participating viewers. One of the suggestions was "mosquito musicians" and that got the gears cranking.

I wanted to shirk the expected answers of tiny winged drummers and guitarists and a skin-piercing needle nose waving above a microphone as a mohawked mosquito sang some buzz-rock song. I borrowed a bit from Prey (by Crichton) and Akira, so I went from one cookie-cutter story to an amalgamation of two others, but hey, it was an interesting exercise and my blog's first work of pure fiction.

Enjoy, as disturbing as it may be!

***

Mosquito Musician

A short story exercise

The vibrant hum in the air changed pitch as Pietr lifted one palm up a few inches higher. Before me the air was a shifting sandstorm of mosquitoes  all the bugs from eyesight concentrated above and ahead of us in a dense sphere two meters in diameter. Individual mosquitoes swarmed amongst themselves in acrobatic display of systemic chaos, but at many times large numbers would drop unexpectedly, wings no longer flapping, for brief beats, and the accompanying note change from this buzzing orchestra never failed to make the hair on my arms raise in goose bumps.

Just how Pietr commanded his bloodsucking legion was beyond my attempts to theorize. The closest I could consider is some sort of telekinetic comic book power over the local air currents, corralling the tiny terrors in buffered winds, confining them to our immediate line of sight. Or maybe he exhibits some sort of control over the tiny minds and wings of these unwilling musicians. He was from some snow-bound hell in northern Russia, where children of the 70s grew up bending spoons and staring at goats.

The chorus reached a crescendo, and it became recognizable as some work of Bach – who can remember all those names and movements and keys – and Pietr conducted with his arms raised high, the swarm accommodating his wishes all at once with a loud increase of buzzing, until he dropped his arms suddenly, only catching them near the bottom of their fall. The swarm all dropped in sudden silence a few inches, then exploded into action for the large ending. The well-defined sphere dissolved immediately as 100 square yards’ worth of mosquitoes dispersed to and started swarming above us as normal mosquitoes do. They showed no sign of distress or discomfort  from their ideal, except that they all seemed to want to land on us at once to feed, but Pietr immediately slouched down to near collapse, breathing heavy and wiping sweat that beaded his wide brow from the exertion. However he does it, it takes a lot out of him.

The few of us watching all erupted into praise-filled exclamation. “That was incredible!” “How’d you do that?” “I don’t believe my eyes!” Two of the six of us social outcasts had already started playing back the recording they took on their cell phones, though the darkening eve doesn't allow the tiny camera lens to capture clearly the astounding feat and the future YouTube comments would call hoax and shenanigans.

Pietr dismissed himself in his heavy Russian accent, and though the crowd encircled him like a chattering peace-strike, we all stepped aside before he even lifted his eyes or his feet or even indicated a direction. I felt the slightest urge in my left foot to step back, and before I recognized that the command didn’t come from my polite manners, I was opening a space for Pietr to walk through.

Pietr sat where he normally sat in 7^th period Social Sciences class, way in the back corner, surrounded by the sleepers, the chewers with their soda can spittoons hidden from sight, and the other malcontents who desired no attention from the instructor. Pietr shrank into himself, sitting hunched over and arms folded within him, willing himself to be as small and unobtrusive as possible. At 5 foot 2 inches and barely 100 pounds, it would work, if his immediate neighbors gave him a moment’s respite from their constant teasing and bullying.

This particular day Joey Nichols produced an empty .75 vodka bottle and mimicked his father’s alcoholism, all while donning the worst attempt at a Russian accent since Chekov and egging his friends to laugh on. Pietr shrank further within himself and silently endured the unbidden punishment for the minute it took for Mr. Connors to take notice and storm to his rescue.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” he yelled. “What is that?!” Swiping the bottle, a disgusted look crossed Connors’ face. “Oh Christ, this is White Eagle! IT’S NOT EVEN RUSSIAN, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! You’d think your deadbeat father would have taught you better than that!”

Connors was a young guy who cared to not let a decade of political correctness cover up his frat boy vernacular. It was effective; rarely did he have to intervene twice in a class period, and usually only once a week was all it took to silence his rowdiest of students.

