Here is an arbitrary start to a story. How about taking turns in adding paragraphs (or 2 or 3 or 4) and seeing where if goes? Not an auspicious beginning but at least I didn't say "it was a dark and stormy night".

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Story

I am at sitting at the end of a bar. I do not know the place. I do not know how I got here. It is a seedy bar. There are maybe a dozen people. Men and women. Rough.

The last thing I remember was a convention in Boston. I can't remember what convention. I must still be in Boston. I hear Boston accents. I hear foghorns.

I search my pockets for ID. There is none but somehow I think I am an electronics engineer from Phoenix. I think I am divorced and my name is Raoul.

A woman sits down next to me separated by an empty barstool. She has dark eyes and hair. We make eye contact. She smiles. In an eastern European accent she says, "I am Sasha".

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), February 18, 2001

Answers

"And I have come to take you on a journey."

Sasha takes Raoul's hand and leads him out of the bar. Raoul is shocked when he walks through the door and onto a deserted beach.

Sasha disappears, as if she has walked into a different reality but that haunting voice with the eastern European accent can still be heard. It directs Raoul to travel south.

Soon Raoul notices a group of people in the distance. They are gathered around a primitive structure on which the words "Capn Fun's World" can be read.

Sasha's soft voice whispers in Raoul's ear ... "go and learn of alternate realities. I will be with you."

-- Debra (Thisis@it.com), February 18, 2001.

I break the eye contact. "Pretty name," I mumble. I have no money in my pockets, and she looks like the type of woman who's thirsty.

"Are you from around here?" she asks. Her voice promises thick satin sheets and a lazy night.

"No..." I clutch my stomach, pretending pain. "Excuse me," I say and hurry back to the men's room, feeling like a fool. What the hell is going on? How is it that I don't even have a credit card on me? How am I going to get out of this?

I push open the door of the men's room. I spot a folded twenty dollar bill on the greasy tile floor in front of me.

-- kb (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 18, 2001.

I return her smile. "My name is Sasha also." I stumble over the words. Nothing like starting a conversation with an outright lie. Or is it a lie?

I raise my hand to signal the barman, all the while maintaining eye contact with Sasha. There was a depth to her gaze – and a willingness to engage my stare - that screamed intent. "Beertender!"

"Whatta ya have, lad?" I didn’t know. The throbbing in my head had made itself known with great alacrity. Is this the product of a bender I wonder? I turned to face him. "Double Stoli. Rocks. And whatever the lady would..."

As I turned back to Sasha, moving slowly to insure that my head and neck remained coupled, wanting to again catch those eyes, she was gone.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 18, 2001.

(Sorry, Deb; we posted at the same time)

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 18, 2001.

I leaned over to pick it up and 'poof' I was back on the beach. Alternate reality # 1 put me back in that bar.

But wait ... someone else was also picking up that twenty. I heard Sasha's sweet voice:

"Go and buy a drink"

-- Debra (Thisis@it.com), February 18, 2001.

And then I realized I had already ordered a Double Stoli. Rocks.

-- Debra (Thisis@it.com), February 18, 2001.

Without hesitation I toss the Jackson that was my good fortune to spy on the floor of the head onto the bar in anticipation of the icy vodka. I sense my stomach is devoid of food but in one motion drain the glass of its contents. The bartender fills the empty bowl which sat to my left – directly in front of the stool the ghost that was Sasha had previously occupied – and slides it down to me.

"Here ya go, lad. Looks like you have a hard night of drinking in front of ya. You won’t last long in your condition if ya don’t eat somethin’."

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 18, 2001.

Then I'm sitting on a bar stool with Sasha next to me. There is some change and several empty glasses on the bar. There is sand in my shoes. How...?

"Darling," she coos into my ear. "Ve should go back to my place."

I nod. Suddenly we are back on the beach. I take her hand as we walk toward the incoming tide. Then we are back in the bar, and she is saying something, putting a five on the bar. Wait. Is that a needle in her hand? Shit. I feel the prick against my neck. Then blackness...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 18, 2001.

As quickly as she had left, Sasha was back, this time seated on the stool next to me. She’d have to work to make eye contact with me this time.

"Do you play pool, Sasha?" I nodded with indifference. "I took the liberty of writing my name on the slate over there. Since both our names are Sasha, and the animals circling the table are not exactly to my liking, you are welcome to take my game."

From the look of the place and its patrons I knew that if I played, 'win or lose' I would lose. "I'll pass" I grunted.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 18, 2001.

"Very well," she sighed. Her voice had lowered a register. My mind registered her disappointment. I shifted my chin under and just far enough to the right that I might catch a glimpse of her face.

Not again. She was gone.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 18, 2001.

And I'm gone too. Thanks for the fun, Lars. Great Idea. Nice job Debra and kb. We ought to do this more often.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 18, 2001.

Sasha hoped the prick didn't hurt too much. She had needed to create the blackness, it was a compassionate blackness. This dude was beginning to think he was one with her.

During the blackness he dreamed of his demons. He dreamed of indifference, he dreamed of taking liberties and he dreamed of losing.

Raoul kept on dreaming. He dreamed he had left. Little did Raoul know that Sasha would never let him leave.

-- Debra (Thisis@it.com), February 18, 2001.

She was gone...

Or was she...? I was back on the beach again, wearing only my trousers. The night air was chilly. I kept trying to remember. Something about a bar, a needle ... who cared?

"Hey, Mister? Mister! You dropped your wallet!"

A young man with a black lab caught up with me. "Can I have five bucks? My mother needs medicine."

I took the wallet from him. It was heavy, full of cash and credit cards. "Sure, Kid." I peeled off a ten. "Have you seen a pretty lady, about 5 foot 5 and long dark hair? She was here a minute ago."

