FAQ TWENTY: Dole Harper Makes A Move
Kanois stood as Warren entered the kitchen and walked toward a metal and glass door on the far end of the large room. Bailey handed Warren a set plastic covered sheets of paper as he walked by her and headed toward the door Kanois had disappeared through, leaving a cloud of steam in her wake.
Inside the steam room the hiss subsided, leaving a warm cloud drifting through the tile room. Warren sat in a corner under a light, leaning back against the tiles and breathing in the steam.
“Kanois. Where is that dope Dole?”
“He was very good to me in the few hours we spent together, so don’t disparage him until you get to know him a little better,” said Kanois, loosening her towel and running her fingers through her hair.
“I’m with Warren,” said Bailey, laying down on a tile bench and arranging her legs in a very friendly fashion.
Warren sighed and began to read the short contract as the heat penetrated his sore muscles. Bailey stretched her arm toward the wall, pushed a button, and started an Eric Clapton cd from the mid-nineties.
Nobody spoke for ten minutes.
Kanois broke the silence when Warren put the plastic covered sheets on the tile and took a deep breath. “Any questions?”
“I didn’t know you were a notary public, Kanois.”
Kanois and Bailey laughed.
“What’s funny?” asked Warren.
“A little girl talk about a lawyer I once knew.”
“Yeah,” said Bailey sitting up. “You never finished telling me about Notary Man.”
“Well this lawyer thought his little notary stamp was cute in it’s little leather case. I used to see him every now and again at this bar I hung out in. So one night I was with some very cute friends of mine, and this guy parked his rather gorgeous body next to our crew and began to glance our way during time outs in a Rockets game.”
“This would be at Sam Houston Loves Sports bar in the Longhorn Towers?” asked Warren.
“Yes, darling, the same place where, one fateful night, you and I roped each other in. So, this lawyer, he offered to buy the whole group a conciliatory cocktail, seeing as how the Crocketts were about to blow another lead with Aheem on the bench and Charles Arkley doing commentary for TNT. Naturally, extending Southern graciousness, we accepted and began to chat him up. One thing led to another, and he offered to notarize our behinds after they were softened up in his Jacuzzi, which happened to be in his penthouse, which happened to be in the Longhorn Towers.”
“Wow,” said Warren, shifting on the bench and letting his towel fall to the floor, “That’s quite an offer.”
“Well we thought so too! We settled our tab, gathered our things, and followed him to his apartment. We made quite the loud parade, and by the time the elevator reached his penthouse none of us had any clothes on.”
“I’m assuming the elevator opened into his apartment?” said Warren.
“Well, we didn’t know it at the time, but yeah, it did. So, he gave us all towels, hangers, and a glass of champagne. The Jacuzzi was on some kind of timer, so the water was already hot and bubbly. I asked if the kitchen was still open and he said ‘I’ll double check.’ My girlfriends and I got wet and in a few minutes Ronnie, his name was Ronnie, returned with a plate of cheese and crackers. He put them on one of the four plastic tables that surrounded the Jacuzzi, removed his clothes, and climbed in.”
Kanois stopped talking for a moment and stared at the steam room door.
“So a minute after he got in all the lights dimmed and J. Lo’s latest started playing from speakers in the ceiling. That’s when he brought out the serious contraband.”
“I thought you said he was a lawyer,” said Bailey.
“I didn’t say he was an honest lawyer! But he was a very talented lawyer, if you get my drift,” said Kanois as she winked at Warren. Kanois moved to pick the plastic covered papers from the tiles beside Warren. Her towel slipped off, revealing a perfect pair of apples tattooed on either side of her belly button. Warren reached for an apple and Kanois met his eyes and grinned.
In the next instant the sauna door flew open and a deafening explosion accompanied a flash of light. Warren leapt up and took Kanois to the floor as gently as he could as a second shot rang out and tile shattered and flew in all directions. He saw Bailey make a move toward the door and heard a third shot from further away. Then a fourth, still further away. Then two rapid shots and a scream. Then a distant siren, probably from the automatic police notification system in the burglar alarm. He stood slowly and then knelt down to check on Kanois. She wasn’t moving.
The ambulance arrived shortly after the police, and Kanois was taken away on a stretcher. The police had questioned Bailey and Warren during the twenty minutes the four paramedics had spent working on Kanois while she lay on the floor of the steam room. One of the paramedics was an avid reader of the Chronicle and she accepted Warren’s offer of a ride to the hospital. On his way out Warren signed the contract and left it on Bailey’s kitchen with his cell phone number and a note that said, ‘Viya Con Dios. Call me. Piece.”
“So, my name is Warren Piece,” Warren said as he opened the passenger side door for the EMT.
”Hi,” said the EMT, bending over to slide into the Ferrari, “My name is Valerie. Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.”
Warren entered the red Ferrari through the driver’s door. “Well, perhaps you’ll tell me a little about Kanois’s condition on the way to the hospital.”
Warren started the car and pulled away from Bailey’s house, accelerating down the pea gravel driveway and taking the turn out onto the asphalt with a nice heel to toe brake move for a minimum of fishtailing.
Warren glanced over at Valerie and said, “Nothing handles like a Ferrari.”
Valerie said, “My apartment is on the way to the hospital. You can take me there if you want. My shift is over and I could use a good stiff drink.”
Warren slid onto the entrance ramp of the interstate and accelerated to merge into traffic. “So, which exit?”
“Delaney Street. How close were you to the victim?”
“Do you mean at the time she was shot, or as in a personal relationship?”
“I mean as a personal relationship.”
“Well,” said Warren, “I’m a man of many interests.”
“You like many different flavors.”
“That’s right. But I’m not a cold-hearted pig either. I don’t even know if she’s still breathing.”
“Oh,” said Valerie, “she’s still breathing. The cops asked us to keep her on that steam room floor to make it appear she’d been severely injured. Apparently they believed the shooter was still on the premises monitoring her condition.”
Warren took the Delaney street exit. “So, was Kanois injured at all?”
“While she was laying there she was hitting on Gerard.”
“The big guy with the old school Fu Manchu?”
“Yeah,” said Valerie. “Take your first right.
She kept asking him if he could make sure to bring her clothes in the ambulance, because eventually she’d want to change, and how long was the ride to the hospital, like long enough? if you know what I’m sayin’. Turn in at your next right, into the garden apartments. Park here. Do you want to come up? I could use a ride to go get my car.”
“Sure,” said Warren. “Maybe we’ll rebound from this little adventure together.”
Valerie made a nifty move to exit the passenger side of the Ferrari and Warren followed her to a building nestled with three others in a group of fir trees. They entered the front door of a townhouse and Valerie said, “Make yourself at home, I’m going to check my messages. The liquor is in the bar through the living room.”