I saw Pietr look up meekly at Mr. Connors in appreciate, but as soon as our teacher turned back to the front of the classroom, Pietr’s demeanor turn evil and his eyes fell on the back of Joey Nichols’ head. Almost as if he felt it, Joey turned around with a silent sneer and met the Russian’s gaze. He mouthed “After school” and stereotypically ran his thumb across his throat. I could only roll my eyes at the cliché.

After school naturally meant after football practice, and it was near 6:00 when I saw Joey Nichols and his posse of wanna-be thugs march past my house. I was in the front yard greasing the chain on my bicycle when they stopped at the fence gate and shouted at me.

“Do you know where that little bitch Pietr is hiding?! We never got a chance to give him his welcome to America!!” Maxwell Patrelli stood to the left, and Chris Johnson, standing at Joey’s right shoulder, pounded his fist in the most intimidating way that his goofy gorilla body could muster, his face strained red and squinted in an anger that threatened nothing but the massive pimples on his nose. Puberty can be so harsh sometimes, but never was there a more deserving asshole for a hemorrhoid.

“I don’t know where he is, you imbeciles! Why don’t you take your little play date inside – oh, wait, I bet you don’t want to be home when Daddy gets drunk!” My words stirred the hornet nest, and these buffoons nearly vaulted over the fence to get at me, but I knew the safety of my father was behind me. He exited the garage, grease-covered wrench in hand, polishing the stainless steel. He coolly leaned against the garage door frame, a veritable Casey Jones, 6 foot 4, amongst a small clan of Foot Soldiers. The site of him halted the marauders’ advance and they stepped off the fence back to the sidewalk. My dad said nothing, just watched them sneer at us and grumble as they started along the street and around the corner, out of sight.

“You know, even though those kids are worth nothing right now, it’s not all their fault, and alcoholism is no laughing matter.” my father lectured me. “Did you see the small cut on that Joey kid’s right cheek? The result of a back-hand slap from a drunken dad. I know, we've all seen the bruises on his mother, too, but they’ll both deny it if anybody asks. It’s best to take pity on kids like these. Protect yourself, for sure, and if it comes down to them starting a fight, you finish it. But before then, show some mercy and compassion. K, kid?”

I nod understandably.

“Now they are looking for that Russian kid, right?” Nod. “Do you know where he is?” Nod. Dad hefts the wrench up between us. “Do you know how to use this tool to put that tire back on your bike?” Nod. “Do you know how to use it to end a fight?” Smile. Nod. “Dinner will be in an hour. Clean up when you get home.”

Pietr was right where I expected him, and mounted on my bike, I found him before Nichols and Johnson did. He was sitting on the ripped and unsafe trampoline his host family had in the back yard, but he didn’t jump. He just huddled there. There was no alley behind his house; the yard ran to the edge of a swamp. It was getting darker earlier these fall days, and already I was swatting bugs out of my face when I biked past the house and towards Pietr.

Pietr looked up with dull, sad eyes. He recognized a friend and answered “Da” when I asked if I could join him. As I climbed onto the treacherous trampoline, he noticed the wrench sticking out of the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt, and inquired about it.

“Dissuasion technique” I answered and the intent did not elude him, though his limited grasp of the English language means the word did. He only nodded in return, and then both our attentions were drawn to the street.

“There’s that little suka!” Joey Nichols yelled, proud to show off his ability to Google Russian curses. “Oh, and he’s with that nerd Emmerson! Let’s get them, boys! Daddy isn’t here to save you now!”

I start to get up from my seated position on the trampoline but a hand reached out and held me back. The gang of third-line football rejects started running their fat bulk at us through the yard, between the houses. I glance back at Pietr, imploring why he wouldn’t want my help or the help of a couple of pounds of stainless steel, but I saw the answer in his eyes. The diminutive Russian boy glared ahead at his assailants, and his eyes turned a deep, dark crimson.

My jaw dropped open and my hand released the wrench I was holding when I felt the springy tension of the trampoline lessen, as if one of the two bodies previously sitting on it was lifted.