The kid looked at me with wide eyes and shook his head. "You should go home, Mister. There's a storm warning."

"Home." Yes. I tried to read the ID in the wallet but it was too dark.

The ground shifted. I felt faint. And I was back at the bar again...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 18, 2001.

Where was home?

Dragging my shaking legs through what seemed like quicksand, I moved at the pace of the giants running game in the last superbowl, and the blackness around me seemed like the entire Ravens defense.

It occured to me that I had to go south-I don't know why, but it just seemed right. By the time I reached the boardwalk I was about to collapse-I lifted myself up the steps feeling like some quadruple amputee. I was shot through the heart by the galring light of the streetlamp when I finally looked up.

Highway. Silent. How will I get there? Where? South.

I trudged down the median of the road, foxhole prayers flying toward God with sonic boom swiftness. Had I hallucinated this whole thing? Would I snap out of this and realize it was only a nicoderm-induced dream?

After what seemed like enough time to create an entire new layer of fossils in the grand canyon, I heard a rumbling from behind. Two headlights, like carnival fun house eyes, were glaring down at me.

The vehicle slowed beside me, and I detected a knowing glance from the driver. And it wasn't Sasha. But who was it? He seemed to know me but I know I had never seen him before. Who was this?

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), February 19, 2001.

The dirt road. You never knew, but then you would

find yourself in the

Line waiting for the big car radio

When your older

brother

Came around you feel like the last couple times are just like they said, plain luck.

It feels like we should be making these things every day.

I feel like there is a plain-luck angel. I hate angels, it seems like I can't get away from them.

-- moving_comfort (and_bemused@people.you), February 19, 2001.

I must really be confused if I think I can discern which way south is at night with overcast skys. Closing my eyes against the glare of the headlights, I stagger backwards as Mulder pulls the car to a stop next to me. He turns to Scully and comments: It's him again, shall we take him back to the safe house in Unk's Gruesome Garden of Giggling Gadflys?

-- Cherri (jessam5@home.com), February 19, 2001.

The silver Benz came to a complete stop beside me, the window down. The driver called out "Raoul, my friend, what ARE you doing out here at this time of night?" I looked closely at his face. There was no name that came to me, not even a recollection of any distant memory of this stranger who knew my name, and yet... My intuition told me he was no threat, no danger to me. His large brown eyes looked at me knowingly. "Get in the car will you? I couldn't possibly leave you out here at this time of night." My mind was on overload, exhausted from trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, to make some sense of these happenings. I found myself opening the car door, and getting in. So many questions, so few answers. I needed rest. "Raoul, let me take you home" the driver said soothingly. Home, where was home? If only I could remember. "Thanks" I said, as I drifted off.

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), February 19, 2001.

I say to Sasha, "what's your poison, foxy lady?". She says "Jack and Coke" and proceeds to line up a couple of railroad tracks on the bar.

I say "Bartender, a double Jack for the lady". We snort those lines right up and we're both on cloud nine, sipping on our Jack Daniels. Sasha massages my thigh with her hand, then gradually begins working on my jackhammer.

After a while my wood was so huge I couldn't sit down, so I coaxed her into a game of pool. She needed some assistance, so I straddled her from behind to help her line up her shot. She reaches back to get a grip on the stick, but finds my stick instead. With a little tug on my fly, the purple-headed monster was unleashed.

As her boob brushes against my left arm, I notice her nipples are rock hard. I hike up her skirt with my right hand and to my delight, no panties! My throbbing muscle of love found her sweet spot like a laser guided missile, and then...

-- Raoul Rodman (drivin@Sasha.home), February 19, 2001.

(assuming the last post by "Raoul" was a typo...)

During that seemingly interminable car ride home, my thoughts turned back to Sasha...her I remembered...I have to find her. But what if I did? A fear suddenly welled up, and began to dance a rhumba in my throat, as I thought, "Would she be the driven snow beneath the galoshes of my lust?"

"Or would she just leave me battered and spent, like a punch-drunk prizefighter, my Everlast trunks torn asunder, fallen on the ropes of love, my head lolling back, catching one last glimpse of an overzealous photographer's upside-down face and camera (and its sudden blinding flash) hanging over me as I, together with my newly- minted semi-toothless half-mad grin, slowly ebbed and flowed into unconsciousness?"

-- Eve (eve_rebekah@yaoo.com), February 19, 2001.

Then as I attempted to speak, to our surprise, out popped a hairball.

-- Eve: I couldnt resist :-0 gez who (old@forum.member), February 19, 2001.

I peered into the mirror which ran the length of the back bar. How many cigarettes had contributed to the build up of yellow/brown tar on its face? I embraced the thought and a tickle developed in my chest. Smokes. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a near-empty pack playing paperweight to a two-dollar bill. An empty mug with a coaster perched atop it kept the couple company. A 'no mas' sign to the bartender.

I made a confident grab for the abandoned butts, stretching my arm to its limits. Should have looked before I leaped, for first one and then a second hand gripped my forearm, stopping my forward progress cold.

I knew without looking that one appendage belonged to the bartender. No keeper worth his salt lets tip money go unwatched. But the second hand had come from my side of the bar. The grip was strong and steady, borne of a large, calloused hand. My balance was compromised by the hurried, sloppy flash of my arm outward to the pack of cigarettes. Whomever it was that had a hold of my forearm could, by lifting his knee into my overextended rib cage, bust me up pretty badly.

Catching a flash of movement on my left – it was the bartender snatching the bill from the bar and releasing his grip on my forearm, I suddenly caught sight of the man who held me.

"You're no man!" I declared with spit and vinegar.

