No You Can't Have It Chapter One
Last Updated on Tuesday, 30 October 2012 18:50 Written by Administrator Wednesday, 23 April 2008 00:00
NYCHI The BookGet it quick!
NO, YOU CAN’T HAVE IT
Here is Chapter 1 of NYCHI
Here is Chapter 2 of NYCHI
Here is Chapter 3 of NYCHI
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CHAPTER 1 The Shithammer
CHAPTER 2 What Was I Thinking?
CHAPTER 3 The Tennis Ball Incident
CHAPTER 4 Talk Radio
CHAPTER 5 The Town Meeting
CHAPTER 6 Hamknuckles
CHAPTER 7 Assoflage
CHAPTER 8 The Demonstration and the Infatuation
CHAPTER 9 The Bulldozer Two-Step
CHAPTER 10 greatWalofchinaMart
CHAPTER 11 Opening Volley
CHAPTER 12 Love Is In the Air
CHAPTER 13 I Mooned A Man-In-Black
CHAPTER 14 The Chess Game Begins...Your Move Jackass
CHAPTER 15 Gotta Eat Sometime
CHAPTER 16 The Press Conference
CHAPTER 17 Spin This!
CHAPTER 18 Ninjers
CHAPTER 19 Please Allow Me To Introduce Myself
CHAPTER 20 Curl Up? I Don’t Think So...
CHAPTER 21 The Truth Makes An Appearance
The thousand pound shithammer impacted dead-center on the nail head of my already bent and scored life on a dingy, gray early March day. The trees still bare of leaves. The weather still cold and uncertain; could decide to snow a half inch and instantly melt, or rain for hours.
The shithammer entered in the form of a big, loose-limbed, grizzly looking bastard. Well over six-feet and pushing at least 260. Not 260 worth of chiseled ‘I live at the gym’ pounds’; just a big, barrel-topped brute whose mother woke him up every single day with biscuits and gravy and put him to bed with meat and potatoes. He had a broad open face with big features and a bigger smile. That first impression said; ‘I’m just dumb enough to buy aluminum siding from you’.
After looking a little closer, I got the feeling that if you cheat him, he might be just smart enough to track you down and mean enough to stretch your lower lip over your head and smother you with it.
He was unsettling. I saw trouble with a capital-T as soon as he got out of a beat-up old jeep, and walked toward my office. He wore a pair of giant leather boots, ratty shorts and a t-shirt. Which; as he approached, I noted had a picture of a piece of cardboard with the words, ‘will kick lawyer 4 food’ scrawled on it.
Even more unsettling was how he got here at all. I live in southern, backwoods Tennessee on 260 acres of hills, backed by several thousand acres of National Forest. I have five guards and a very expensive security system to lessen the chances of me being “suicided” by the government.
Suicided? That’s the term I use to describe what happened to, by my count, seventeen journalists who like me, believe that the stewards of our fine country and its Constitution are pinheads whose collective activities are far worse than the most notorious serial killer ever caught, suspected or imagined. Seventeen suicides in the last six years of the current administration. Nobody really big or famous. Each having a niche, something damning to say, gathering momentum in the numbers who listened; and apparently, unhappy enough to ‘off’ themselves.
I fit the profile. A little too perfectly. Thus the security.
My profile. Well I am rich. Not just rich—filthy rich. The only son of parents who had so much farm land, farm related businesses, stocks and investments that only a complete and utter imbecile could squander it all.
My folks are gone, but the riches have doubled—twice, since I inherited. I don’t even do anything crooked. Hell, I don’t do much at all. I have a couple hired whiz kids who handle things. I gave ‘em one set of rules: do not cheat anyone, no businesses designed to take advantage of folks with little money, no shady deals and no business with anyone outside the US. We earned the money here in America and every penny of it will stay here.
So I’m a rich, contentious rebel with his own radio station and a personally hosted talk radio show that is becoming increasingly popular. I am rocking the boat, and each 10,000 yahoos I add as devoted listeners equal just another brush stroke on the target I feel being painted on my forehead.
So yeah, when this mutant appeared out of nowhere in a ragged jeep I was concerned. Hair only about four-inches long but still managing to form hundreds of individual clumps, each determined to head in their own direction. He was scary. I'm no slouch at 6’2”, 210 and my muscles came from the gym. They stuck out everywhere they were supposed to. Almost zero body fat, six years of karate instruction, thirty-eight years old and several successfully finalized confrontations under my belt. I knew exactly what to do in this situation.