Pietr, still cross-legged, floated above the trampoline and hovered forwards.

Head down, black-blood eyes piercing forward, Pietr unfolded his legs as they crossed over the boundary of the trampoline and set his feet on the ground. The sparse blades of grass trembled as small balls of dirt rolled away from Pietr. The very air around him surged with energy.

The advancing army of future drop-outs stopped dead in their tracks. It took a moment before their brains processed what they saw, and then their feeble brains handled it the only way they could. Silently, without a look or a word, all four boys’ minds erased what they saw as inconceivable, and in synchronous movement they all started forward to press their attack.

Pietr stood between them and me, almost glowing in the darkening even, hair and shirt rustling in a breeze on an otherwise still night. He raised his arms to the advancing horde and immediately a thrumming seized the air and overtook us from behind. Above my head I saw a shadowy mass flow like a ribbon through the air and with a downward thrust of Pietr’s hands, descend upon the four would-be attackers. A thick fog of mosquitoes enveloped the four boys, covering them from head to toe, blotting them out of sight until they were four humanoid splotches of black against a dusky backdrop. Immediately the screams rose from all four boys to join the cacophony of horrible buzzing. This was no symphony. This was a slaughter.

The boys scratched and clawed at their faces, their eyes, choked on bugs that poured into their open mouths and down their throats and into and out of their nostrils. What skin that briefly appeared visible among the black cloud was spotted and bleeding. Gasping breaths turned ever more ragged and desperate.

“Pietr, that’s enough!” I shouted. I clambered off the trampoline and stood yelling at this, this… things’ back. “You’re killing them! That’s enough!” He turned his head on me and silently held my gaze: mine imploring and pitiful, his sinister and dreadful. He turned back to his torturous composition and raised his arms. The four shrouded figures began to rise, and the mosquitoes' buzz reached a crescendo. Arms and legs dangled lifelessly from the masses, inches above the ground, the victims giving signs of life more infrequently now. Pietr wasn't going to stop. Pietr was going to kill them.

I wrapped my hand around the wrench and held it high. I was behind Pieter, slightly, feeling the crackling energy emitting from his form, and he didn't see me swing. I connected with skull just behind his temple and above his ears. He and the boys toppled to the ground like string-cut marionettes.

Immediately, the bulk of the swarm lifted off the boys’ bodies, nearly all of them bloated with blood. What was left under that blanket of death was a grotesque sight. No square millimeter of exposed skin was unmarred. Eyes puffed and throats coughed in futility for air, only to expel more mosquitoes into the atmosphere. Chris Johnson didn't breathe at all.

I could only stand and stare, mouth agape, as the multitude of deadly insect assassins flew back into the swamps behind me. I have no grasp of time passing, just standing there, breathing heavily in shock and exertion, with Pietr crumpled at my feet and the four bullies clinging to what was left of their life just 6 feet away from me.

It only occurred to me that it was nearly pitch black outside when the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles pulled up. How the ambulances omnisciently knew to appear, I don’t know, but suddenly I’m enveloped by a blanket and rushed to the street out front.

Pietr never appeared in school again. The house with the swampy back yard and the rusted, ripped trampoline was vacated before sun’s light. Chris Johnson had died, but the only thing the news reported was a tragic bee allergy. None of the other boys returned to class until after Christmas, and none of them spoke a single word about their departed comrade, or the missing Russian boy. None of them made so much as eye contact with me, and never a word was spoken about the mosquito musician or his vampire symphony again. 

Not by the hair on my chinny-chin chin!

An uncharacteristic knocking roused me from my lazy lounging on a Sunday afternoon. Rarely does the front door get used, lest I order delivery food. This soft knocking belied an apprehension in my unbidden visitor's tentative fist.

I clambered out of bed and paused my movie - The Expendables 2, which is a fun romp through my childhood nostalgia - to greet my guest. I realized all too late that my black tank top and baggy plaid cargo shorts presented a less than flattering first impression of myself. Not to be outdone by my laundry-day uniform, my hair was practicing being understudy to Gary Busey's mugshot mess. The door was already opening, no turning back now, I just hope it's not the Swedish Bikini Team bus from Dumb and Dumber...