It was, in point of fact, a Buddhist monk.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

At the same time that my mind tensed and mouth cooperated, spewing forth with obvious churlishness, my body relaxed itself. It knew instinctively this monk would not strike me. Why had I reacted to the sight of this renunciant with such a bizarre statement? Although Buddhists who wear the ochre robe of renunciation, both male and female, shave their heads that they might lessen the perception of gender, it was quite obvious by the hand (which released its grip concomitant with this brief reflection) that the owner was very much masculine.

It became clear my reaction – the slur which escaped without forethought – was triggered by the sight of the ochre robe itself.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

His touch had infused me with energy. The throbbing in my head ceased. The animosity I had experienced towards the monk likewise drained out of me, replaced with a sense of well being. I knew without inquiring that his halting of my reach for the cigarettes had been to allow me time to reflect upon my motivation.

When the body suffers often times the mind retreats into animal mode and mine had done just that yet again. The battle with nicotine had been a life-long one. Countless times I’d beaten it back. Never had I completely vanquished this despicable adversary. Slavery to habit had always infuriated me, but this enemy was stealthy and patient, waiting for the slightest hint of weakness within. The monk had provided me time necessary to gather strength to fight the beast.

Gratitude flowed within, filling me up and spilling out. I engaged his eyes and uttered a heart-felt thank you.

"Shall we?" I stated as I swept my arm in the direction of the door. The bar - and Sasha – melted into the dimly lit past.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

The bartender came after me with a shotgun screaming...Shash is my wife and he pulled the trigger and he killed me.

-- bozo the clown (bozo@aol.com), February 19, 2001.

Then it was morning. I sat upright in the passenger side of an Audie, various parts of my body sore from human bites, love bites, I hoped. My shoulders seemed covered with hickies, something I hadn't had since high school. My groin area was sore, as was my rear, and backs of my legs. My eyes were dry. It must've been some night...I had no clear memory of it.

"You're awake."

A statement, not a question. I looked over at the driver. He was in his late 30s and wearing a clerical robe. "Yes." My mouth was dry.

"It wouldn't have worked out, you know. The INS has been after her for months."

"Who?" I struggled to recall the name. It came to me out of the fog. "Did you mean Sasha? What happened? I was on the bar, then the beach, then the bar... it was like some weird 'X-Files' episode." He laughed and turned onto a side road. "So you don't remember the woman in the airport?"

"I'm not even sure who I am. Or who you are. By the way, where are we?"

"I could tell you, but I've have to kill you." His tone was light, but the look in his eyes convinced me that he was serious. I decided to keep it light. "I could use an Egg McMuffin and a cup of coffee."

He nodded. "We'll stop soon. There's a thermos full of cold water on the back seat."

-- kb (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

(Hit "submit" by accident) I reached into the back seat and grabbed the thermos. My back hurt. I noticed that there was some women's clothing in a clear plastic bag. The red top looked familiar. I tired to remember, but my head started aching.

"We'll stop here." The monk pulled up to a greasy spoon called Ma's Place. "Wait here a minute while I made a phone call."

I opened the thermos and poured myself some water. It was brownish and smelled of minerals. I poured it back into the thermos, and set it in the back seat. The red top caught my eye, again. I picked up the clothing an examined it. Then I noticed the blood stains. The clothing was covered with blood! I had a vague memory of a woman screaming. Was it Sasha? I couldn't remember. I tossed the clothing back and got out of the car. What was happening to me? Why couldn't I remember anything? I tired to stand, but I was so dizzy, I had to sit back down.

The monk finished his phone call and motioned me to follow him. All I could do was hold my throbbing head. I was getting flashes now. A bare breast...someone tied up...screaming...someone kissing me. I shoved the images away and tried to remember who I was.

Then a squad car pulled up, and the officer got out. "You okay, buddy?" he asked.

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

(Got time for one more set of paragraphs...)

I looked up at the officer. "Just road fatigue. I'll be okay." Something made me keep my mouth shut about what was going on. What was I going to say? "Hey, Officer. I don't know who I am, where I am, or what I did last night, but my body feels like I made love to ten women, and, oh yeah, there's a bag of women's clothing on the back seat that's full of blood". Not! I would sort this out for myself, thank you.

"That your partner?" He pointed to the monk in the ochre robe.

I nodded. There didn't seem to be anything else safe to say.

The monk approached us. "Raoul is just a little hung over, officer. We need to get him some coffee. I'm doing all the driving."

"Sure, whatever." Bored now, he waved us off.

The monk helped me to stand. His touch again cleared my head, but the ochre robe bothered me for some reason.

"You called me Raoul," I said softly.

"That's your name. But what's in a name? We are merely shells." He chuckled and helped me through the restaurant door.

I think we'd better get our food to go," I said, as I looked over the place. The truckers, day shift workers, retirees stared hard back at us. I checked my pockets. They were empty. I hoped he was buying.

"Patience, Grasshopper." He ordered two specials and some coffee for us. We sat down at the counter to wait. "You still don't remember the woman in the airport, do you?"

I wondered why he was bringing that up again. "No. Nor do I remember being in an airport."

He nodded. "That's good." He was silent until the food came. "You're doing well."

I had no idea what he meant. "Perhaps you'll enlighten me."

"Later," he said and helped me back to the car. "We've got another hour or so to go."

I got back into the car. The toast and coffee smelled wonderful. "By the way, who's clothing is that in the back seat?" I opened my coffee and dropped stirred in a pack of sugar.

"The woman in the airport," he said, as he pulled out.

I didn't say anything.

You ask about such unimportant matters! Try to expand your mind. Think about this: what is the sound of one hand clapping?"

