F.A.Q. Advice for the 21st Century

FAQ Fifteen The Negotiation

Chapter 15

 

Warren closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep. He dreamed he was on the sideline of an ZBA game featuring the Crockets and the New York Bling-Blings. Jif Nutter Butter was getting a courtside manicure while one off his trusty assistants shouted numbers at the Bling-Bling bringing the ball down the court. Timeout was called, and Tomjonabitch called out, “Piece! In for Years!”

Warren shed his rip off warm ups to reveal a slightly different uniform. His jersey had a picture of Dan on the front and a KSPORT logo on the back. Warren entered the game, stole the inbounds pass from Bling-Bling guard Cha Cha Bored, and flew up the court. He took off at the free throw line in an Air Jardan move, flying toward the basket. Instead of coming down, he remained airborne, twisting and turning, flying through the roof of Bush Center. He heard Dan barking and someone screaming Indian curses. Warren opened his eyes and realized Abdul’s cab was airborne.

They were in the middle of a tornado.

 

The cab spun into a wall of water making a sound like a concrete mixer pouring a driveway in the latest Houston suburb. The grating lasted a few seconds. Warren was thrown against Dan as the cab executed a few more triple loops. Then Warren heard a loud sucking sound, followed by the sound of glass splintering. The cab began to bounce and roll on a solid surface of some sort.

Then the carnival ride was over.

 

Warren took a breath and tried to pull himself away from Dan. He heard moaning from all around him, mixed with sounds of alarms, gushing water, crackling, and a phone answering machine repeating over and over, “You have seven messages.”

Warren mentally traveled around his body and couldn’t find any pain. He tried to move again. Dan began to squirm, and between the two of them they managed to free an arm and a paw. A new sound began to reach the cab, the sound of someone dragging furniture. Warren tried his voice. “Hello. Hello. We’re trapped in this cab.!”

He heard the creak of the cab door being pried open and a ray of light swept across his face. He twisted his head to try to get a look at his rescuer.

“Well, hello there Piece,” said Frank W. Coleman. “Nice of you to show up for work in person.”

 

Warren sat at his desk on the 13th floor of the Houston Chronicle building waiting for his computer to boot up. He looked at Frank, who approached with a cup of coffee.

“So, Frank, what are you doing here at 3:30 in the morning?”

“The cops got a break on the Harper killing, and Dole Harper is in the lockup. Word is he was having a post coital conversation with some babe when he decided to impress her with his weapons collection. The collection featured a Smith and Wesson 38 special which he said would forever hold a special place in his heart, as it was the gun he used to shoot his way into his inheritance.”

“Wait a minute,” said Warren, “Why would he admit this to some ‘babe’, as you called her? And how do you know all this?”

Frank said, “He liked her so much he was going to keep her as a pet. She happened to be taping the whole conversation on a micro recorder. Apparently she was trying to get him to reveal something she could use against him in some contract negotiations for some sports talk show host. I guess she got a little more than she bargained for. Anyway, she took the gun from him with, from what I understand, a pretty nifty Tai chi kick to the head and a Carl Lewis type sprint to a very fast sports car. We’re still waiting to get the owner’s name. They’ve got higher priorities at police plaza. Anyway she got stopped with the gun. We got that from one of our stringers who picked up what was happening as she was doing her thing at central booking.”

Warren looked at Frank. “So, do you know who she is?”

Frank looked down at his waist, read a number from his pager, and said, “This might be the answer right here.”

Frank dialed the number from Warren’s phone.

“Hello, this is Coleman. Yeah, shoot.” Frank picked up a pen, listened a few seconds, and put the pen down without taking a single note. He looked at Piece and slowly broke into a grin.

“So,” Frank said into the receiver, “Is that it for now? Good job Bill, nice. Thanks.”

Frank looked at the ceiling for a moment after hanging up the phone gingerly. He looked down at Warren and said, “Your car is parked at Harper’s estate. Your very fast sports car. Your lady friend is there as well. I am thinking you’re deal as a future sports talk show host came through? Why don’t you bang out a couple of Rocket stories and a short take on the new football league, the ZFL, before you leave the office. I think you’re going to be very busy the next couple of days.” Frank laughed, shook his head, and walked away from Warren’s desk muttering something about a cockfight.

 

Akeem Takes Back the Gold Watch

by

Warren Piece

 

The ZBA is having a perfect season…a perfect season for the critics of the game, that is.