Warren moved through the living room taking note of the decor. A small picture of Elvis in a silver frame rested on an upright piano against one wall. The living room furniture was from Ethan Allan, and sat on top of thick hand woven area rugs. Warren passed into the bar area. A mini slot machine stood next to a jukebox just inside the doorway. Warren selected a Willie Nelson single and as Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain played searched the bar area for Jack Daniels. The first thing he found was a Colt 45 Python.
The gun was extremely well cared for. Warren checked the cylinder and noticed the Python was loaded with dum-dums. “A serious weapon, don’t you think?” asked Valerie.
Warren stood with the gun in his hand, looking at the handle and pulling back on the trigger enough to lock it into place. He put the Python on his arm and spun the cylinder by pushing the gun toward his shoulder. “Yes, it’s very nice, my dad had one like it, only he kept his loaded with hollow points. I’m curious. Why do you keep it with the liquor?”
“For that unforeseen circumstance when I can’t talk my way out of whatever I’ve gotten into. So far, I’ve always been able to get a ‘yes’ to ‘would you mind if I made a drink first?’”
Warren looked up as Valerie put her hand on his arm, pulled him close, and gently removed the Python from his hand. “How do you like my apartment? I used to date a guy who lived north of Houston, and he said when we went out that was too far to drive home, so he furnished my apartment. I didn’t mean to dump him right after, but he began to leave too many footprints in my life. He didn’t take it too hard. Later in the summer I saw him at a Rockets game with his sister and he was three sheets to the wind. I was shocked to see her again this morning.”
Warren had made Bloody Marys and handed Valerie a tall glass as they sat down on the Ethan Allan furniture. He stopped in mid sit and stood back up, looking down at Valerie. “Excuse me?”
“Bailey Harper. I dated her brother. I couldn’t resist him. He was so charming. The whole time I was pumping that girl’s stomach at his house I couldn’t take my eyes off him.”
Warren sat down, took a big drink of his Bloody Mary, and looked at Valerie. “You met him how?”
Valerie scooted closer to Warren and bent over to place her glass on the coffee table. Her excellent taste in leisure wear wasn’t all Warren noticed.
“Well, we went to Dole’s house on an emergency call. This is something that happened quite frequently until the mayor intervened with his father and Dole began to contract with a private service for his needs in that area.”
“Dole needs an emergency service on call?”
“Let’s just say, he knows how to party, and some of his friends fall into the abyss trying to keep up.”
“So, anyway,” Warren stood up to get away from Valerie. She had started to rub his arm and Warren’s attention was beginning to shift as his temperature began to rise.
“So, anyway,” Valerie said, smiling at Warren as she picked up her glass, leaning over even further this time, “I wanted to meet him in the worst way, as I like a party every now and then myself, so I made sure I put a slit in the plasma bag and squeezed some onto my pants. When his guest was stabilized somewhat, I asked him if I could use his bathroom to save my pants, they make us buy these expensive special stain resistant clothes, but you have to keep up with them, a rap like that. He showed me the downstairs bathroom and I deliberately stuffed the bowl and made the toilet overflow. I opened the door, ran to Dole, told him I needed his help in the bathroom, something had gone wrong and the toilet needed to be turned off, and he and I wound up in the bathroom, him on his knees and me in my underwear with my pants draped over the sink to ostensibly wash out the plasma.”
Warren said, “Local girl makes good, or at least makes Dole.”
Valerie finished her bloody Mary and held her glass out to Warren. “Excellent! May I have another?”
Warren moved to the bar area and Valerie continued.
“So, Dole finished turning off the water and looked up at me. ‘Crisis averted’ he said. I smiled down at him and said, ‘I’m so embarrassed,’ and took a little step toward him, sort of leaning on the sink a little.”
“Good move. We’re getting into the area of too much information I think.” Warren sat on the Ethan Allan sofa as he handed Valerie a fresh drink.
Valerie smiled at Warren, put her drink down, and took off her pants. “Perhaps I should just show you, ummm, what went down.”
Warren’s cell phone rang. “I’ve got to take this, Val,” he said, reaching into his pocket for the Nokia. Val continued disrobing. “Hello.”
“Warren, good, I’m at the radio station and we’ve lined up a producer. I think you’ll like her, she’s very into sports, runs a tight board, knows who to suck up to and when, and has a wicked sense of humor. She’s been working at the Houston Chronicle and is ready to take the step into commercial radio. Here, talk to her!”
The phone clattered on some hard surface, there was some giggling, some whispering, and then Mandy came on the line.
“Hi Mr. Piece. My name is Mandy Spring. We haven’t got much time to hash things out if it’s true you’re going on the air this afternoon. Is that true?”
“Well, yes, it is. True. True” Warren leaned back against the Ethan Allan sofa and watched Valerie leave the room with her clothes under her arm.
OK, I’ve lined up welcome to the station interviews with Bill Wellstone, Gary Gerard, and Stephanie Ladd.”
Warren sipped his Bloody. “Who are those people?”
“They are the pr directors and media spokespeople for the Houston Crocketts, the Dallas Plowhorses, and the as yet unnamed new Houston ZFL franchise.”
“I know everybody associated with the Crocketts. Their pr director is a very attractive lady named Janice Spera.”
“Well, not as of three o’clock this morning, when Janice Spera was found floating face down in her swimming pool.”
“Warren choked on a just swallowed sip of his Bloody Mary.“ WHAT?”
“Yeah, you know Jamal Deadburn, their first round draft choice?”
“I’ve had dinner with him and his gang.”
“Well, he found her, and…”
“Wait..wait..he found her when?”
“That’s the good part. He called from his cell phone, so the cops were able to triangulate the call to get his location. He was practically incoherent, standing by the pool, stark naked except for his Crocketts jersey, saying the same thing over and over into the phone.”
“Which was?”
“Hey, I have to hold something back, too make sure you hire me.”
Warren, stood up quickly and said, “I’ll be at the station in an hour.”
“No, wait, Warren, Bailey wants to meet me at the Houston Famoulouge-erie in 45 minutes. Later.”
The line went dead. Val appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a Crocket Championship t-shirt from 1996.
“I’m ready when you are,” she said, pouring the rest of her drink in a go cup.
Warren put his arm around Val and gave her a French kiss. He backed away only slightly and said, “Hey Val, I’ve got an hour to kill. Which way to the Casbah?”
Val smiled, kissed Warren, then spun him around and pushed him toward the front door.
“Happy hour is over, Mr. Piece. Now give me a ride to my car.”
Warren’s pager buzzed as he opened the car door for Valerie. The Daily Chronicle! Frank W.!
Warren dialed a phone number at the Chronicle on his hands free Nokia.