I was greeted by an unsure question by a woman near my age. In the car on the street sat a younger girl, presumably a daughter. The knocker stood on the step below the door, practicing the manners one employs so as to not seem to be pushing through the door and intruding into the house. At least she's not selling vacuum cleaners.

"Is this place for rent?"

Flashed through my mind was the recent vacating of two bedrooms in my home. Barely had anybody moved out (and in fact I still housed my former roommate's possessions in the garage) and I had inquiries to the rooms. Perhaps Myth mentioned it to someone he knew and trusted that I had a vacant pair of rooms. Maybe he was just trying to help me fill them and gain some income. Nah, I wiped the ludicrous thought away. I'm enjoying my solitude and freedom. I didn't plan on renting the rooms out for a while, nor have I led anyone to believe that I did.

"It's on Craigslist for rent, $800 per month."

I informed my front door caller that I in fact owned the house, and have for 15 plus months now, and that no, the rooms nor the house were for rent.

"This is the third scam today!" she exasperatedly exclaimed. "You didn't put it up for rent?"

I again denied all involvement, and declined her further offer to show me the posting. After seeing her off, I loaded up the Duluth/Superior Craigslist housing ads, and it didn't take long to find mine:

THE BIG BAD WOLF WON'T BLOW THIS ONE DOWN!

Brick walls: check
3 bedrooms: check
2 baths: check
2 fireplaces: check
plenty of storage: check
photograph of my house: check

This ad mirrored the realty listing I had found when I first looked at the house! The photo was easily identifiable as 2 years old or older: the tall pine near the drive has since been felled, leaving only a stump, and the butterflies on the front of the house were promptly removed when I occupied it.

Aside about those butterflies: made out of wood and hand-painted  they have seen some years. Now, I'm not exactly a butterfly person. However, I saw my new neighbors, who I knew to be a couple in their 60s or 70s, had similar decoration on their porch. Here I thought I could make a good gesture and add to their collection. Turns out, I'm informed as I stand at their door, that the gentleman I live next door to actually crafted those butterflies himself, and they stood sentry on my house for multiple decades! I'm so glad they didn't judge me solely on that failed venture, giving them back the butterfly decorations that have been there for years, only because I'm a young punk kid with no taste!

This ad is in front of me, and Rambo - I mean, Stallone - is mumbling something incoherently on the screen as Jason Statham expertly slices and dices some nameless and country-less Asian thug stereotype into Julienne fries. So I do the only thing there is to do.

I answer the ad as a prospective renter.

Below is a transcript of the conversation, with little commentary interspersed here and there.

Me: I'm extremely interested in renting this house! Could you tell me how many bedrooms it has? Can I schedule a visit?

(I play as casual as I can, brevity being my weapon against giving anything away. I don't take the precaution of using a new email address, and the one I use can be matched to my name as property owner, if this scammer actually looked up public record. I did not think of retaliation until it was too late, so I just went with it.)

Gf Qw (the name of the respondent): Dear Friend,

I must confess that I am very very new in this landlord business..However, My name is HANNA DAVID,I own the house located at (redacted). is still available for rent at US$800 monthly, we request first month deposit and security fee of US$700 before move in, you can drive by the house, and if you like it you can write us back or if you have access to call internationally via this #+2347045690791. We just move down to Lagos, Am a Medical Doctor, I work for American UNICEF. I just want you to get notice that the keys are here with me in Lagos, you can only view the house from the outside for now! If you drive by the house you may see a sign there, you have nothing to worry about it belongs to our previous agent so you have absolutely nothing to worry about and you don't have to call them because they do not have access to the house anymore! In other to proceed on sending the keys and  document to you, I'll like to know few things about you and your family such as below:-

Air Conditioner Dishwasher Walk-in Closet Refrigerator Vaulted Ceilings Washer/Dryer Cable etc...