You can walk out your front door at 8, 11, and 1 am, listen very closely, and hear the collective American sports fan yawn at the sign of another Toronto Rapper Vinnie Carson dunk on Sportscenter. Hey, Philadelphia Tallboy Adam Diverman just executed a cross over dribble! Save the tape! I’ll need it to record CSI with William Peterson later this week.

I saw L.A.Clampett legend and Aids patient Henning Copperfield courtside on the ESPN Sportscenter yesterday. I began to think, you know, it’s all his fault! If he and Boston Pelvic legend Gary Indiana hadn’t spoiled all the fun by being so damned competitive back in the day, if Henning Copperfield hadn’t ruined us with Showtime Basketball (thank God for ESPN Classic), if Gary Indiana hadn’t made all those last second game winners (I can still see cross dressing rebounding specialist Danny Nutmeg running down the court waving his arms in victory instead of staying back to take the inbounds pass from ex Detroit Mis-Fire and now Indiana Lace head coach Joab Franklin, one of Gary Indiana’s best playoff steals and game winning shots), we’d appreciate today’s version of ZBA Basketball!

Wrestling magnate Wince Peterbilt may have the right idea about his new football league, even if his execution is not generating the type of press he envisioned. Hey, the weather hasn’t warmed up enough yet for the cheerleaders to show off their personal playbooks! Give the guy a chance.

We should all take a pass on the next two Zooalogical Foootball League games, wait for the ZFL to work out the kinks in the halftime shows, wait for their ‘the first 10,000 people get in free’ promotion, wait for the free chalupa promotion (hey, it got the Dallas Plowhorses basketball team a lot of ink).

And when Wince Peterbilt does get his football league clicking, we can get him to design a different kind on basketball game.

 

Like ice basketball. A triple sow cow, a double toe loop, then a dunk, that’s what we’re talking about.

He’ll call it the XBA and it will feature all the elements of his ZFL Football League, only we’ll be indoors where the action can be more controlled. The XBA will have cheerleaders, yes, but also female concessionaires serving frozen drinks, and statistical categories for number of attempted bribes of the trailing referee per game.

In the meantime, we’ll have to fill our sporting hours with Crockets games. Even though they are in danger of blowing the season as I write, Aheem is worth the price of admission. Here’s a guy who can still fake most of the ZBA out of it’s long underwear, has a sweet jumper from ten feet, and could block more shots that Atlanta center Dickie Tango, the only other center in the league. (L.A.’s Baba O’Rielly is not a center, he’s a force of nature, and San Antonio’s Tan Toucan is part of a Siamese twin act with Goliath ‘Maytag’ Robertson I’m very jealous of).

Hakeem now says he may not retire after the season. He’s feeling good, got his old pop back, and he’s taking Oboe lessons.

Rock On!

It’s been a long time since Gary Indiana and Henning Copperfield, and long time since the rocket’s magic man, Aheem the Dream, was in his prime.

But don’t sell the big guy short.

June in the ZBA is going to be great, and Aheem might be right in the middle of the playoffs, flashing his AARP card, stealing the younger kid’s thumb rings, and swishing another sweet ten foot jumper to send the game and his career into overtime.

 

Warren internally e-mailed his copy to Frank, and checked his Casio watch. 5:30 a.m. He rubbed his eyes and checked his wallet. Sixty two bucks. He called Abdul on the Nokia cell and went to the bathroom to check his hair for glass fragments.

When he returned he logged on to F.A.Q…Advice for the 21st Century.

 

 

Dear Warshade,

I’m a highly successful ski instructor in Colorado.

I travel to Aspen, Vail, and Deerstand, living a life I couldn’t find anywhere else.

I think most of the things I do with the girls I meet, they should write songs about.

Recently, I’ve become enamored with speed. A lot of my friends live to get cute on the slopes, but before I become a wrinkled neck old patootie I want to be one of the legendary skiers whose name is mentioned around late night cocktail induced discussions in front of the Colorado fireplaces beginning with the phrase ‘whatever happened to’ and ending with ‘he moved faster than light’ and ‘he was so alive’, stuff like that.

My skis have been shaved accordingly.

I use the best wax.

My technique is perfect.

I have the best medical insurance.

My problem is this: I need someone to write my story.

Needless to say, I need someone who can ski, someone who can help me off the slope when I crash, someone who won’t be annoying when I start to rant and rave about the music of the 80’s.

This type of person.

Where can I find the one who will immortalize my snow burning run to immortality?

signed,

Sonny Barstow

 

Sonny,

Watch out for that tree!!!

Listen brother, you need to check into a clinic before that thing you call a brain explodes for real!