“Hello, mail room.”
Warren started the Ferrari and glanced at Valerie. She was hiding behind a very cool pair of DKNY sunglasses. “May I speak to Parfaae?”
“Just a minute.”
The minute turned into two and Warren accelerated as he merged onto the interstate.
“Hello.”
“Parfaae, this is Piece. Good morning.”
“Good morning sugar, how’d you know I’d be in the mail room?”
Warren glanced out the passenger window and noticed a black Porsche keeping up with him. He needed to take an exit soon, and he was in no real hurry, so he dropped his speed to make a move to the right lane.
The Porsche slowed as well.
“The mail room has the best coffee. That 13 bean roast you like.”
“What’s the favor, is the question.”
Warren touched Valerie on the leg and mouthed ‘Hang on”. He floored the Ferrari. The Porsche attempted to keep up.
“I need you to please access my computer, get my column on Akeem dated two days ago, and e-mail it to Frank W.”
“OK, and for this favor I get?”
Warren slowed just enough to hit the exit without becoming airborne and then accelerated to try and put more distance between the black Porsche and his red Ferrari.
“How about I give you some air time on KSPORT? You don’t even have to talk sports.”
The Porsche pulled even with Warren’s Ferrari as both cars encountered light traffic. The driver’s window of the Porsche slid down.
“I don’t know how you’re going to do that, but OK!”
“Thanks, Parfaae, you’re a peach.”
The cell went dead and Warren snuck a glance at the Porsche.
The passenger window glass blew out with the first explosion from the Colt Python. Instinctively, Warren slammed his foot to the floor and cut hard to the right. Metal screeched against metal as a second explosion pierced the body of the Ferrari blowing an exit hole through the roof. Warren heard long horn blasts and more gunfire as he tried to steer in and around unsuspecting motorists. He took a hard left when he spotted a hole in the incoming traffic, executing a u-turn to head back to the interstate and a chance at survival.
The black Porsche mirrored his every move.
Warren heard Valerie sob and scream in pain. He looked at her for a moment and saw she was grabbing for her purse on the floorboard.
There was a break in the traffic and the Ferrari hit one thirty. The Porsche screamed to a bumper to bumper dead even position. That’s the moment Val unloaded a full clip from her Luger in the direction of the Porsche. The wounded black car lunged hard to the left. Warren tried to compensate by turning hard to the right.
The Ferrari and the Porsche tangled and executed a one hundred thirty mile per hour roadway ballet. Pirouettes, flips, turns, all to the accompaniment of a steel against steel soundtrack.
The two cars came to rest in front of an Arby’s, a spectacular wreck in the Big Town, with no signs of life.
Right, Right, Bloody Well Right!
by
Warren Piece
Quantities are limited! Buy now! The last games of Parthenon are going, going, gone!
All of sudden, out of the blue, our offense has taken a body blow, through no fault of our own.
Back in the day, when our lives were starting to suck wind and we were in a psychological monsoon season, we could always point to the Crocketts and say, hey, at least Parthenon is having a great year.
Thank God for Parthenon! The best center in the ZBA today!
Well, hold the phone Sadie, the latest blood tests are in, and Parthenon is out!
Parthenon has had a blood problem before, but his time the doctors say physical contact could be fatal. Apparently there is a good chance a blood clot could form the next time a good perimeter shooter misses a three and Parthenon skies for the rebound.
“And Williams shoots from beyond the arc!! Off the rim!! Parthenon leaps for the rebound, and the medics are on the floor! The syringes are out…the plasma is loaded on the gurney…they have found a vein!!! They have found a vein!!! Parthenon’s transfusion is complete, and the team moves down the floor!”
Life in the ZBA might never be the same.
The only bumps and grinds Parthenon can endure these days are the ones from the girls at the Houston sports night spot, Calamity Jane’s.
I called Parthenon, trading on my relationship with the best center in the ZBA to get an exit interview.
“So, Parth, how do you feel about your career ending so suddenly?”
“Well, Warren, I console myself with the fact I will always be a part of Crockett history. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
“Do you see yourself continuing to work in the Crockett organization?”
“Well, Warren, I console myself with the fact I will always be apart of Crockett history. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
“Uh, yeah, well, big guy, do you see yourself being a regular at card shows, becoming a spokesman for a car company, a league officer, where are you headed, Parth?”
“Well, Warren, I console myself with the fact I will always be a part of Crockett history. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
“OK, Parth, thanks for sharing. Strong interview! Keep taking that medication, although you might want to talk to the team doctor about the strength of that stuff! I’ll see you around the gym.”
“Well, Warren, I console myself with the fact I will always be a part of Crockett history. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
We can never be prepared for life’s big surprises. Parthenon, train wrecks, a collapsing economy, that new wrinkle on your neck.
You’ll live, just never play ball again.
Well, we’re all grown ups.
Time to move on.
All the Way to Memphis
by
Warren Piece
I’m reading e-mail in an effort to postpone my assignment for today (write about last week’s slate of ZFL games) and I’ve just finished reading one from my friend Art, who’s a bounty hunter for the SFL, the Superior Football League.
Man is he ever angry.
Yeah, the SFL has bounty hunters. This is not in your team’s local media guide, nor something you’ll read in Yahoo! sports. But, really, are you surprised? How do you think the SFL keeps it’s inmates who pose as football players in line?
So, anyway, it seems Art was working on his new deal where he’d get fifty percent of a big wad of dough for bringing in any and all SFL players with outstanding charges.
Outstanding charges could be anything from unpaid fines to showing up too often on the security tapes from Harrah’s in Atlantic City. Art had an in at the commissioners office, having invested some time wiring the comish’s limo with surveillance gear while the commish’s chauffeur took a powder during one of the playoff games. The tapes from the commissioner’s halftime ‘conversations’ in the limo guaranteed the SFL bounty hunter contract for next season was in his pocket. Then he got sidetracked.
The ZFL’s Wince Peterbilt called, wanting him to turn the list of SFL bad boys over, for a substantial fee of course.
New blood for the ZFL! A new bank account for Art!
Art was trying to figure out a way to play both ends against the middle when some executives at the network carrying Wince’s ZFL games put out a contract on Wince, having tired of his league and deciding to kill the monster by cutting of it’s head, using former cast members of McQuiver and Wally, Texas Ranger as operatives.
Art hid Peterbilt out at his summerhouse in the Catskills while he continued to work both Wince and the SFL, but someone discovered the bug in the limo and reverse wired it to electronically map the reciever or some damned thing. Wince Peterbilt was chopping wood and listening to Rush’s greatest hits when he spotted the TV Stars sneaking up on the cabin. Peterbilt jumped into Art’s Volvo and power shifted down the mountain. The McQuiver/Wally contingent proceeded to the cabin and kept Art company until the local law enforcement arrived to arrest Art for operating an illegal septic tank and having less than three boxes of shells for his Browning 16 gauge automatic.