I flipped the bolts locked on the door, walked briskly to the corner where I kept a riot shotgun leaning against the wall, pressed the intercom button to call my guards and went back to the window. It was bulletproof so I wasn’t worried about him plugging me from outside. Plus, he was carrying about an 18” square box in both hands. Could have been a bomb but this character looked anything but suicidal. I watched his approach and waited for a response from the guards.
He came up the stairs, across the porch to the door; and still no response from the guards I pay to insure this does not happen.
“Hey! Bane Boyd. Open up and lets talk. I have a business proposition for you.”
He had a voice as big as he was. Booming out from somewhere deep in that torso.
I had an uncle, one of the greatest banjo pickers you ever had the pleasure to watch perform. Went all over the country playing bluegrass and sang with a deep, but gentle voice. That voice carried out across the crowds without benefit of a microphone. Eyes closed, pick on all five fingers, in another world, a happy place. Everyone who was watching was in a happy place when he started pickin'. Hit more notes on that banjo than a human ear could isolate.
Then, when the show was over and the drinking started. Somebody would suck down about one beer more than the previous two when they should have quit, and start some type of altercation. Then my uncle would step in. That voice became a thing to fear, as would he. He’s one man on this earth I would not even want to shoot at, because it would just make him mad. He was probably the toughest human being I had ever encountered. He could talk to dogs, and they would splay down on the ground and start pissing all over themselves.
My visitor had a voice like that, but I didn’t think he’d come to sing to me.
I was seriously considering taking my secret escape route. I had a tunnel leading from a hidden door. It ran under the house for about 200 feet and came out the other side of a mountain.
“Bane,” he said. “Don’t be thinking about running down into your hidey-hole and coming out the other side of the mountain. Just open up. In ten minutes we’ll be in business together.”
Panic? Not yet, but I wouldn’t need a map to get there. Knows about my escape route. Probably an accomplice making his way through the tunnel right now. Ambush me from behind.
“Look,” I said, through the closed door. “If you leave now you can beat the arrival of my guards and make your way safely off this property and down the road.”
“Bane! I never figured you to be this skittish,” he said. “The guards are not coming. I have a business proposition you are going to want to be a part of. Now open up and lets start the dickering.”
I backed up to get the phone. Much as I hated to, I would have to call 911.
“Don’t bother trying to call anyone, I disabled your phone.”
I veered off to the kitchen to get my cell off the charger.
“Your cell phone is gone too,” he said.
He was right. The cell phone was gone. Just an empty charger.
“All right. Let’s rock. You and me.” I was muttering. A trapped rat. All this sophisticated communication crap, guards, sensors. Nothing worked. Just like man throughout the ages—no one to rely on but himself. Fine.
I went to the door, flipped the bolts, flung open the door and held the shotgun on him.
“Back away from the porch. Keep both your hands on that box. Don’t move too fast and I will not put several loads of double-ought buckshot into you.”
“Bane,” he said. “I am here to offer you an opportunity. A unique opportunity. There are over 8 billion people on this planet and I chose you; and look how you treat me. I had several other likely candidates for this, I chose you.”
“Sure.” I said, easing out on the porch. “I’m honored, but I have too many commitments right now, so why don’t you go contact your second choice. And let me give you a tip. Call first.”
“Nah. Your location is ideal. Plus, I think you will really appreciate what is going to happen. This is a life changer buddy.” He was looking around the porch as he spoke.
“You got an electrical socket out here?” He asked.
“I know how you are going to change my life; by ending it.” I said, backing a couple steps away. “CIA, NSC or some other government assholes. You just get down on your knees and fall forward using both hands to keep the box over your head. Otherwise, and I am not kidding around; I will have to shoot your knees out from under you. Just for my own piece of mind. You’re an awfully big, dangerous looking bastard. Honestly, I don’t know why I haven’t shot you already.”
“I heard Tennesseans were a friendly, sociable bunch. The type of people who ...”
That was it. I was staring down at my empty hands, and he was holding my shotgun in one hand and the box in the other. From at least eight-feet away. I never saw even a blur. I don’t think a human can move that fast.
“What are you?” I asked.
He bent over to place the shotgun on the ground.