I sipped the coffee and stared out the window. The urban landscape had given way to a rural setting. Tall pine trees lined the side of the road. "I'm not into Zen riddles today."

"Too bad. Therein lies your true concerns." He fell silent.

I munched on the toast. The road twisted and climbed uphill. Suddenly, I saw a woman up ahead. It was Sasha! She waved at us, but the monk sped by. "Wait. Go back!" I screamed.

"Patience, Grasshopper," was all the monk said and pushed the pedal to the floor.

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

The night was crisp and cold. Drawing upon information stored and retrieved from a rarely exercised place in my mind I knew the monk, clothed in just a homespun robe, would not react negatively to the brisk Boston chill. His training and ability to manipulate chi provided him with protection from the elements, and his emotional detachment served to ensure all sensory perceptions generated by his body would not reach his mind. Such is the Dhamma.

Ever since receiving his healing touch my consciousness had shifted. I was jacketed in a warm glow of energy, a full body hug. It served as a buffer to both the weather and the surroundings in general. The harshness of my experiences and reactions in the bar had dissipated. I raised my hand to touch my face, seeking confirmation of the smile I felt bubbling up from my heart like a gentle geyser - warm, wet, wonderful.

How easily one's outlook can change, I mused. How vast the staircase of consciousness. How tricky the veil which hides its height and depth. Why do we so willingly acquiesce to descending these stairs? I thought back mere minutes in time to how easily I retreated to the comfortable chair of booze and smokes. Old friends offering safe haven. From what? From loneliness. From insecurity. From the climb up that seemingly endless set of stairs.

Once more I felt the call, now distant and weak, of my old friends. I chuckled softly, then allowed the wave of amusement at their persistence – now thwarted - to build higher and higher until it crashed against the stillness, manifesting as gales of laughter. "I beat you!" I wordlessly broadcast to the ether.

"For now," came the whispered reply.

I looked over at the monk, who matched me step for step all the while I had been engrossed in this mind play. His eyes danced with laughter.

"Such is the Dhamma."

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

We passed the famous Bull & Finch Pub and then crossed Beacon Street where we entered the Commons. The lateness of the hour guaranteed we'd run into only those who'd fallen – or chosen to fall – between the cracks of normal society. I shuddered involuntarily at this notion. I was here too. Had I arbitrarily fallen into the abyss? No. It was the result of a lifetime of rejection – both them of me and I of them.

I glanced over at the monk, and before his lips had a chance to form the words, I stated with conviction:

"Such is the Dhamma."

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

We walked around the pond deep in meditation – walking meditation - a practice which I had allowed to fall away like so many leaves off a white oak in autumn. Spring came anew to this seeker that evening and the long sleeping buds of spiritual practice flushed with the pre- programmed desire to grow once again. A Rush lyric from a well-worn album played in my head as if I’d dropped some coins into a jukebox – "The more that things change, the more they stay the same…"

Immersed in reverie, I bumped into something solid. Regaining my balance with a short hop, I looked down to see a person clad in a hooded parka. I paused until movement was forthcoming. It was. I checked the hands for weapons. There were none. So I reached down to help them up, remembering to set my feet so as not to be off balance, just in case this person had ulterior motives.

She, a woman of Asian extraction, peered up at me beaming. The hand- up was rejected. She bounced to her feet with agility. It appeared she was quite used to being knocked down.

There wasn't a hint of enmity forthcoming from the woman.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see you." The woman ignored my apology as if the wind had blown it off course. She immediately began what was obviously a canned speech.

"The Reverend Moon [grin] is speaking to his children at the Boston Garden later this morning," she stated proudly. "Please come with me. We have much to tell you about his mission. We have hot tea available at all hours, and breakfast will be served at 5:30am. Come."

Her speech having now run its course, ending with the firm command to "come", she grabbed for my hand as a mother does a child, seeking to lead me to what was in her mind the safety of the Unification Church. My companion the monk, who had throughout the playing of this scene remained in the shadows, stepped between us. He locked eyes with the woman.

As if on cue, she turned and wordlessly walked away.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

"Such is the Dhamma. Such is the Dhamma. Such is..." I awoke. I had been dreaming. Something about walking through Boston with the monk. There was a woman, but it wasn't the woman at the airport. So fuzzy... I rested my head against the seat and let sleep take me again.

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

LOL, kb!

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

Well, Rich, lacking your knowledge of Eastern religion and Boston geography, I had to do *something* 8-) Back to boring meetings...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

Fatigue was setting in rapidly, but my mind’s need for answers superceded my body’s need for rest. I looked once more to my companion. Where do I begin?

"Bhante," I plucked this term for a Buddhist monk from I know not where. "What can you tell me of our meeting at the bar?" My tone was pleading for I truly had no memory of how I landed there, nor from whence I came. "Do we know each other?" I asked this knowing the answer, yet lacking the ability to draw the memory out from the cobwebbed condition of my mind.

"My name is Rahula. Bhante Rahula." His voice echoed, as if each monk who had taken the name Rahula down through the centuries had uttered the name synchronously.

"You left your kuti three weeks ago. Bhante G would not normally send someone after a novice who has left the grounds, but he is fond of you and saw that you would be off chasing demons."

Rahula paused to let this information sink in. I crumpled to the ground, head in hands, sobbing.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

The kuti. The monastery. The Dhamma. How many times, life after life, had I come to the path, walked it for a month or a year or more, only to turn and run away. Each approach, every step forward fed me just a little more. Each escape from the joy of the spiritual path to the painful roller coaster ride of desires halted my progress.

Why do I push away logic, the teachings, the Dhammapada, the Buddha, the simplicity of life as a monastic, that I may instead embrace the plethora of ignorance to be found in the material world? What is there about the experience of pain and sense pleasure, the Siamese twins of maya, which attract me to them again and again and again?