3 Bedroom 2.5 Bathrooms
Sq ft    2,343 
Pet Allowed.                             


                          RENTAL APPLICATION FORM

1. Your Name and Names of people moving in with you?
2. Age and sex of each person?
3. Your current house address / Cell number / home number?
4. What is the best time to call and why relocating?
5. Length of previous tenancy and occupation of each person?
6. Do you have pets and cars, how many? Please describe Breed, size
7. Do you run a business from home, If so what kind of business?
8. When do you plan to move in, please write exact date?
9. How often do you do your current house cleaning?
10. Are you a section 8 applicant?
11. Can we trust you and our house safe keeping in your hand? 
12.How soon can you put down deposit?
13.Do you work late night and do you smoke and drink? (We just wanna know don't get it twisted) no hard feelings

Please have this in mind that you are talking to a very nice and God fearing family, if you find any of our question inconvenience please don't be offended but answer it because we want and like to know the kind of family that will be living in our house from day one so nothing from them will be strange to us again.

Thank you and Stay Blessed.

(How fortunate! This house has all the amenities I would look for if I were on the market to buy a house! Oh, wait...)

(Ignoring the obvious breach of multiple anti-discrimination laws, there are plenty of other clues that this is a scam. I mean, Lagos is in Nigeria, and my late distant relative the Prince told me that everybody in Nigeria is trustworthy and honest! So I can wire that money over, right? Maybe I should call that international number on my own dime to ask some more questions, but nah, I'll just fill out this form they sent...)

Me: Hi Hanna!

1. Your Name and Names of people moving in with you? 
(Myself)

2. Age and sex of each person?
29 male

3. Your current house address / Cell number / home number?
(I give a fake address and my Google Voice number here)

4. What is the best time to call and why relocating?
Call any time.

5. Length of previous tenancy and occupation of each person? 
16 months. I work in IT.

6. Do you have pets and cars, how many? Please describe Breed, size
No dogs or cats (I start getting worried about retribution now. I don't want anybody coming after my dog as she plays in the yard).

7. Do you run a business from home, If so what kind of business?
None

8. When do you plan to move in, please write exact date?
Need a place by June 1, 2013

9. How often do you do your current house cleaning?
Weekly

10. Are you a section 8 applicant?
No

11. Can we trust you and our house safe keeping in your hand? 
Yes (SO tempted to answer "No" here...)

12.How soon can you put down deposit? 
Immediately

13.Do you work late night and do you smoke and drink? (We just wanna know don't get it twisted) no hard feelings
I drink occasionally but do not smoke

If you're in Lagos, how do I send you the money? Should I wire it or mail a money order?

Thanks!

Gf Qw: Thanks for your quick response about my house am very happy that am renting my house to a God fearing family and also i want you to know that your application form is accepted by us and you are welcome to your new home.....please once again i want you to take good care of the house as if is yours.

1) How long do intend to live in the house?

2) When do you intend making the payment so that i can forward you the detail that you will be making the payment to?

3)Are you ready to make the payment?

RE-CONFIRMATION OF THE DELIVERY ADDRESS :

RECEIVERS NAME?:_________________
DELIVERY ADDRESS?:_________________
RECEIVERS NUMBER:?_________________

Here are the contents of the document.

1) Entrance and the rooms Keys
2)Paper/Permanent house form(Containing your reference details)
3)The house documentary file...
4)Payment Receipt........
5)Full address and description of the.


NOTE: THE SECURITY DEPOSIT AND RENT IS REFUNDABLE IN-CASE YOU DON’T LIKE THE HOUSE.

Please note that the deposit and rent made is fully refundable should in case you finally gain entrance into the house after receiving the keys and documents and feel unsatisfied or uncomfortable with the interior,but i am giving you a benefit of doubt that you will love everything about this lovely and beautiful home and is ready for move in. And also i will like to act fast because there a lot of rentals are out there okay.

(How kind of them to offer a refund on my money should I not like the house I rented sight-unseen!)

Gf Qw (again): Thanks once for giving us assurance that you are going to take good proper care of our property and also i try to call you but you are not picking up below is the information you need to wire the money to us just locate any grocery store outlet or any wall-mart around and send the money asap so that the keys can be send immediately okay.