However, if you’re serious about considering this course of action (you sure I can’t interest you in a game of video poker, Las Vegas style?) you should check out suicidal writers.com.

This is a site for writers whose prose is dead, available to you on your Mac or PC for nothin’!

The unlimited number of people looking for a vision should provide you with the consulting partner you need.

You make me very uneasy my friend, so go easy, and don’t forget me in your will.

 

Dear Wardak,

I’m a submarine captain for a private firm with several oil companies as clients. I spend half my life underneath the earth’s waters with a group of foreigners who are typically overweight (or at least stocky) and at some point during every day to a man they borrow my undersea cell phone to call their mothers.

They use gel in their hair and carry pocket mirrors in their butt buddy pouches. They are all very intelligent, have a lot of heart, and floss on a regular basis, so it’s all good.

Last week I turned the Captain’s chair over to my first mate while I took a nap.

I had a dream we surfaced, took on a group of civilians looking for sea transportation to complete some secret journey of subterfuge, traveled at top speed for an hour and twelve minutes, and surfaced again to discharge our extra human baggage.

When I awoke I checked our charts.

Right where we were supposed to be in the North Atlantic.

But for dinner that night we had a nice lasagna, which I’m pretty sure wasn’t on board when we launched three weeks ago.

My questions are:

If they brought lasagna, what happened to the bread?

If in my next dream I get up when I feel the sub rising to the surface and in taking stock of the situation I find some answers to questions I really never wanted to ask, should I go back to my cabin and update the captain’s logs and prepare to launch a maritime investigation, or just finish my nap and look forward to dinner?

If the next time these double secret passengers sneak on board taking advantage of my r.e.m. time, should I pick three from their number, load the torpedo tubes, and fire one two three?

I mean, we work for big oil, how humane do we have to be? If there is something illegal going on that involves my submarine besides the activities I endorse as a matter of general policy, I want my cut!!!

signed,

Danny ‘spiked coconut’ Jones

 

Hey Danny,

I always wondered if someone could build a submarine that could offer cruises? You know, with tennis courts, swimming pools, house bands…this kind of thing.

The submarine wouldn’t have to go too deep, just enough to give the illusion of spending four weeks under water.

A surreal vacation!

What do you think?

As to your dementia, you are way past the point of surfacing to clear your head. I just hope your guys don’t have a serious hand guns jones, or your little voyage could wrap any moment now.

I spoke to an analyst friend of mine and she gave me a course of action you should embark on immediately, if not sooner.

Start wearing your socks inside out.

Part your hair on the other side of your head.

Read only architectural magazines.

Stick with a high fiber diet.

When you get back on dry land, let me know if you want to get in on my submarine cruise line idea. You sound crazy enough to become a major investor!

 

 

Dear Warpoon,

I work as a tax accountant for a major corporation. I’m very good at what I do.

I know all the latest software. I can do division in my head.

I know all the best Chinese restaurants in Spokane.

I freelance on the side through my website, number crunch.org.

I have all my hair, and my toenails are fungus free.

I have two clients who are in great financial shape, very bright people who I have a great relationship with. I have been going over their yearly reports and discovered 300,000 dollars from each client going into a slush fund, which is accessed by the CFO of the Republican Party.

These are guys I would have let marry my daughter.

What is it with people these days?

If things continued the way they are for both involved clients their luck wouldn’t even have to hold out for them to see 15 to 20 percent gains for the next three decades!

Now this situation isn’t working out for me!

I’m not going to sweat this, I’ll just turn ‘em in!

My problem is this:

Should I make a citizens arrest? My life could use a little excitement and I just bought a new Colt Python!

signed

Bernie ‘powder burns’ Doppler

 

Bern,

Watch it, pal, you’re getting awfully close to a pretty tough road. What if you established a slush fund of the equal amount and gave the CFO of the Democratic Party the account number?

I mean, what kind of friend are you anyway?

OR, forget friendship! These days, if you want to hang on to your clients you have to take extreme measures!

Save yourself, and pony up the replacement dough!

Then, according to a friend of mine whose spending time in the California penal system for embezzlement, so she knows the pitfalls, if you know what I’m saying, anyway, you tell your clients what you’ve done after the fact and then began extracting monthly payments to make up your original outlay, plus interest and a nice bribe to keep your mouth shut.

Use the extra money to buy a membership at a good gun club and anything after that you can use to buy Chinese dinners for the homeless shelter.

There’s your win-win.