Wince Peterbilt is in the wind, Art is in jail, the McQuiver/Wally crew is celebrating as only out of work TV people can, and as a favor to my old friend Art I’m trying to get a bail bondsman to believe anyone associated with Wince Peterbilt can be trusted not to cut and run at the first possible opportunity.
Wait a second, I just got an instant message…it’s Wince. Yeah, I see him now on the CuSeeMe video camera. That’s a nasty cut on his chin, but now that Peterbilt has surfaced, at least maybe Art will get his Volvo back.
Well it’s time to go watch the tapes of last week’s slate of ZFL football. Wish me luck, and pass the Excedrin.
Give me the Damn Ball
By
Warren Piece
I sat in the press row at the Crocketts game last night trying to find a guy not to like on the other team. Some player I could really work a hate up over, some sports figure currently on the court, a guy who maybe blamed the media for all his palimony suits, his recent drug suspension, his bad hair day.
Too many candidates.
I tried to narrow the field as the Crocketts began to rally. The inbounds pass went to the replacement for Parthenon, a five year pro who had hands like melons, and an outside shot my nine year old nephew could duplicate.
The crowd became restless with the constant passing. Finally, one of the Crocketts, with some reservations, hoisted a shot. The ball caromed off the rim and bounced toward the sideline. One of the San Antonio players swiped at the ball, sending it spinning toward the press table, to the hands of your truly.
Just for laughs, I threw the ball backward into the crowd. The refs took exception to my ball handling decision and asked to scrutinize my press credentials.
I showed them my 3-d secret decoder card from my 1 o’clock lunch at Burger King with my aforementioned nine year old nephew, beginning to feel more and more like I was attending a Globetrotter game, or like Jimmy Buffett in the Miami arena, or like it was Chalupa giveaway night in Dallas.
The ball returned to the court in the hands of a security guard, who then took me by the arm, and not for the next dance if you know what I mean.
I drove home listening to the game on KSPORT.
I pulled in my driveway, shut the motor to my Ferrari, and had an epiphany.
60,000 people show up to watch an ZBA game. There are players making millions, coaches making thousands, reporters and columnists making a buck fifty.
Without the ball, we’re all nothing!
The ball needs a damn agent!
The ball needs a lawyer to stop everybody and his brother from cursing every time they mention the name ‘ball’…
You know, give me the damn ball.
Where’s the damn ball?
That damn ball hit me in the head.
The damn ball needs air.
Hey, autograph my damn ball!
…or threatening the ball with violence on a regular basis.
Shoot the damn ball!
Knock the cover off the damn ball!
…or blaming the ball for human errors…
that’s the way the damn ball bounces!
Tonight I got escorted from the arena because I made a bad move with the ball.
I’ve learned my lesson.
Forget the ballplayers, I’m going to start hanging out by the balls.
By the way, Houston Crocketts 105, Dallas Plowhorses 95.
Cinderella in Hot Pants and Halter
By
Warren Piece
I finally found a reason to stop hating my assignment to cover the ZFL football league. Last week, I was invited into the ZFL cheerleader’s locker room!
The morning of the main event I made a stop at the gym and the prerequisite visit to the drugstore for protection, feeling like Hermie in The Summer of 42. I met my fellow ZFL journalists at the appointed hour outside the offices of the Houston Branders. We were all fresh from the gym, pumped up as we could get, full of vitamin E, loaded for our excursion into an adolescent dream featuring real live grown up women with a reason to treat us real nice.
We could give them great press coverage!
We were greeted by a den mother type who carefully checked our credentials while commenting on our overuse of cologne. While we considered those remarks unprofessional, we proceed apace.
Keep your eye on the damn ball!, was the watch phrase of the day.
We followed this protector of the ladies in leather down a well lit hallway, around four corners up several flights of stairs, and through an empty lobby. We were starting to sweat through our just pressed rarely worn collared shirts when the procession rounded the final corner and stopped.
“Now gentlemen,” Helga began, “We’ve got about half an hour before the president of the team brings some investors through, and you can’t wear the girls out. So, let’s all co-operate, stay busy, and try not to get flustered.”
Get flustered? What was I, twelve?
The door opened and we entered the dressing room of the ZFL Houston Branders cheerleaders.
They were spread around the room, chatting, putting on make-up, reading the papers, and a few were watching Any Given Sunday on a High Definition TV in a corner of the room.
When we entered, someone started playing Tutti Frutti on a boom box. All the girls laughed, and began to walk toward us.
A blonde approached me and asked me quietly if I’d like to come to her locker.
Flustered, I just nodded.
We walked the few steps to the place where she dressed for the home games and I’m sure stood stark naked at least twice a day. She turned around, looked me in the eye, and reached into her locker. She handed me a jar of cold cream and said, “Could you get the top off this for me, I just had my nails done.”
“Sure,” I said, straining to twist the jar top with my sweaty palms.
I broke the seal and tried to hand the jar back to her. It slipped from my hand on the exchange and fell to the carpeted floor. She smiled and bent over to retrieve the cold cream before I could react.
I looked down.
Her robe feel open.
She was wearing no underwear.
That’s the last thing I remember.
Later, as I received stitches for the small cut on my head I received from colliding with my minicassette recorder which I guess hit the ground just before me, my friend James told me Bobbi felt bad, and had held me in her lap until the EMS arrived.
This, too, I had missed, although James assured me there were photographs of the event.
Photographs which were going to appear in the next day’s Journal Express with the caption ‘Journal Express sports writer fall down go boom.’
Let the ZFL live! This is a great brand of football! Who cares about ratings? You’ve got to give this thing a little time to catch on.
At least time for me to get another trip to the locker room!
By the way, the Branders won last week 17 to 3 against the New York Fitmen.
Have a Cigar
by
Warren Piece
The Crocketts played a heck of a team last night, that group from L.A. who will again this year be in the lottery, the worst team in the ZBA ever, bar none.
The good thing about the L.A. Clunkers being in town, they concentrate on off the court stuff more than some of the ZBA’s successful franchises.
Let’s party, and if the sportswriters wanna come, the more the merrier!
This trip, since school is almost out anyway, Houston high school phenom Jeremy Blackout is part of the post game celebration. I manage to isolate him for an impromptu on the record conversation concerning the possibility of declaring himself eligible for the ZBA draft.
“So Jeremy, do you mind if I interrupt your lap dance to ask you a few questions about your future in the ZBA?”
“I’m sorry, man, you have to ask my mom about all that stuff.”