I promised myself this would be the last time I'd leave the trail which leads to enlightenment.

And I knew it was a lie.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

I woke with a start. I had been dreaming or was I dreaming now? I really wasn't sure, but in this reality, my head was not shaved, nor was I searching for answers beyond my identity. I didn't even care about the woman in the airport, if she even existed.

The monk was still driving, although he had changed into a blue suit and a tie. Something about his new look said "government agent." Why did I think that? Did I know any government agents? Wasn't I an electrical engineer at a small computer firm in ... my mind drew a blank. An image of a beautful, sleek woman flashed thorough my mind. She was nude and spread invitingly on blue satin sheets... The image disappeared. I tired to bring it back.

I stared out the window. The pine trees had given way to hardwood groves, broken up by occasional small shopping malls. Wherever we were, it wasn't Boston, anymore.

I checked the back seat, pretending to search for the thermos. The bloody women's clothes were gone. In their place was a sand-covered, maroon windbreaker. I had seen it before, but I couldn't remember where.

The monk watched me, then he smiled and turned on the tape player.

That was the last thing that I remembered...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

I felt a hand upon my shoulder. The light of the breaking dawn caused my eye lids to flap involuntarily. Cotton. The taste of cotton filled my mouth. "Water," I rasped.

The monk placed his hands in my armpits and lifted me to my feet. He guided me gingerly to a fountain located just a few paces to our left. I would have drank from a puddle at this point. The heavily chlorinated water tasted as if it were sweetened with honey.

After taking my fill I glanced over at the monk. "Are we too late to take breakfast with the Moonies?" The hint of a smile broke upon his face. A sense of humor is a critical trait for one on a spiritual path. To equate renunciation with joylessness is to misunderstand the concept entirely. For the more life reveals its truth to us through simplicity, the more often joy rears its head.

"I’d like to return to the monastery, Bhante." My tone was strong and resolute. Lessons learned – for now. Even the lowliest beggar deserves another chance And another. And another.

I am that beggar.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

Approaching sunset. The monk parked the car near a fence that stretched across the road. I had been to this place before, but I didn't remember when. I had lost my will to resist, but I did venture a question. "Where are we going?"

He smiled at me. "The kuti. The monastery. The Dhamma." He took what looked like a remote control from his jacket and aimed it at the gate. Two low tones, then the gate swung open.

I had memories then. Of Moonies. Of an Asian woman I had accidently knocked down. Of looking for a path. Of running along a beach and driving in a car with someone else who knew my name. Of a black lab...

"Raoul? Raoul! Come this way." He guided me up the long, rocky road, too narrow for a car.

I remembered -- Sasha! We had left her at the side of the road. I protested.

"Raoul, leave it. Half of what you think you've seen today isn't real."

But I wasn't listening. I was lost in more memories...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

Of a black lab...

You know, kb, my Bingo is a black lab. Your saving grace, buddy. :)

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

Just coincidence, Rich. I had forgotten you had a black lab. I had thrown one in during the beach scene where he mets the kid who returns the wallet. I was just trying to do some tying together since there's no way to edit this collect of jems. Can't wait to see what happens tonight. Okay, onward to dinner, and my lady's charming tales of her strange and terrible day... Back later...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

Sasha bitch-slapped Raoul til he stopped all that New Age blathering. She was tough. The KGB had trained her well.

Raoul blubbered softly. It was an act. He couldn't be sure if she believed it. Raoul was CIA, a counter-spy. His cover was that of electronic-crytographic engineer for the UniMoon Corp of Phoenix (a CIA front). The Russians wanted the latest crypto-tech and used Sasha to seduce it from Raoul. He knew this but fell in love with her anyway.

He was ready to turn. But did she love him? And could they find love in the Urals? And what about that beefy red-faced Irish bartender? He was CIA too.

There was no time. Raoul needed to act. His plan was simple but bold.

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

Damn if this wasn't a ton of fun. I'm quite finished. Sorry to be a thread hog.

The bitch-slapping was just desserts. Thanks, Lars. ;)

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 19, 2001.

I guess that I'm a thread hog, too, but I'm having fun! So, Lars, you think Raoul's CIA? And Sasha's KGB? Okay, but what if the guys over at MK-Ultra decided to do a little, um, experimenting on a seasoned field agent or two? Hmmm...?

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

Something landed on the windshield with a plop!. I shook myself awake. What the...? I looked up. A large turkey vulture had dropped a dead fish on the car. I was still in the Audie, on the passenger side, but my traveling companion was nowhere in sight. The car was parked in a wooded area. A park, maybe?

My body ached. How long had I been asleep? I shook the strange dreams from my head. Water ... I needed water. I checked the back seat. A cooler was there, and a bag containing what looked like a woman's red blouse. The cooler was more promising. I extracted a warm Mountain Dew and chugged it. Then I looked over the clothing: red blouse, red panties, red bra. I smelled the clothes. Freshly laundered. Not worn. I set the bag back on the seat. Where was I?

I got out of the car. No one was around. I stepped over to a nearby grove and peed. My urine was green. Probably from the drugs in my system ... How did I know that? I had another flash of memory: Sasha screaming ... Sasha dead ... Sasha being loaded into the trunk of this Audie... No! She couldn't be dead. I stumbled toward the driver's side and popped the trunk latch, but it took me several minutes to gather my courage to look...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 19, 2001.

Shaking, I opened the trunk. There, like a Jack-in-the-Box, lay Sasha's head, cleaven cleanly. There was no body. She was so beautiful, I just had to smell her undies one more time. Yes, there was a faint funkiness that I had missed before. Oh, my dear Sasha!