 

Mr. Warbull,

I’m a tall, blonde, very attractive stock broker. Recently, I started my own sweepstakes. The first prize is an Infinity I-30 SUV, gas for a year, and a briefcase on the front seat containing 300 shares of Microsoft bought at 15.50 a share.

I’ve e-mailed an entry form to all the brokers I’ve slam dunked through the years, the ones who subjected me to questions of propriety with regards to the use of my female figure and it’s obvious attributes as I swiftly moved along the fast track toward that corner office, unlimited expense account, and gold framed invitations to the daily executive lunch buffet.

I’ve only been slowed by the investigating committee formed by the dunderheads who remain in place at the top of my firm. I despise their dormant positions and lack of will to strike while the iron is hot and keep up with the details long enough to maximize your gain in today’s

market.

So, I’ve started this bogus sweepstakes to suck in these sunshine boys who are interested in winning by letting everybody else do their work while they enjoy rich personal lives.

Now, however, I think my sweepstakes may be in trouble.

I wanted to assemble the entire group in a remote resort in the mountains of Colorado under the promise of handing out the grand prize as the crowning event to a three day wild food feast featuring the top three chefs from LeBleu Santiago in Paris. Then I would spring the trap, which would result in publicly humiliating them as they’ve privately humiliated me.

But shit!

I’ve fallen in love with a handsome rugged man, a former adversary, who is the perfect size for me, if you hear me talking.

I’m experiencing unprecedented feelings.

My heart is beating faster and my mind is spinning with new possibilities.

I feel like handing out scholarships!

I feel like sending money to Catholic charities!

I forgive my mother for naming me Elizabeth Randolph Armour!

My problem is this:

How do I stop my three chefs from serving the fern sauce, which is laced with a Russian produced chemical from the area of Chernobyl?

This sweet tasting additive causes every hair on your body to fall out two to three weeks after ingestion.

No matter what you do, your hair will not grow back for a year!

When it does grow back the follicles will have been chemically altered to produce hair a particular shade of fushca!

I’m in love now, and only want peace in the world! What have I done?!?!

signed,

Randi Armour

 

Miss Lizzy,

You’re in luck! I called my sixth wife (a Rhodes scholar) who works for a major chemical company out of Bopal. She’s aware of the sweet tasting chemical from Chernobyl!

As a favor to me she’s currently conducting experiments that should provide an antidote to the hair loss re-growth symptoms while at the same time leaving untouched the other symptoms.

Increased height and I.Q.

I’ll send you a gallon of serum FedEx in 14 days. You can tell your boys to serve a nice chocolate mousse for desert and make sure to include several cups of the magic elixir in the recipe. The exact dosage will be written in French on the underside of the jar cap.

And please, next time leave the sweepstakes to Ed McMahan.

Warren checked his watch, signed off F.A.Q., and went downstairs to meet Abdul and Dan.

 

Abdul pulled to a stop in front of the Chronicle building and Warren hoped in the back. He looked up at the floors with blown out glass. “Which floor did we land on?” asked Abdul.

Warren answered, “Your cab will require a special escort from the seventh floor, previously the home of the Chronicle executive editorial offices.”

“Woof, woof!” said Dan, licking Warren face.

“Let’s go my friend, I have a heart stopping appointment with free speech, sports talk style,” Warren said.

Abdul closed the driver’s door and put the truck into gear. “Do you like my new cab? I thought I would try a standard shift and since my brother joined the merchant marines to see the world this Ford Explorer had been just sitting in my garage.”

“Actually, I think I’ll take advantage of the sleeper seats. You know where Bailey Harper lives Abdul?” Warren asked

“Surely I do,” replied Abdul.

Warren’s cell phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Exactly what are you were doing?”

“Perth! Hell, I’m going to require a nap to get to Thursday. As of now, I’m still working on Wednesday. How about that tornado?”

“I’m going to the 23rd to ride heard on our little corner of Houston while the recovery efforts are under way. I’ll be busy. Mandatory overtime and like that. See you when the highways clear and it’s ok to ride your Palomino pony down Main Street again.”

Warren adjusted the recliner seat and closed his eyes.

“How about we share a couple of deep fried chicken breasts sometime this week? I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who runs a restaurant where we can get a great table and preferential service.”

“Call me.”

Perth disconnected.

 

Abdul said, “Are we ready, Mr. Warren?”

Warren sat up and took one last look at the damaged Journal Express building. He rolled down the window and called out. “Hey Jerry! Yo,brother!”

Jerry Donovan smiled and walked over to the Explorer. “Piece! What’s the skinny?”