“Well, since I don’t see her here, perhaps I could just ask you this. The level of trash talking in the ZBA has dramatically increased in the last two years. With limited life experience, how do you expect to compete in this crucial area of the pro game?”
“Life experience? What do you think I’m getting right now? Somebody get this man a dancer. I’m losing my concentration.”
Blackout’s mom, when contacted by me the next day, said her son was home in bed the night before, she didn’t know who I’d been talking to at Calamity Jane’s, I was looking down the barrel of a lawsuit if I mentioned it, was going to cash in on an ass whipping if an article from me got her son dropped down in the draft, stuff like that.
Mrs. Blackout didn’t stop for five minutes and I stopped listening when she lapsed into Portuguese curses.
I’m on their side.
The economy goes up and down. You have to strike while the iron is hot.
We have child actors who make fortunes for their families and are burned out by the age of 13.
Singers! Don’t get me started on singers and musicians!
Hey, if a kid can drive on L.A.Clampett superstar center Baba O’Rielly at the age of twelve, suit him up, get him a tutor, set up a trust fund, let’s play two.
By the way, the Crocketts won 101-88.
Dr. Hooks Traveling Medicine Show
by
Warren Piece
Let me get this straight. Just two weels ago Parthenon, the legendary Houston Crocketts center, retired due to a blood disorder.
Never to play again!
Going to become a diving instructor at the local Y, something along those lines.
All very sad, made our basketball spirits limp, made us feel older, chilly at night, like that.
Then Parthenon went to a suburb of Houston known for cockfights and the disappearance of the family cat. He began to make regular visits to this area of the Big Town, citing pulled muscles only a doctor who practiced in this area could cure.
Four and a half days after The Parth was done for good, about to become a spokesman for a wireless company and take up life as a man knowing the next bump on the leg could be his ticket to see Buddha, he announces a blood test showing positive results, generated by a dye mixed with his morning oatmeal and afternoon soup.
This dye was not only possessive of healing powers unknown to modern medicine, it tasted like a Milky Way bar and cost pennies a serving!
Seven days after we lit candles and slaughtered our favorite milking cow in his honor, Parthenon is back on the court, freaking out all those amateur ZBAers who thought they’d seen the last of the old man and didn’t do their homework on his low post moves and sweet fifteen foot jumper.
I called Parth, having a longstanding relationship with him.
“So, Parth, how does it feel to have dodged such a big bullet?”
““Well, Warren, I feel good about the fact I will always be a part of ZBA Crockett’s present. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
“That’s great Parth! So, how did you come to discover this highly unusual, practically mythical, certainly unorthodox group of citizens with an answer to your blood dilemma?”
“Well, Warren, I feel good about the fact I will always be a part of ZBA Crockett’s present. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
“One last question, Parth, buddy. Will we continue to see your name on the stat sheet under worst golfer on the entire Crockett squad?”
“Well, Warren, I feel good about the fact I will always be a part of ZBA Crockett’s present. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
“OK, thanks Parthenon, center for the former ZBA championship team, the Houston Crocketts. Go ahead with that nap now, big fella.”
By the way, the Crocketts beat the San Antonio Rhinestones last night 103-95.
Leaving On A Jet Plane
by
Warren Piece
Once or twice a season the Crocketts allow us slugs in the newspaper business the privilege of boarding the team charter and traveling in the style to which THEY have become accustomed to the next road appearance for the wonderfully dexterous and somewhat humorless Houston Crocketts.
My ticket got punched day before yesterday, and I arrived at the airport after a lengthy session with my therapist in an attempt to deal with my repressed jealousy of all ZBA players concerning their riches, fame, and easy internet access.
All of the players, coaches, trainers, chaplains, gurus, and female mascots (I know that’s harsh, but what else do you call a five foot eight redhead whose only contribution to every conversation is a not so veiled reference to the mile high club?) gathered in a cordoned off area near the front section of terminal A at Houston’s Earl Campbell airport. I joined the group headed to New York to play the New York Bling Bling, had my credentials checked by security, was warned to keep any and all players who didn’t want to talk to me at arm’s length, told to enjoy my flight, and asked to please wait in the corner on a stool, and by the way, wear this pointed hat. I was contemplating the wisdom of breaking into a stanza of New York, New York when I noticed a brew-ha-ha taking shape. The center of the heat was none other than Miss Mile High herself. Apparently some reference to the tendency of backup guard Stan Smith’s proclivity for snoring and calling his mother’s name in his sleep caught the attention of Jamal Deadburn, first round draft choice and future ZBA superstar/deadbeat.
I left my stool, removed my nice pointed hat, and approached the epicenter of the Crockett quake.
Jamal was laughing and taunting Smith. “You miss yo momma Stanley? I wish I had known, I’d have given her that message when I was scrubbin’ her back in the shower this mornin’”
Stan, remaining ever cordial and realizing in the pecking order of the Crockett team, he was somewhere below the team mascot, said, “Hey Jamal, why don’t you save your trash talking for the court, man.”
“Hey, yo, you don’t want to be tellin’’ me what to do, ever, at any time. I’ll scoop up your woman here and show her what a real ZBA player feels like, ovah, ovah, and ovah. How’s that sound to you, red? You want to travel first class with Jamal? I got nofin to do for a couple hours. While that would be a lot less time than I usually spend with a lady my first time threw her neighborhood, since you come recommended by my brother Stan-LEY I could make a one time only exception for you.”
Jamal reached out and took red’s hand, stepped next to her, and placed his free hand on her back, pulling her into him.
“Bah bah bah bah, oh yeah baby,” Jamal repeated over and over while he initiated a full court press on the very appealing body of Stan’s game day groupie.
The rest of the team was not totally oblivious to the trio’s shenanigans, but the plane was beginning to board and even charters have to pull away from the gate on time.
Tomjonabitch called out, “Let’s go fellas, time to go.”
“OK, Jamal, you’ve made your point, why don’t you finish your spin moves on the charter, I’ve got to talk to Vivian for a minute before we go.”
“I don’t know brother, I’m thinkin’ I might launch a rocket before we board.”
Vivian, apparently not minding an upgrade to first class, whispered something in Jamal’s ear. Jamal closed his eyes and pulled Vivian toward a corner of the gate area. They took a position against the wall and I couldn’t watch anymore. I headed for the jetway, having witnessed enough of the star treatment.
The flight back to Houston proved Jamal wasn’t totally oblivious to the world around him. He approached the press section of the plane, next to the engines, and took the seat next to me.
“Yo. Mr. Piece.”
“Time for a post game interview, hotbody?”
“You don’t have to disrespect me. The future rookie of the year don’t give interviews to just anybody.”