I examined the sweet head. The cut had tell-tale tool marks. The decapitation had been performed by a CIA model 310A portable guillotine, a device designed by G. Gordon Liddy. The company had terminated the operation. They would come for me next.

A shadowy figure in a trench coat and slouch hat watched from across the street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rich, I didn't mean to drive you away. kb has switched the story to 1st person. Raoul is in deep doo-doo. Can you save him?

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

The End.

-- Uncle Deedah (unkeed@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

Lars, you started this collection in first person. I normally write in the third person (grin). But I'll not be a thread hog today.

Unk, you have an answer for every problem, LOL! Would that RL were often that simple. Heck, I'd settle for being able to use a backspace and delete key now and again.

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

No, no, no, Unk! Admirable effort, but you should at least use a "deus ex machina." For example:

Suddenly, they were all run over by a truck.

The End.

-- Eve (eve_rebekah@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

You didn't chase me, Lars. I'm self-absorbed, or need I not state this? :) My story was finished, therefore my contribution was over. I've been wanting to write a little for almost a year now. Thanks for the nudge, nudge.

Unk's contribution was light on creativity, true. But Eve, you should know by now that Libertarians cut to the chase, say what they mean, mean what they say. Plus the fact that he's Lord & High Master around these parts should have stopped you in your tracks. Even feigned criticism of Lord God King Unk is grounds for severe punishment and the accumulation of heavy negative karma, not to mention the sudden onset of late night munchies.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 20, 2001.

Oh my, Rich...one of my favorite bedside books "Karma-Lite", by Eduardo ("Fast Eddie") Krishnan never got into this.

Now I can just picture myself tonight, curled up in a tight ball in bed, with a bad case of the sweats, trying to focus on anything but those snacks in my cupboards – snacks which would soon appear (in my mind) to have acquired arms and legs with those Disneyesque three- fingered white gloves, with big grins, dancing around like those animated drive-in movie intermission snacks, singing (to the tune of that up-tempoed, almost-a-mambo-for-this-purpose "For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,"):

"Let’s go down to the kitchen, let’s go down to the kitchen, let’s go down to the kitchen, to stuff our face 'till morn."

-- Eve (eve_rebekah@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

I should have known not to antagonize a woman who posts Monty Python skit transcriptions in their entirety. The Cheese Shop is one I've been craving lately, so to speak. (Nudge, Nudge. Know what I mean?) ;)

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 20, 2001.

And NOW for something COMPLETELY different...

The Cheese Shop

The cast:

CUSTOMER

John Cleese

WENSLYDALE

Michael Palin

The sketch:

Customer walks in the Henry Wenslydale's Cheese shop and walks past the bazouki player.

Customer: Good Morning.

Wenslydale: Good morning, Sir. Welcome to the National Cheese Emporium!

Customer: Ah, thank you, my good man.

Wenslydale: What can I do for you, Sir?

Customer: Well, I was, uh, sitting in the public library on Thurmon Street just now, skimming through "Rogue Herrys" by Hugh Walpole, and I suddenly came over all peckish.

Wenslydale: Peckish, sir?

Customer: Esuriant.

Wenslydale: Eh?

Customer: 'Ee, Ah wor 'ungry-loike!

Wenslydale: Ah, hungry!

Customer: In a nutshell. And I thought to myself, "a little fermented curd will do the trick," so, I curtailed my Walpoling activites, sallied forth, and infiltrated your place of purveyance to negotiate the vending of some cheesy comestibles!

Wenslydale: Come again?

Customer: I want to buy some cheese.

Wenslydale: Oh, I thought you were complaining about the bazouki player!

Customer: Oh, heaven forbid: I am one who delights in all manifestations of the Terpsichorean muse!

Wenslydale: Sorry?

Customer: 'Ooo, Ah lahk a nice tuune, 'yer forced too!

Wenslydale: So he can go on playing, can he?

Customer: Most certainly! Now then, some cheese please, my good man.

Wenslydale: (lustily) Certainly, sir. What would you like?

Customer: Well, eh, how about a little red Leicester.

Wenslydale: I'm, a-fraid we're fresh out of red Leicester, sir.

Customer: Oh, never mind, how are you on Tilsit?

Wenslydale: I'm afraid we never have that at the end of the week, sir, we get it fresh on Monday.

Customer: Tish tish. No matter. Well, stout yeoman, four ounces of Caerphilly, if you please.

Wenslydale: Ah! It's beeeen on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting it this morning.

Customer: 'T's Not my lucky day, is it? Aah, Bel Paese? Wenslydale: Sorry, sir.

Customer: Red Windsor?

Wenslydale: Normally, sir, yes. But today the van broke down. Customer: Ah. Stilton?

Wenslydale: Sorry.

Customer: Ementhal? Gruyere?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Any Norweigan Jarlsburg, per chance.

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Lipta?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Lancashire?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: White Stilton?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Danish Brew?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Double Goucester?

Wenslydale: (pause) No.

Customer: Cheshire?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Dorset Bluveny?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Brie, Roquefort, Pol le Veq, Port Salut, Savoy Aire, Saint Paulin, Carrier de lest, Bres Bleu, Bruson?

Wenslydale: (continually shaking head), No.

Customer: Camenbert, perhaps?

Wenslydale: Ah! We have Camenbert, yessir.

Customer: (suprised) You do! Excellent.

Wenslydale: Yessir. It's..ah,.....it's a bit runny...

Customer: Oh, I like it runny.

Wenslydale: Well,.. It's very runny, actually, sir.

Customer: No matter. Fetch hither the fromage de la Belle France! Mmmwah!

Wenslydale: I...think it's a bit runnier than you'll like it, sir.