“Well, I heard you got in a dust up with some tall blonde creature that gave the management types something to do besides have lunch, play computer solitaire, and talk to each other in chat rooms under anonymous names.”

Jerry pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it with a kitchen match. He squinted down the street, looked back at Piece, and grinned. “Yeah, well I had a meeting with two guys I didn’t know and a representative from our union. They started getting on my case about some junior league bimbo, so I offered them my id and twenty bucks each to take this freakin’ job and stick it.

In so many words.

They told me they needed a little more time to investigate the incident. That was four months ago.”

“The incident?”

“Yeah, some new assignment editor just out of one of those east coast journalism schools thought she had the perfect writer to cover the new football league, The ZFL. I told her I’d been here fifteen years, and in my opinion the ZFL had about as much chance of surviving as Charles Arkley has of returning to the ZBA.”

“That sounds innocent enough.”

“Well, I might of raised my voice when I said to her, ‘You might want to take this opportunity to rethink your career choice. ZFL my ass! Where do they get you people? And who the hell does your hair?’”

“Harsh.”

“Effective, too. She quit The Chronicle the next week and went to work in radio somewhere. ‘Her natural callin’, she said in the mass e-mail.”

Warren raised his eyebrows.

“Where? Think hard, this could be important.”

Jerry rubbed Dan’s head for a moment and said, “Yeah, that sports talk station. I think she’s the new assistant producer for that guy Mad Wolf in the afternoon.”

Warren said, “Always good to see ya’ Jerry. I’ve got to get the cows back behind the fence.”

Jerry laughed, clapped Warren on the back, and said, “Great dog! Later Piece.”

 

“I’ll call you soon, Abdul,” said Warren as he leaned into the driver’s side window of the Ford Explorer. “See ya Dan.”

“Woof, woof,” said Dan from the back seat.

Warren walked the thirty yards from the driveway to the front door, pea gravel crunching under his feet and the smell of azaleas drifting in the air. He looked up upon reaching the door and saw a camera pointed at him. He waved, and the door popped open. Warren walked inside and followed the smell of coffee. He turned four corners before he heard the voices.

“I don’t think we should fund the new stadium for any sports franchise. These guys make fortunes! I don’t see any of ‘em driving old cars or eating chicken soup for dinner!”

“Bill from Amarillo obviously missing dinner tonight as he refers to the owners DIET! Yes, well, Bill I understand your frustration and thank you for calling by the way, but the fact is the owners have the same problem as the players agents, and that is, they can’t do anything which will change the way business is done with the municipalities that are the base for major league franchises. If our guy in Houston builds his own stadium, then every other owner will be expected to do the same, and our guy in Houston will never see the inside of the power circle of sports again, and let’s face it, these guys don’t pay millions of dollars for teams to turn around and lock themselves out of the owners club, even if they have ‘If you ain’t Texas, you ain’t shit’ tattooed on their privates! Jamie from Lubbock, you’re on KSPORT!”
Warren cleared his throat. “Hello, ladies!”

Kanois and Bailey looked up. They were sitting next to each other on bar stools, huddled over a document covered in a plastic sheet wearing matching white towels.

“Hi, darling,” said Kanois. “We’ve been waiting for you. In that room over there, go get changed. We’re going to take a steam and figure out your contract.”

Bailey smiled at Warren and winked. Warren unbuttoned his shirt as he headed for the downstairs bedroom, the sound of KSPORT following him through the house intercom system.

“…definitely have no control over these players. When the commissioner speaks, it’s like the great and wonderful Oz has spoken from behind the curtain. Peanuts Maplewood says over half the league is on drugs, and nobody can do anything about that. How do they play if they are so screwed up all the time? And when will the commissioner stop kids from coming out of high school to participate in this Woodstock type culture that the ZBA has perpetuated on it’s players. I think the league has to be looking the other way…”

“Well, let me stop you there before you launch conspiracy theory number three sixty nine. The best players in the ZBA have to take care of their bodies to play on the level they play on day in and day out, so I don’t agree with you there, and if Maplewood knows who is doing what I think that may say something about what Maplewood is doing with his spare time. Maybe he’s providing assists off the court as well, if you know what I mean. Marvin from Tumbleweed, you’re on KSPORT!”

Warren hung his clothes in the downstairs bedroom closet, and wrapped the towel around his middle. He heard loud laughter from the kitchen. “I wonder if Abbie Hoffman had to go through this?” Warren said out loud to no one, as he headed for the negotiating team.

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