“I apologize Jamal, I thought you were about four minutes from being suspended for the season. Listen, I appreciate the attention from a superstar such as yourself, but I’ve got a column to write before the plane lands and I really don’t have time to shovel a load of shinola with the airport rocket launcher.”
“YO, I CAN HOOK YOU UP! I’m the MAN!”
“Hey, raise your voice. I don’t think the people 40,000 below the airplane trying to sleep off a hard days work heard you.”
Jamal stood. “I’m gonna have to get my gang to shake up some new tattoos for yo ass if you dis me. I’m just livin’ large in my time. You old school homeys don’t dig my vibe, that don’t make me less of a man. You shouldn’ cos me nothin’ by writin’ some send up, yo. Just cause you don’t know what you seein’!”
I stood at this point. I have a nice gig here at the Journal Express. I love covering the ZBA. I wish I hadn’t seen that bit of livin’ large at the airport.
I could care less about Jamal Deadburn, and wasn’t considering writing a single thing about him all season, unless of course he finally started showing up to play.
But come on now!
“Jamal, I’ve covered champions, been to the big show that is the ZBA Finals, drank my Ovaltine every morning, tried to be a good boy and toe the company line, for the most part. Perhaps before you try and push my buttons you should ask Tomjonabitch, that’s your coach, the guy you never listen to, about the 1998 season and Mitch McCall.
Now go have a shrimp cocktail and let me get to work.”
I sat back down and began to type this article on my Titanium Powerbook.
Fans, this kid needs help, and now I’m on the record.
By the way, the Crocketts lost 95-88
I Almost Cut My Hair
by
Warren Piece
Tonight’s game is against the L.A. Clampetts, featuring a halftime indoor fireworks show and a sunglasses giveaway for the kids. The sound of chanting reached me as I approached the box office. Something about respecting tradition and creating a market and having a revolution and baby you can drive my car and God knows what.
Caution being the watch word, I observed the protests from a distance, trying to find a pattern, discern some meaning to this public protest at the site of a sporting event.
Could they be protesting the imminent arrival of the ZBA Postseason?
Could they be marching against fossil fuels? Fur? Budget cuts for cancer research? Aluminum bats? The breakup of Hootie and The Blowfish?
I pulled my Canon field glasses from my ZBA Gameday bag and zoomed in on the lips of an olive skinned woman with a particularly nice taste in red lipstick.
“Pay for the right! Pay for the right! Pay for the right!”
I felt a powerful story here, plus a tight look at those lips had raised my blood pressure substantially, so off I went investigate.
“Excuse me, Miss, American Press, could you tell me what exactly you’re protesting?”
“My name is Little Thunder. My ancestors lived on this land long before the white man broke the first treaty, enticed the first brave warrior to take a drink, burned down the homes of women and children so they could build their own farmhouses and shoe our horses, who previously ran barehooved.”
“And you’re protesting…?”
“You, when you approached I felt all the warning bells in my head go off.”
“I can believe that, Little Thunder. Somewhere in all that ringing, did you hear a little voice telling you why you’re here?”
“We are gathered here as the council of the Royal Order of Light, meeting to protest the use of our sacred names as symbols of a very profitable sporting venture.”
The chanters had continued their circular march as Little Thunder and I chatted. I rubbed my forehead and thought for a minute. Little Thunder stared at me with a deep brown set of eyes, the kind with gold flecks in them. One of us was definitely operating outside the limits of mental stability, and I was betting on her.
“So, why are you here at a ZBA game where there are no team names which fit the category you describe, quite articulately, I might add.”
“The gods came to us and spoke, full moon last. They commanded us to begin a protest campaign which they have assured us will end in the sports powers granting us fair compensation for the appropriation of our identities for their financial gain.”
I stepped back from Little Thunder, who had somehow gotten into my personal space and was casting some sort of Native American spell on me. I took a deep breath of fresh Houston air.
“I think in the corporate world they call that revenue sharing.”
Little Thunder smiled at me and stepped closer. “You’re starting to feel the tip of the iceberg.”
I stepped back.
“What sort of scam are you hatching against the heavy hitters?”
“We are no longer wanting the sports teams with Indian nicknames to change their names. We want them to set up a fund for all registered Native Americans. All the teams appropriating our heritage would contribute a portion of their profits to this fund, and at the end of every fiscal year the money would be distributed evenly among every registered Native America Indian.
We’ve enlisted the help of the endangered species society, who will have a similar arrangement with any teams who have names of animals. The funds in their case will be distributed to wildlife preservation organizations. Use any nickname you want, but you have to pay for the privilege.”
I checked my watch.
“This is an amazing twist on a years old story. Could I throw out an idea?”
“I was hoping for a soft toss from you the moment you walked up to the council circle.”
“I’m not sure what you’re customs are in situations like this,” I said, flexing my jaw muscles to try and impress my new friend, “But I’ve got to go watch the game. I’ll be completing the Great Circle of Gamenight in an hour and a half or so. Will you still be patrolling the border?”
“No, once the sports contest begins we adjourn the council, and return to the homes we made through hard work and tribal values.”
I fished in my ZBA Gameday bag. “Here’s my number at the Journal Express. You call me if you feel like smoking a peace pipe some night.”
Little Thunder reached up and pinched my cheek.
“You will hear from me before the moon is full again, American Press.” Little Thunder turned and rejoined the circle of protest.
I went home after the game and found my copy of Beowolf. I read as much as I could before the six pack of Bass Ale began to blur the words.
I love this game!
By the way, the Crocketts won the game over the Warriors, 108-98.
The Chain
by
Warren Piece
Hit your knees Crockett fans! It’s time to say your holy hosannas thanking the players in the Parthenon drama for returning our previously ailing hero to the hardwood! Tonight, playing center for the Houston Crocketts, Aheem Parthenon!
Two weeks ago, I was in mourning for the playoff hopes of the Houston Crocketts, the career of Parthenon, the loss of a chance to write disparaging articles about former Crockett and current TV analysist Charles Arkley, his newly acquired fifty pounds, and the implementation of a new zone defense next year.
Now, Parthenon is back, spinning in the lane, jump shooting over 95% of the ZBA, and leading the Crocketts toward an astoundingly bad finish.
That last part isn’t so good. The fact the season got away from the Crocketts is one of the great sports mysteries of all time, right up there with ‘Who exactly did sign Kennie ‘I’m a winner’ Corbett to that 150.2 million dollar deal with the Minnesota Woodies’, altering the ZBA Universe and changing the way ZBA players vote in National elections for the foreseeable future. The players are all Republican now, love tax cuts, more money for defense (most of them have arsenals of their own, and fully support the governments efforts to keep up with their spending on guns), and are glad New Jersey will have to pay to replenish its own damn beaches.
Parthenon has always been a fan favorite, however, and if this is his last season, even if it is a losing one, I want to see every game he plays.