Customer: I don't care how excrementally runny it is. Hand it over with all speed.

Wenslydale: Oooooooooohhh........!

Customer: What now?

Wenslydale: The cat's eaten it.

Customer: (pause) Has he.

Wenslydale: She, sir.

(pause)

Customer: (now making a concerted effort to contain a slowly rising anger) Gouda?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Edam?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Case Ness?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Smoked Austrian?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Japanese Sage Darby?

Wenslydale: No, sir.

Customer: You...do *have* some cheese, don't you?

Wenslydale: (brightly) Of course, sir. It's a cheese shop, sir. We've got--

Customer: No no... don't tell me. I'm keen to guess.

Wenslydale: Fair enough.

Customer: Uuuuuh, Wensleydale.

Wenslydale: Yes?

Customer: Ah, well, I'll have some of that!

Wenslydale: Oh! I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mister Wensleydale, that's my name.

(longer pause, customer now turning a bit purplish)

Customer: Greek Feta?

Wenslydale: Uh, not as such.

Customer: Uuh, Gorgonzola?

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Parmesan,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Mozarella,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Pippo Creme,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Danish Fimbo,

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Any Czechoslovokian sheep's milk cheese, perhaps?

Wenslydale: no

Customer: Venezuelan Beaver Cheese?

Wenslydale: Not *today*, sir, no.

(pause)

Customer: Aah, how about Cheddar?

Wenslydale: Well, we don't get much call for it around here, sir.

Customer: Not much ca—Why, it's the single most popular cheese in the world!

Wenslydale: Not 'round here, sir.

Customer: And, pray tell, what IS the most popular cheese 'round these parts?

Wenslydale: 'Illchester, sir.

Customer: IS it?

Wenslydale: Oh, yes, it's staggeringly popular in this manor, squire.

Customer: IS it?

Wenslydale: It's our number one best seller, sir!

Customer: I see. Uuh...'Illchester, eh?

Wenslydale: Right, sir.

Customer: All right. Okay. 'Have you got any?' he asked, expecting the answer 'no'.

Wenslydale: I'll have a look, sir...(looks all around) nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnno.

Customer: It's not much of a cheese shop, is it?

Wenslydale: Finest in the district!

Customer: (very annoyed) And, pray tell, what brings you to THAT conclusion?

Wenslydale: Well, it's so clean, sir!

Customer: Well, it's certainly uncontaminated by cheese.

Wenslydale: (brightly) You haven't asked me about Limburger, sir.

Customer: Would it be worth it?

Wenslydale: Could be....

Customer: Have you – (turns ‘round) WILL YOU SHUT THAT BLOODY BAZOUKI OFF?

Wenslydale: (to the bazouki player) Told you so....

Customer: (slowly) Have you got any Limburger?

Wenslydale: No.

Customer: Figures. Predictable, really I suppose. It was an act of pure optimism to have posed the question in the first place. Tell me...

Wenslydale: Yes sir?

Customer: Have you in fact got any cheese here at all?

Wenslydale: Yes,sir.

Customer: Really?

(pause) Wenslydale: No. Not really, sir.

Customer: You haven't.

Wenslydale: No sir. Not a scrap. I was deliberately wasting your time, sir.

Customer: Well I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to shoot you.

Wenslydale: Right-o, sir.

(The customer takes out a gun and shoots the owner.)

Customer: (sighs and shakes head, dons a cowboy hat and turns to leave) What a senseless waste of human life. (rides off on his horse)

-- Eve (eve_rebekah@ yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

LOL. What about Cheetos?

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

(Rich peeks into his Hungarian phrasebook looking to thank Eve:) "Do you waaaaant...do you waaaaaant...to come back to my place, bouncy bouncy?"

Cop: What's going on here then?

Hungarian (Rich): Ah. You have beautiful thighs.

Cop: (looks down at himself) WHAT?!?

Clerk: He hit me!

Hungarian (Rich): Drop your panties, Sir William, I cannot wait 'til lunchtime. (points at clerk)

Cop: RIGHT!!! (drags Hungarian (Rich) away by the arm)

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 20, 2001.

LOL! And as soon as I get ahold of myself, I'll go have a grilled cheese sandwich (with pickles, of course!) in honor of that weird mp skit. Has the encounter better Raoul and his enemies died, or is there interest in another installment?

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

"This is not what I meant when, somtime during the night, I had said to myself it would be good to get head from Sasha again."

-- FutureShock (gray@matter.think), February 20, 2001.

Raoul returned to 3rd-person. First-person was too intense.

He recognized the shadowy figure. It was the G-man, Liddy, stalking him. Raoul crouched behind his car and drew the 9-mm automatic. Deftly he fitted the silencer. Ten quick pops and the G-man was down. Raoul ambled over to spit on him.

It was not Liddy but a hapless Milwaukeean in town to see the Packers-Patriots game. In disgust, Raoul kicked the hideous green and white painted beer-belly into the gutter. A cheese-head rolled from under the trench coat.

Raoul snatched the cheese-head and rushed back to the car. It looked wonderful on Sasha's head. He called his taxidermist.

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

Oh, I get it now! Head Cheese!

To think I used to slice it for a living Somewhere In Time.

-- Rich (howe9@shentel.net), February 20, 2001.

Ohhhhhh. Rolling on the floor and holding stomach. You folks are too, too much. I started to type a paragraph about Raoul meeting Sasha's twin sister at the taxidermist, but my stomach hurts too much to sit here! Tks for the laughs. Ohhhhhhhhhhh.

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

Plus the fact that he's Lord & High Master around these parts should have stopped you in your tracks. Even feigned criticism of Lord God King Unk is grounds for severe punishment and the accumulation of heavy negative karma, not to mention the sudden onset of late night munchies.

