Write???... Me???	Hard Bark McGrit	The Death of Butch Cassidy
Ode to a Death Valley Skull	Understanding Women	Life List
Tactical Error	Flash Flush	Sacrifice

All of this work comes from the writing group. I was sitting in Shelby's coffee shop doing a crossword and getting wired for a nighttime programming run. A friend, Ronda, was sitting with two people I hadn't seen before. They were obviously up to something, I asked what. She said they were a writing group and she asked me if I wanted to join. Chris was soon to drop out but Ronda, Ken, and myself would meet every Tuesday for the next 2 years. We would talk for awhile, select a "catalyst" from our discussion, write a short 30-45 minute paper using the catalyst in any way, and then read them back. I've posted a few of the better works below:

Thank you Ronda and Ken!

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Write???... Me??? (05-30-2003):

Hold On! First let me tell you about High School. PE: and A, Physics: an A, Electricity: an A, Math: an A, Geography: a C, History: a D, Literature: an F, English: an F. Every year an F. F F F F F … nothing but F’s. OK, maybe I squeezed a D out now and then. It’s not like it mattered. My counselor took me to his office and repeated, for the nth time, “You simply are not applying yourself.” My retort, “Who gave you the Nobel prize for brilliance?”, but it actually came out sounding like “I’ll try to do better on my next report card, Sir.”

Write???… Me??? … Ha!

I’m sitting in English class. The assignment is to read the chapter on gerund phrases. Nancy Casey just crossed her legs… Oh my goodness! … look at that! Ellen McBride’s hair looks like a blond waterfall… all the way down to her nice round… WAIT A MINUTE… How did I wind up on split infinitives??? If you do have an infinitive, whatever that is, I’m sure it’s not suppose to be split. I wonder how one would do something like that, to whatever an infinitive is, anyway??? What I would like to split … would be Bob Rother’s head in wrestling practice tonight? I hope I get to go up against him. I can take him, I know I can.

BRRRING!!!! …. Well that was an excellent English class... I guess.
I’m sure I must have learned something?

Write??? … Me??? … not likely!

I’m sitting in Lit class. “Class… today we will study the works of Percy Bish Shelly”. “Percy Bish Shelly,” the name rings in my ears like a sour violin. Who would name their kid Percy of all names. And what kind of a little pussy must Percy be?...
“Percy… don’t get any dirt on your nice clean white shirt.”
“Percy… keep your little bow tie straight.”
The teacher is up there expounding grand platitudes about a person I visualize as the antithesis of manhood. I mused, “If that sniveling little weenie ever did have a son, he would be a son-of-a-Bish!”

Write??? … Me??? … not happening!

I graduated High School at the absolute top of my math and physics classes and with a D- gift in English. I still remember that nerdy little valedictorian, “I would have made 100% on that last physics test but I added 2 numbers wrong”. I also remember me responding, “Then you should go back to 2nd grade math, Dork.” Upon entry into Glendale Community College I was stationed in what was called "Dumbbell English", it was no misnomer. Most of those kids were a good half bubble out of plumb. I remember our first class. “Write about anything.” The teach wanted at least a full page about anything we wanted to write on. I got busy. Thirty minutes later I had a beautifully rendered treatise explaining in detail how the 1966 GTO is the finest, fastest, best looking combination muscle car/ dragster/ pussy wagon ever to grace asphalt. With a few reservations, the teacher liked it.

Every class, twice a week, we wrote. Sometimes she would choose the subject, sometimes she would let us. I remember once she asked me to stay after class. She asked me a few questions, and then she told me she thought I had something few other students have, “You have something to say, you have a perspective … you could be a writer”…... “Write??? … Me??? … I’m in dumbbell English!”.

I could see by the look on her face that she held exception to that term. I explained as plainly as I could that the human language, by it’s relative nature, was a base form of communication and not worthy of true communication or capable of expressing deep thoughts.