“Now where is that electrical outlet? Only have enough battery power to do that a few times.”
“Kiss my hillbilly ass. You Cro-Magnon, slope-headed, man-in-black piece of shit. Don’t you people ever ask yourself if what they tell you to do is wrong. You’re going to have to shoot me with that shotgun. Not hook up your hi tech electrical doodad that makes it look as though I had a heart attack. Blood is gonna spill here, one way or another. If you’re any kind of a man, just put down the box and we’ll toe-up and dance.”
As fast as he was, I figured the fight wouldn’t last long enough for me to know I had been killed. I knew my ass was dangled over the cliff, and the most I could hope for was a quick fall.
“You know, that sounds like a good workout. But, I am not here to kill you. I am not here to hurt you. We are going to be business partners. Just point me to the electrical outlet and let me make my pitch.” He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I promise if you don’t want to enter into this enterprise with me after ten minutes, I will walk away and out of your life forever.”
“The outlet is over there by that big chair,” I pointed.
He set down the square box that in no way looked either lethal or spectacular, and bent over to plug it in.
“What is it?” I asked, despite my rapid heart beat.
“Well, I am not nearly as eloquent as you are.” He said, “I listen to your radio show and you have quite the ability to sling the bull. So I will just say a few words about my business plan, and we’ll let the machine seal the deal.”
“I am going to start a shipping company.” he said, while bent over and fiddling with his box. “Like Federal Express and UPS. I want to lease sixty acres of your frontage on the highway. Within a couple months I would be needing more acreage. I will be employing quite a few people within a very short time. I want you to advertise for me on your radio show. I will pay...”
“If you listen to my show you know that I have only about ten outfits I will plug for. I don’t need the money, and unless I like you I don’t clutter up my show with advertisements.”
“I will ask you not to interrupt. I have only ten minutes and when I am finished you can make any comments you feel compelled to,” he said. Up close he was still scary looking but there was something about his eyes. Something mischievous. That was my impression, a sort of mutant Dennis the Menace.
“Sure. Go on.” I said, resigned to hearing about his crackpot scheme.
“So I will pay you the going rate for advertisement.” He said. “Then at some point things are going to get really bad.”
“That's it,” I interrupted. “You lease my property, start a shipping company, hire people, run ads and then things get bad. That’s the same thing 90% of the businesses in this country do: rent a place, invest their money, go bankrupt. Big, wild haired, shotgun stealing monkey or not, I have an overwhelming urge to attempt kickin' your ass right now.”
I started for him, and he caught me with his eyes. “I asked you not to interrupt, I only have about eight minutes left. Attempt to kick my ass then.”
He flipped a switch on the device, and a few lights lit up. There was a four-inch screen maybe an LED, a few dials and several buttons. Subtract the screen and I could build everything I could see on the outside from twenty dollars worth of radio shack parts. However, I could not tell what was inside, so I waited.
He walked over and handed me the shotgun. “Here hold this, it will make you feel better,” he said.
“Now what if I had something,” he said, walking back to his contraption. “Let’s say a major technological breakthrough. I filed for no patent. Showed no one how it worked. Kept the only working model with me. Just started my business and began making money. What do you think the government would do?”
“They would shut you down. Legally. That's why they have thousands of reptile lawyers generating sixty-million pages of laws. So if you wander into their limited attention span. They can get you.” I said this while only half-paying attention. Most of my attention was focused on the fact that I now held the shotgun.
“Look,” I said. “if you have some gizmo that is truly valuable, I will help you get the most out of it. No fees, just reimburse my expenses. I will provide the lawyers and everything else. That’s IF I can see the value in your gizmo. That is a sacrifice on my part; because, if it is truly valuable and you take the road you’re talking about, you will probably be killed and the government will take it anyway. I can then can add another example of how those worthless turds operate to my radio show rant. Your time is rapidly dwindling so what is this technological breakthrough you have?”
He bent over and pushed a button.
“How's that shotgun feel in your hand?”
I looked down; there was no shotgun in my hand. It was on the ground about three feet in front of me.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“That is shipping my friend. Moving things from point a to point b. This is captain Kirk’s transporter without the funny noise and twinkly lights. A triple A, Iron Clad Guaranteed ticket to the very top of our governments hit list.” He was smiling like a long time married man whose wife just strolled out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a gleam in her eye.