I was curious, though, as to how he could heal so quickly. I mean, one minute, he’s afraid of bumping his shin on the bedpost at night and thereby causing a blood clot which would travel to his poets brain and cause an immediate departure from the planet, and the next minute he’s fine, ready to accept the bumping, banging, and general physical humiliations a body has to endure in the physical grind that is the ZBA.
I did some checking.
You won’t see this on any of the network evening newscasts, but I found a man who knows a man who knows a man who sold Parthenon’s doctor a special mix of twelve herbs and spices from the old country, and I’m not talking about a chicken wing recipe.
I found this man with the help of my friend Abdul the cab driver and Dan, the Alaskan Malamut. We approached his house with caution, because he lives in a very expensive part of Houston. Armed guards surround the interior grounds of his estate, backed up by a state of the art alarm system with some pretty cool lighting effects.
We gained entry by flashing my Houston Journal Express credentials, and a picture of Miss November 1999 holding Dan. The man himself met us at the door of his Spanish style villa, wearing a nice smoking jacket from Brooks Brothers in New York.
“Hi, Mr. Lakoo. Warren Piece, Houston Journal Express, my driver Abdul, his dog Dan.”
“Hello, hello, please come in. I have to take a conference call in just a moment, but I would like to speak with you. How is Parthenon doing? You see him much more than I. Basketball isn’t really my cup of tea, you see.”
“Mr. Lakoo, I’ll get right to the tipoff. I understand you provided Parthenon with some special meds to help speed the healing process, help with his thin blood, make him able to compete again a hell of a lot sooner than the experts provided by the Crocketts thought humanly possible.”
We had arrived in Mr. Lakoo gorgeous sitting room. I noticed the room opened onto a portion of Mr. Lakoo’s driveway, which seemed to circle the house and was as busy as interstate 80 West. Mr. Lakoo noticed the object of my attention and said, “Ah, yes, we operate a drive through two hours a day three days a week for our busier clientele. Unfortunately, now that you’ve seen my operation, I must insist you and your friends stick around for some brainwashing.”
I smiled at Mr. Lakoo and started to speak when I noticed a familiar vehicle passing by the house.
Parthenon!
I grabbed Abdul and called to Dan.
“Later Mr. Lakoo,” I shouted. “Woof,” barked Dan.
We sprinted toward Parthenon’s SUV. He saw us coming and popped the power locks. We jumped in.
“Hey, Parth, good to see you. How about a lift to the gate after you pick up your dealio?”
“Well, Warren, I feel good about the fact I will always be a part of ZBA Crockett’s present. I also hope to attend all the Crockett post season games. Tomjonabitch promised me the team would get there, and like every ZBA player, I believe everything my coach says.”
“Cool, Parth, cool.”
Later that night, sports fans, as I sat in my seat at the Bush Arena watching the Crocketts season wind down while munching on Nachos and waiting for the halftime show featuring Binky the clown and his amazing unicycle, I contemplated what I’d seen that day. In the age of Creatine, aroma therapy, and personnel trainers who have personnel trainers, I guess the surprise would be a player who relied solely on his morning oatmeal and moms good cooking to keep his body competitive. So, pass the blood thickeners, but first spice it with some Korean Ginseng, a half a Viagra, some ST. John’s Wort, and top it with a dose of Prednisone.
LET’S PLAY TWO!
I LOVE THIS GAME!
By the way, the Crocketts won last night over the visiting LA Clampetts 110-108. Parth had a double double.
Caledonia, Not Arizona, What Does it Matter?
by
Warren Piece
Dolly the sheep’s medical records have been acquired by the ZBA.
I discovered this tidbit in an electronic newsletter I get from Australia called Sports in Your Outback.
I printed the newsletter on my bubblejet printer (I love old school junk) and walked to my Ferrari to head to the Bush Arena.
I entered the arena early and took my seat to watch the warm-ups. Lay-ups, passing drills, the occasional ball off the coach’s head (hey, the season’s almost over, there are no playoffs in sight, why not bounce the ball off Tomjohnabitch’s head just for laughs, no dis-respect intended), shouts of ‘Hey, at least we’re not the New Jersey Longshots’, and ‘anybody got any spare tickets to the Mets-Astros series?’, I mean overall I observed a very relaxed atmosphere among the team.
Even Jamal Deadburn seemed to be smiling, although I’m pretty sure that was because he’d just finished trying to make rookie guards Stan Franks’s girlfriend pregnant or taking all the meds from the Crocketts locker room and putting them in the trunk of Tomjohnabitch’s car then alerting the Houston p.d, or some damn thing like that.
I opened my electronic newsletter and perused the Dolly the sheep story.
Essentially, the ZBA wanted to explore the possibility of cloning some players who had proved very popular with the fans in order to enrich ‘the product’, and guarantee returns for ‘our shareholders’ should we ever decide to go public.
Basically, the ZBA had stored samples of DNA from all the ZBA top players over the last twenty years in the commissioner’s wine cellar, just in case the technology ever came along enabling the current ZBA regime to replenish the players in the ZBA draft by the ultimate supplemental draft. Because of Dolly, the cloning process was now being explored anew. With the genetic engineering available to the exploratory committee, a player could be made with the sweet jumper of New York Bling Bling Clark Johnson, the low post moves of Parthenon, the approach to the game of Boston Celtic Gary Indiana, and the collective bargaining instincts of ex-New York Crick Paprika Kewpie, that is, no collective bargaining instincts at all.
The article accompanied grainy photos of the Commissioner and an unknown collection of young women holding up test tubes and smiling. The caption stated ‘The ZBA commissioner and friends break ground on science lab outside of Sydney, citing lack of restrictive regulations, an enormous number of Aussies willing to get in on the ground floor of a new technology (provided it didn’t cut into their party time), and the cool way the ball spins backwards when you shot from behind the three point line.’
I looked up at the latest collection of ZBA representatives of the Houston Crocketts. Fans, I don’t think even the latest technology can help this team. We’ve got an outside shooter who makes a great pasta salad but can’t find the rim with a hand in his face.
You’ve got a seven foot back up to Parthenon with the most amazing Spiderman comic book collection, just don’t ask him to jump for a rebound because, and I quote, “That sort of activity is hard on the ankles, and I need to keep my ankles if good shape in case I get accepted on the Olympic trampoline squad.”
Then there’s the ‘Rookie Pain in the south 40 of the Year’, Jamal Deadburn. The man puts great moves on anything and everything that answers to ‘hey girlfriend’ but won’t shake a double team or take his man off the dribble because shooting from the outside is how his astrologer told him he was destined to win a championship.
Not a bunch headed for a date with history.
I say, sports fans, clone the old masters.