“There are two kinds of knowledge... relative and absolute. Relative knowledge, created by man, like History, English, and Literature, is not only boring but ultimately useless. Absolute knowledge is all I care about. God’s nature is Physics and his language is math. It’s perfect. It’s true here, it’s true on Mars, and it’s universal. If I met an alien from Anoie-2 we would be able to find a commonality in math … it was made by God for universal and complete communication. I’m only taking his class cause I have to.” As I walked out the door I remember her saying, “Yep, you could be a writer all right.”

Write??? … Me??? … got better things to do.

A lifetime later I’m sitting in Shelby’s coffee shop when a close friend, Ronda, asks me if I want to join her and Ken in their writing group. I thought, ”OK, why not? I’m not doing anything”. Since that day we’ve met every week for 2 years now. Every time we write… it’s fun. That’s all … it’s just fun.

Write??? … Me??? … well… maybe ...

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Hard Bark McGrit (05-27-2003):

The Old West produced a plethora of gunslingers. Butch Cassidy, John Wesley Harding, the Sundance Kid, Billy the Kid, Wyatt Earp, and Wild Bill Hickock are all names familiar to the old west. Yet not one of these desperados could outshoot a ruffian that you've probably never even heard of… Hard Bark McGrit. Hard Bark invented himself through shear determination and force of will. That he remains somewhat obscure to this day is understandable, as you will see.

First off, Hard Bark was far and away the fastest gun alive. Few even considered a shootout with him once the stories got around. As the stories went… not one gunslinger ever cleared leather with Hard Bark. They died with their shootin' iron uncocked and still holstered. He was just that fast. “Faster than a snake bite,” one old-timer observed. Everyone who saw him in action agreed.

Hard Bark was also a drunk... a hopeless drunk... a mean drunk. It was well known that Hard Bark would rather beat a man into submission than shoot him dead. He said so openly, “Hell, if you kill a man he don't even know he's dead. I want ‘em to know they been beat.” One day Hard Bark was dealing cards in the saloon town of Slouching. At the table were three cowhands and one, William Money, a known killer. Hard Bark had already won most of their loot when a drunk fell across the table knocking the freshly shuffled deck of cards onto the floor, upside down. All four aces were on the bottom of the deck!

The cowhands were pissed, but said nothing in fear for their lives. All Bill Money said was, “Outside!” and motioned toward the door. “Outside it is,” slurred Hard Bark, too drunk to talk, let alone see or shoot straight. The two walked out into the street.

Money had heard of Hard Bark's lightning draw and didn't care to wind up on the wrong end of his 44. They faced off in the middle of the street. Everyone knew Bill Money was one tough hombre. Still, drunk as he was, Money figured he was about to die. He walked up to Hard Bark and kicked him square in the crotch with everything he had.

Hard Bark blew out his last drink, sucked air in a high pitched rattle, and drew his Colts. He had Bill dead to rights and everyone on the street knew it was over for Money. The undertaker smiled. Hard Bark just stood there shaking all over. At length, he regained his composure and instead of aerating Bill, lifted a strong boot to his crotch in repayment. Dust flew out the back of Bill's pants. He doubled over… retching.

“How ‘bout ‘dem huevos, pardner,” Hard Bark chided.

Bill flopped around on the ground for a few minutes and then slowly, gingerly, staggered to his feet. Hard Bark couldn't believe his eyes. Bill was coming back for more, “My turn,” squeaked Bill.

“Hold on!” Hard Bark ordered, guns still drawn, and pointed to the Saloon. They both hobbled over to the Saloon door, went in, and ordered doubles, Hard Bark paid. They toasted, threw back, and staggered back out into the street where they commenced to crotch kickin'.

Bill wound up, reared back, and unleashed a haymaker. The delivery lifted Hard Bark off the ground. His eyes crossed, he fell back onto his butt, and nearly passed out. He groveled through the muck and mire, across the street, and into the Saloon door on all fours, but returned a few minutes later... standing.