“You trying to tell me that machine moves objects from one place to another using only that little box and a 110 volt plugin? What have you done to me, some kind of hypnosis? Hologram? Am I strapped down on a gurney right now underground in some government building with a virtual reality headset on, and you are going to convince me to go out and shoot 15 people? This has got to be some bullshit.”
“Pick up the shotgun again,” he said.
I moved forward and slowly bent over to pick up the shotgun with one eye on him, and the other aimed at my target—and it was gone.
“What the hell? Where is it?” I asked.
“Look over in your yard in front of the porch,” he said.
Sure enough, it was on the ground in front of the porch steps.
“Fuck me in the left ear! Move it back to me,” I said. Shock, fear, all leaving to be replaced by awe.
“How about I move you over to it,” he said.
I was standing in front of the shotgun. I never felt a thing. I was one place—then I was somewhere else. Not even necessary to adjust my position, as I was solidly planted on the ground.
“This is amazing,” I said. “You will be the richest unkempt asshole in the history of mankind. How does it work?”
“Well partner,” he said. “I am keeping that to myself. No one gets the specs on this. Not even my partner, which I’m hoping will be you.”
“But this thing will revolutionize transport.” I went on, pacing back and forth in front of the shotgun. “Eliminate our reliance on fossil fuels. Clean the air... it’s amazing. Like a whole new era. You have to let it out.”
“It’s mine and no; you can’t have it.” He said.
“What the hell does that mean! I don’t want it. I am thinking of all the good it will do.”
“I just wanted to say, ‘it’s mine and no, you can’t have it. Sort of practice for the government folks I will be meeting.” He was smiling and continued while shifting from one foot to another in front of his machine.
“No good will come of it.” he went on. “People will be out of work. The government will be harassing everyone they don’t like. Criminals will get hold of it and start their rigamarole. Military people will use it to cause even more trouble. It will be one big swirling toilet of misery and woe. People will transport bombs at each other. Believe me, I have thought this over. There is not a single government, or even person I know of who could be entrusted to operate this equipment straight up for the good of humanity. I have even logically thought through scenarios that resulted in a major nuclear exchange. I just can’t trust in the basic goodness of a gang of assholes who spend ten-million dollars to get a hundred-thousand dollar a year job.”
“No.” He said, stomping down the porch steps to where I was standing. “This is mine, and I have a plan to use it in a way that will benefit everyone, eventually. You will just have to trust me on that statement. We can make a difference. We can have some fun. We can shake up thousands of self-satisfied, self-important assholes. We can refocus the peoples perception of things. We can do some good. We can even make a pile of money.”
"What will happen is,” I said. “Within two weeks of starting up, we will awaken to the entire might of every alphabet agency in this country surrounding us, armed with shit we haven’t even heard of. They will take your machine anyway. Suicide us in the Waco tradition. Slither together like the bunch of worthless reptiles they are and usher in the worst and probably final chapter in the existence of man. Right off the top of my head; and we will have to hash this out, but I can only see one solution. Give it to everyone, everywhere.”
“Won’t work,” he said. “We have too many cunning, ruthless bastards out there. They would immediately figure out how to transport the other peoples machines away and do whatever they wanted. They would be in control, I can guarantee it. We will have a lot of time to discuss this, but believe me, I’ve thought myself into five aspirin circles of hell twice daily since I created the machine. There is only one way to play this out. My solution is twisted, convoluted and clownish, but it has a better than even chance of achieving the goals we all want.”
“So what is the plan?” I asked.
“Well, we are going to start a shipping company...”
“Geez!” I said. ”You are an irritating bastich. I want the details of what WE are going to do. How WE are going to survive. Survive what I am sure will be, a fucking awe inspiring, nearly biblical in its size and scope, assault on our persons and everything within a mile of us.”
“Details.” He said waving his hands. “We will respond appropriately to outside stimuli. I can handle the swat teams or whatever. I’ll just send them somewhere isolated. Inject a little irony in those starched, stiff-backed, over-disciplined, barely literate, goose-stepping Nazi thugs.” He was getting louder as this outburst built to a finale. “I’m telling you, we can have a blast here and do some good work. We get a couple breaks, a few things fall into place, and it will all come together. We’ll be high stepping. The colors will shine brighter. The flowers smell sweeter. Food will taste better. The sunshine will energize your spirits. EEEEhaaaa.” He screamed while doing a little Irish jig.