Here is the Western Union Information to send the Money in any Grocery Store..

Recivers name :HANNA DAVID
Adress (redacted) bungalow street

State :Lagos

Country:Nigeria

Zipcode:01234

text quest:TO WHO

Answer:My wife.

 Please get back to me with the information giving to you by western union.Which includes the following

Senders Name................?
Amount...........................?
City.................................?
State...............................?
MTCN #...........................? (MONEY TRANSFER CONTROL NUMBER)
text quest:TO WHO?
Answer:My wife.


Thanks we await your response...

Best Regards.

(I'm not sure about the Nigerian post but they have astoundingly similar zip code systems to the US! Oh, look, how lucky for Lagos to be in a zip code numbered "01234"! It's sure as hell more catchy than 90210!)

(Here's where I get a little squirrelly with them)

Me: I drove past the house and saw a truck in the driveway, so I stopped and knocked on the door. The guy says he bought the house a year ago and it's not for rent! It's the same house as the pictures.

What's the deal?

Gf Qw: Yes he rent the house a year ago but is rent is gonna due on the 10th of this month okay.

(Desperation to get my money sets in now)

Me: So I drove by on my lunch break again. The guy wasn't home, but it looks like the roof might be really old. The shingles look buckled and old. I'm afraid that it might even be leaking. Do you have plans to replace the roof this year? I would not want to rent it for a year if I'm going to have troubles this winter.

(I figured what the hell, let's make 'em sweat it out a bit)

Gf Qw: Okay you can change if it is linking and also once you repaired you will deduct your money from the month okay and now i want to know when you will making the deposit?

(English is getting more broken the tenser they get. These last emails were all rapid fire, nearly in real-time. I could imagine excited desperation in their words.)

Me: So the guy who lives in the house says he's owned it for over a year now and it's not for rent.

What's the big deal? Which of you is lying?

Oh, yeah, I know the answer: you are lying. I know this because I own this house, and I live there, and it is most certainly not for rent. 

You are horrible people. There is no honor in scamming people for money. Die in a fire and find whatever hell your religion holds for you.

(AND THE BOMB DROPS!)

Honestly, though, my conclusion wasn't as punchy and exciting as I thought it might be. I had in the meantime posted an ad in the same Craigslist page warning of the scam, with several more responses from people who had been looking for a house to rent, or who owned houses that are posted. I had posted a note on my door explaining how the house was NOT FOR RENT and I had even been told of my neighbors shooing away pesky snoops who were casing the joint through the windows! I had been in contact with a local Realtor company that explained how their properties were being listed fraudulently as well, but they were told that there's little to be done about it. I felt safe in ending the charade, confident I wasn't going to get anything more out of it than emails that make my inner Grammar Nazi cringe. I hadn't received a reply for a week. The jig was up and they knew it. On to the next property.

My finale was a feeble attempt to shame them (ha, as if!) and to provide some potential climax to this story, but it's kind of hard to come up with some insult that might be understood by someone in Nigeria! I feel that if they had any respect for honor, they'd not be scamming in the first place, but maybe they would understand "Go to hell!"

I've heard that it's really creepy to have my "privacy" invaded like this. I disagree; there's nothing "private" about it all, unless you count those folks peering into my windows. The information and photo of the house are out there on the internet from realty ads, and anybody could (from the street) take photos and peer into my windows without disrupting my rights to privacy.

Taking it a step further, I pointed out that I have a Facebook account, and Myspace before that. My life has been bought and sold wholesale for many many years. Anybody with due diligence could find out just about anything about my life, and guess what, we could do the same for you as well. I hold no illusions about the limits of my privacy. I'm as big an advocate for privacy as a man with a Facebook and a blog can be.

This episode does not even begin to approach the feeling of invasion I felt when my car was broken into a few years ago. Perhaps I'll tell that story soon, or any number of myriad stories that came from the three years I lived in the house on the alley between the ghetto and the bars. But for now, in my nice neighborhood with protective and caring neighbors, I'm quite secure and content in my house. And it is not for rent.

Unless you're a member of the Swedish Bikini Team.