Now THAT'S the kind of groveling respect we need to see more of around here! Very good Rich, keep that attitude and before you know it you may very well become one of my henchmen.

-- Uncle Deedah (unkeed@yahoo.com), February 20, 2001.

WOW!

Thanks to all of you who provided such wonderful entertainment, with your thought processes fully engaged! I fully enjoyed this thread, more than any will know!! Thank you all!! Perhaps this should be a regular thing? Very thoughtful of you Lars, to provide the stage, for the impromptu players to let their imagination run, connect, disconnect, and flow!!

-- Aunt Bee (Aunt__Bee@hotmail.com), February 20, 2001.

Raoul looked at Sasha's head, now in a new light. Direct, slanting afternoon type light. A deep, discerning look. And noticed, seemingly for the first time, the heavy fuzz on her upper lip. Not fuzz really, more like heavy growth. OK, a sizeable mustache.

Fresh on this trail of discovery, he also picked up on the coarse, grainy texture of the skin, the enlarged pores, and bulbous, veiny nose.

Well, he thought, a beauty queen she's not. But not matter, she's mine, all mine. I'll take this head, embalm it, cherish it, mount it on the fireplace mantel. Let it be a testament to the love we share.

And on cold winter nights, I shall toast a glass of wine to this head.

Yes, wine. Australian Table Wine!

And speaking of Australian table wine...........

A GUIDE TO AUSTRALIAN TABLE WINES:

A lot of people in this country pooh-pooh Australian table wines. This is a pity, as many fine Australian wines appeal not only to the Australian palette, but also to the cognoscenti of Great Britain. "Black Stump Bordeaux" is rightly praised as a peppermint flavoured Burgundy, whilst a good "Sydney Syrup" can rank with any of the world's best sugary wines.

"Chateau Bleu", too, has won many prizes; not least for its taste, and its lingering afterburn.

"Old Smokey, 1968" has been compared favourably to a Welsh claret, whilst the Australian wino society thouroughly recommends a 1970 "Coq du Rod Laver", which, believe me, has a kick on it like a mule: 8 bottles of this, and you're really finished -- at the opening of the Sydney Bridge Club, they were fishing them out of the main sewers every half an hour.

Of the sparkling wines, the most famous is "Perth Pink". This is a bottle with a message in, and the message is BEWARE!. This is not a wine for drinking -- this is a wine for laying down and avoiding.

Another good fighting wine is "Melbourne Old-and-Yellow", which is particularly heavy, and should be used only for hand-to-hand combat.

Quite the reverse is true of "Chateau Chunder", which is an Appelachian controle, specially grown for those keen on regurgitation -- a fine wine which really opens up the sluices at both ends.

Real emetic fans will also go for a "Hobart Muddy", and a prize winning "Cuiver Reserve Chateau Bottled Nuit San Wogga Wogga", which has a bouquet like an aborigine's armpit.

(and man, but was that a labored and tortous intro to the Australian Table Wine Sketch!)

Cheers!

-- Morgan (fatone96@aol.com), February 20, 2001.

Shaking, I opened the trunk.

All that was there was a maroon jacket. Some grains of beach sand clung to the wristbands. Was that a wallet in the pocket? Yes!

I drew out a worn, brown leather wallet and knew it was mine before I opened it. I paused. It had been a wild ride. Did I really want to know who I was? Did I really want to return home, wherever that was?

The rational part of me forced my fingers to open the wallet. The first thing I saw was my drivers license. Raoul ... yes ... I remembered who I was, then I remembered that all of the ID was fake, just like my life since the divorce.

I was really ... an Orkin Man! Yes, just a lowly Orkin Man, spending my days driving around killing roaches. And recently, to raise some more money, I had planted a few bugs for some three-letter agency instead of killing all the bugs.

That money was stuffed into the wallet.

I took out the money and left the wallet. There was enough to go somewhere, somewhere different, somewhere fun! .

Hours later, after a long plane ride and a bumpy taxi ride, I saw the sign announcing my destination:

DOLLYWOOD

I was home. I wondered if they needed a guy to help weed the flowers and spread manure on the bushes. I had been pretty good with a shovel before I had fallen into the bug business.

I wiped a tear from my tired eyes and embarked upon my new life...

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 21, 2001.

A dorky Orkin man! I had repressed it too long. Now it flooded back--my lifelong passion for insects; the 8 year post-doc in entomology at Florida State; my ground-breaking research on pubic lice. In a flash, I recalled how Katherine Harris had broken my heart and I had taken a job with Orkin and then with the CIA in a mad flight from the panhandle.

The taxi ride from Boston to Dollywood was bumpy and long and expensive but it gave me time to think everything through. Yes, Dollywood was perfect. There is a beauty in tackiness that not everyone appreciates. I love the gaudy, cheap motel architecture and the endless string of colorful curio shops. I love the busloads of overweight, elderly tourists in polyester clothing and grand swooping hairdos that arrive daily from the Red states.

I was home. I rented a shacky house and hung out a sign--"Pest Control by Raoul". No more corporate anonymity for me! I was an entrepreneur.

She swept in like Loretta Young. The office was suddenly redolent of Charley. "I have an infestation problem" she said in a husky, twangy voice. I knew my life would never be the same.

-- Lars (larsguy@yahoo.com), February 21, 2001.

She swept in like Loretta Young. The office was suddenly redolent of Charley. "I have an infestation problem" she said in a husky, twangy voice.

I knew that I had to take her on as a client. She was wearing a low- cut tee shirt that said "Ticks Suck" in front of her ample breasts. I wondered if she was one of Dolly's daughters.

-- (kb8um8@yahoo.com), February 21, 2001.