“Then the drugs will wear off, and you’ll be staring at your shoes and wondering what the hell is all over your shirt.” I replied.
“All right,” he said, putting a serious look on his face. “How much are you going to charge for the lease? Keep in mind my slovenly appearance and its clues as to my solvency.”
“Before we get too far ahead I want another demonstration,” I said. “Something of my own devising. How about you send a jar of honey to my girlfriends house. I have a dozen beehives out back and more honey than I can eat or give away. So I will mark a jar with a number, and you send it to her house. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” he said. “I will need to get the keyboard out of the car. You give me the address, and I will put it on her kitchen table.”
“No way. How can you achieve that kind of accuracy?” I asked.
“No questions about how it works, remember. I can say I have spent the last two and a half years and millions assembling a GPS based system for the entire country. I hired a few of the best programmers I could find. Used the machine to obtain access to some very detailed government databases. Armed with all the preexisting data, those genius fellows gridded out over 80% of the real estate in the US. I don’t completely understand what they did. I just got them access to whatever they needed and paid them a huge sum of money.” This said as he made his way to the rusty jeep.
I went in the house and grabbed a jar of honey. I found a marker and wrote the number seventeen on the side. I went out with the number facing me where he couldn’t see it, and set it on the rail-number facing away.
He had the keyboard and was waiting.
“What’s the address and we’ll send it special delivery,” he said.
“521 Holly, zip is 38168. What if she is looking right at the table when it appears?”
“Well, I guess it will scare the crap out of her.”
“What if her arm or something is right where you send it? Will the honey jar meld with her hand or some other hideous shit? You remember The Fly don’t you?” I asked.
“Can’t happen.” he said. “The jar can’t occupy an already-occupied space. So it adjusts to settle as near to the target zone as possible. The worst that could happen would be her arm was headed towards the settling object and knocked it over or collided with it.”
“If it is GPS based, how can you set it on a table?” I asked.
“I have learned a few tricks since I created this machine.” he said.
“Where did you get the money? And, uh, just what is your name? “I felt like an idiot. I never got his name.
“My name is Lee. Shade Lee. I stole the money.”
“So your name should be Shady Lee?” That did not get a chuckle from the man called Shade.
“I only took the money from evil people who had too much already.” Shade Lee said. “They probably don’t even know it’s gone.”
“If they were evil, why just take their money?” I asked. “Why not materialize some poison Fugu fish into their stomach, and let them fall over dead?”
He was bent over his machine, but his face hardened as he straightened to his full height and stared me down.
“I am not a God.” Shade said. “I am not captain America or some comic book hero. I’m not a crime fighter. I don’t think I can change the world. I do think I can give it a nudge in the right direction. I don’t believe I can inject a little logic into everyday life. It’s become glaringly obvious that 90% of the sheep on this planet are incapable of using logic beyond the fulfillment of their basic organic urges. I will not kill people, even though its equally obvious this earth would be well rid of them. Logic tells me there are always elegant and even fittingly ironic solutions to dealing with the veritable cornucopia of miserable subhuman species who walk this earth.”
Suddenly, he threw something at me. I caught it and looked to see that it was a set of car keys.
“That was an unthinking response to danger. That part of your brain reacts, without conscious thought to protect you. When confronted with danger or other dire circumstances, occasionally you have the luxury of time to think; and sometimes you must react. I have the luxury of time to think and formulate solutions to situations I am faced with, like an evil person, who should be stomped into the earth like a tent peg. However, violence; when there is time yet to formulate a fitting response, is just intellectual laziness. ‘I’ll just let my lizard brain run rampant and kick his ass’. I can’t afford that type of mental sloth. In my possession is a Pandoras box of sorts. I have already opened it and am even now perched precariously on the edge of a precipice. I could destroy it, or I can set in motion the painstaking and carefully designed scenario I have devised. If I make decisions without full deliberation. I am quite sure bad things will happen—to many people. So there will be no killing. God willing.”
“Enough of the lectures.” Shade said. “Use your cell phone to call your girlfriend and see how she likes the jar of honey you left her.”
“You took my cellphone.” I said.
“I did, but I put it back where the jar of honey was.” he said, with a smirk.