Clone every basketball type of ZBA superstar the networks dream about.
Just make sure they’re able to generate Charles Arkley type sound bites for the media.
By the way, the Crocketts were blown out by the Golden State Wampums 105-72.
“Alvin from Mesquite, you’re on KSPORT.”
“Hi, Warren, I really like your show.”
“Thanks Alvin, since you’re my first caller on my first show, I’ll take that as a sincere compliment. Alvin, before I take your comment, and I fully intend for this to be a two way sports talk environment on the Piece of the Afternoon show, and I hope you’ll forgive me for that title, but it did come to me in a vision I had while watching tapes of the 1996 New York Bling Bling Houston Crockett playoff game seven starring an incredible bad shooting performance from Bling Bling guard Jim Sutton, anyway, I’d like to state that I hope to fully indulge in the conventions of all the other sports talk shows I’ve heard via the internet and on tapes provided me by the station consultant, when he was sober enough to remember to send them. So, that being said, welcome aboard Alvin.”
“Warren, I think the biggest problem in sports today is the lack of an alternate football league now that the ZFL has gone the way of the Miami Crepesuzettes Tom Easybean’s jump shot. I mean, we turned up at the stadium for those games! What right do the networks have ropin’ in my buddy Wince Peterbilt and then burning down the barn with the ZFL in it? I’m going to hang up and listen to your comments.”
“Well, Alvin, and thanks for the call, and for being the first caller to the Piece of the Afternoon show you get two tickets to the Crockett game at the Bush Arena next Wednesday night, but all that aside and in the tank, I’m not sure Wince Peterbilt had any choice here. The buzzards were circling and Peterbilt had his hands full kicking Atlanta media magnat Ed Turnips butt. He dissolved Turnips wrestling federation, fired everyone who worked for Turnip’s former wrestling juggernaut at least three times each, heck, he even tried to dismiss several of Turnip’s cable news staffers he didn’t care for, thinking while he was in Atlanta he might as well take a few cableheads out too. And by the way, we’ll see plenty of the ZFL on a smaller network. Maybe shrinking their exposure will give the ZFL league time to figure out what it’s really about, and it’ll return to a major broadcast network year after next. And if you miss the cheerleaders, there is always the Playboy channel. Or, if you live in a high rise, your trusty telescope. Cheryl from Mesquite, your on KSPORT.”
“Hi Mad Wolf…”
“Cheryl this is Warren Piece, but go ahead.”
There was a pause. Warren keyed the talk back to his producer Mandy Spring. “Nice, Mandy. Could you at least make sure the callers know who I am between tugs at your navel ring and shots of jolt cola?”
Cheryl continued. “My point has to do with sports movies. With all the money floating around sports, why doesn’t somebody make a movie about the need for an educational film teaching sports writers how to correctly cover women’s athletics?”
“Did you have a specific sports team in mind, or a particular sport in mind, Cheryl?”
“Well, in the playoffs last year, did anybody report that the substitution patterns in the WZBA could be greatly affected by hot flashes suffered by the coach during pressure filled time outs? Or how about the breast enlargements that wreck the careers of fast pitch softball pitchers? I mean if you can’t whip your arm past your body cleanly the speed and spin of the ball diminishes by a disasaterous amount.”
“Well, Cheryl, and thanks for the call, I think you’ve touched on something here. Let’s see if anyone else would like to touch breasts, right after this break, on KSPORT.”
Warren waved his forefinger in the air to signal for a jingle and removed he headphones. His right arm was impeded by a sling, his left leg was in a cast, and the patch over his right eye was more than a fashion statement. All in all, Warren considered himself lucky.
Luckier by far than Dole Bailey and his lawyer.
Mandy spoke to him over the intercom. “How you holdin’ up, Sparky?”
“I’m only sixteen Advil away from bedtime. Just great, thanks for askin’.”
“You know I can’t even tell that you had your jaw unwired just a week ago.”
“How long until the break’s over?”
“Dude, you’ve got three minutes.”
Warren punched the speakerphone and dialed Kanois’s number.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Kanois, how’s your vision today?”
Kanois shifted the phone to her shoulder and went to the fridge for orange juice.
“My head is just now clearing. The next time we decide to celebrate something, let’s just have a couple of double lunar latees and take a bike ride.”
Warren laughed. “I’ve got to go back, just thought I’d check in and hear your sweet voice.”
Kanois dropped her phone as she tried to juggle the juice container and a glass. When she retrieved the receiver form the floor, Warren had hung up.
“KSPORT with a Piece of the Afternoon. Before the break we were talking about the media coverage of female sports and getting into some very interesting areas. Janice from Ft.Worth, you’re on The Sport.”
“Hi Warren, I’m a first time caller.”
“Welcome Janice.”
“I wanted to know why basketball players wear those long shorts. I saw a game on classic ESPN and those little shorts were extremely cute, especially when they stretched up for dunks, yahoo Baby!”
“I don’t have an answer for that, unless the guys want to make sure there are no surprises popping out south of the Mason Dixon line. I love classic ESPN myself, it takes us back to the days when men were men and locker rooms smelled gamey. Fred from Altersville, you’re up on KSPORT.”
“Hi Warren.”
“Fred, what’s the dealio?”
“I have a statement and a question, and then I’ll hang up and listen to you comment. I don’t think today’s ZBA players are as tough as players even three years ago. What do you think has happened to the hard charging D that required each team to carry six physicians, a surgeon, and a couple of EMT’s on the road with them.”
“Well, Fred, I agree with you about the toughness. I mean did you see this years slam dunk contest? What a nightmare! The really acrobatic members of the ZBA were on the sideline looking like something out of a men’s fashion magazine. The annual highlight festival has been seriously diminished by the number of players who put themselves on the shelf because their agent tells them an injury exemption is better for their long term career than participating in some bush league jump contest.
These new guys are fed information by everybody from their Aunt Sadie to The Mahareshie. Our only hope for the slam dunk contest is, next year, we’ll get a couple of ZBA dunkers who are in the twilight of their career and want to take a particularly risky fly by in hopes they crash and burn so they can collect the insurance on their contract and go to the horse farm they bought with last year’s signing bonus. It’s time for a flash with Danny Money, on KSPORT!”
Warren waved his finger in the air to signal the cut to Danny, and got on the intercom.
“The phones seem fairly active, Mandy.”
“Three hours to go Warren.”
“We’re definitely going to need some more ginseng.”
Clifton Llewellyn
March 1, 2016
cheers great read, loving the work, keep it up. Regards Diesel pool
Aaron Sugden
April 26, 2016
Thanks for the share. My grandfather used to say “To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence” 🙂
Estella
December 15, 2016
That’s really thknniig of the highest order