I turned to look and there it was, right next to me where the jar of honey had sat.
“All right you smug bastard. I would take a swing at you, but you would only move me someplace where my fist would hit the wall. I don’t have Pandoras Box. All I have is an irritating Bill Nye-The Science Guy wannabe on steroids further complicating my life.” I dialed my girlfriend’s number.
“You’re even more cynical, foul mouthed and generally smart ass than your radio shows would indicate,” Shade said, just loud enough for me to hear.
“I heard that,” I said while the phone rang. “I want five points of the gross for the shipping operation.”
“That’s absurd. I just want to lease some property and have some radio coverage on your show. That’s not even funny, as I assume it must have been another crude attempt at humor.”
Jody answered the phone. “Hey babe. Did you get the jar of honey I left on the table for you?” I asked.
“Bane! My little beanie baby. I was just going to call you. We still on for tomorrow?”
“Yes indeed babe. I will pick you up at six. Did you get the honey?”
“Bane. What’s with the honey? Are you going to spring some kinky assault on me using honey? Hmm, it does sound interesting.”
“Sweety, we have been together a long time; you’re starting to read me like a book. The honey is there right?”
“Yes there is a jar of honey on the table with a number written on it. Bane you obviously brought the honey here, so why are you asking about it? Are you worried some other man will use it on me? Maybe a door to door shoe salesman will start by placing 600 dollar Ivectas on my feet and the next thing I am face down covered in honey with my little toes twitching in satisfaction.”
“Well, just make sure you taste a little before you let the shoe salesman have at you. It’s from an experimental hive I placed near some special trees and vegetation I planted. It’s excellent.”
“Just what do you mean before the shoe salesman has at me? Maybe we have been together too long...”
“Honey, I have a buyer here in the room. No time to discuss this now. I was just preoccupied. Obviously, I am not in agreement with the shoe salesman scenario. I will pick you up tomorrow. Bye.”
“Har har! Not so smooth with the ladies are you.” Shade said. “From your whiny tone at the end of that conversation I wouldn’t be planning on any carnal activities in the near future.”
“Hardeharhar. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself Cujo the Upright. Let’s stick to business, of which my personal life is none of yours. Besides, you don’t appear to be the poster boy for a freakin' romance novel yourself. You might attract a female Russian weightlifter with hair under her arms you could braid into an extra appendage. Or maybe a female Yeti scurrying along some frozen escarpment, prehensile toes digging for purchase; then suddenly she sees you, a dream come true meeting in the frozen, barren hills. A missing link between man and abomination.”
“That was good imagery, but it doesn’t change the fact that the lid on your honey jar has been twisted impossibly tight and you will be sleeping alone tonight.” Now the big goon was laughing. It was a big laugh. Like everything about this Shade Lee was. Big. Even though it was at my expense, I found that laugh comforting.
“Laugh away Cementhead the Barbarian. I am seeing her tomorrow night. I still want five points, and a named partnership or you can make your twisted pitch to whatever unfortunate innocent is number two on your list.”
“A man of principle would not attempt such thievery. I am expecting revenues in the billions. No sir, two points I could live with.”
“Five points. No negotiation. If I make ten billion that won’t even be a penny per molecule.”
“Molecule?” he asked.
“That’s right. Molecule. I don’t know how many I have, but I fully expect to have all of mine violently fuckin' redistributed over a wide area and in such a condition that ‘all the kings horses, and all the king’s men’ will not be putting Mr. Boyd back together again. So five is the magic number and I can have my lawyer, who is actually a decent guy and not a bloodsucking, test tube incubated, freak of nature, draw us up a working agreement. Now do we have a deal?”
Shade exhibited the first moment of discomfort I had witnessed since meeting him. Enjoying his discomfort I added, “Come-on galoot, don’t be so skittish. Sign up for the ride and lets get this here-there-vaporware shipping company started. Plus, I am pretty sure I am the only person who would ever believe you could invent anything more intricate than a bigger hammer. Something better suited to fit in those misshapen catcher mits you have for hands.”
“All right.” Shade said. “But the agreement will be for only a year. Then we can renegotiate. Also, I would not be using the word bloodsucking in a negative sense as you appear to share that character trait.”
“Sure, a year. That’s approximately 345 days longer than I predict we’ll need.”
Copyright 2005 Greg Crites
No, You Can’t Have It