Bill knew what was coming. He called time out, sidled over to the Saloon, and returned with a full bottle of rye whisky. He chugged a series of large swallows. Then he gritted his teeth and nodded. Hard Bark took a short run at Bill and connected with a devastating shot. Bill reeled, did a 360, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell face first into fresh, green horse paddy.

Hard Bark thought sure he had won. There were cheers all around the street. He doffed his hat and waved to the crowd. The town roared its approval. Hard Bark bowed and the street again erupted into cheers and a few gunshots. The undertaker snarled. Then the street fell silent, save for a few gasps. Hard Bark wheeled around to find Bill on his feet… although standing at a bit of an angle.

Bill had a snarl on his lip, horse poop on his face, and blood in his eye. “Gird ‘em,” he said in a low voice with grim resolve. Hard Bark grabbed the bottle and chugged away. He braced for the impact… CRACK!

Somewhere there are happy, smiling people. Somewhere there are virile souls. Somewhere there is a man with functioning genitals. These items won't be found on Main Street Slouching this day. Instead, we find labored breathing, twisted faces, hunched bodies, and awkward stances.

Upon semi-recovery, Hard Bark took a few pained steps over to Bill and handed him the bottle. Bill drained it, closed his eyes, mumbled a quick prayer, and tried hard not to think of the immediate future... KA-THUD!

Bill turned blue. He couldn't breathe. He went into convulsions and hit the ground like a safe. Hard Bark stood there looking at Bill, praying he stayed down. Bill didn't even twitch. He just laid there blowing bubbles in the muck. “He's finished!” announced Hard Bark and limped slowly toward the Saloon.

Although Hard Bark's winnings had disappeared from the table, drinks were on the house. Hard Bark couldn't sit down and it hurt to stand. He kinda leaned sideways against the bar with a fresh bottle all to himself.

In time Bill Money crawled through the saloon door. He just couldn't get to his feet. Hard Bark helped him over to a corner, propped him up, and handed a bottle to sip on.

‘The Bootout', as it became known far and wide, was tale for the telling in the Old West, but lost favor in the more civilized circles to the east, due to the inappropriate nature of the combat. Raised eyebrows, “Bad form,” and “Tut tuts,” were often the stuffy reply.

Hard Bark's exploits tapered off after the Bootout. No one wanted to have anything to do with his fast hand, let alone his fearsome boot and iron determination. If a gunslinger rode into town and got word that Hard Bark was around… he just rode back out. Getting shot was one thing, but nobody wanted to swap boots with Hard Bark. This lack of action caused his reputation to dwindle and finally die. That's why you probably never heard of Hard Bark McGrit.

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The Death of Butch Cassidy (11-01-2001):

I tried something new here. Since the story is all dialog, I formatted it into a table. It reads across, left to right, then down. It works for me, but some people didn't like it.

Butch Cassidy	Sundance Kid	Harvey the Rat
Sundance, wait up... I'm hit!	Whata you mean You're Hit Butch? You can't get hit stickin up a dung-ho town like that. They only fired one shot. How'd you get hit.
I tell you I'm hit... and it hurts!	Well, I don't see anyone following us, lets have a look... Jeeeez! Butch... YOU'RE HIT!
<dismounting and slumping to the ground> How bad is it?	It ain't good! I think part of your liver is hanging out. Hey Harv! <pulling off a chunk of flesh> Is this here liver?	<nibbling> Tastes like liver to me... Butch! I think you're goina die.
Damn it Sundance! What the hell happened back there? We never planned to hit that bank. I just wanted to get the mail. All of a sudden you get this brainstorm and you wanna hit the bank.	Seemed like a good idea at the time, You didn't put up no fuss.	Well, if you're goina die Butch, I wish you'd get to it... We could have a posse down on our ass any minute.
Shuddup Harv!... Ahhhhhh!... Shit! This hurts bad. Read me that letter from Etta.	<fumbling with letter... reading> Hmmm...
Well! What does it say?	Hold on. I'm reading as fast as I can. I don't think you got time for the whole letter.
Oh Man!... I'm leaking like a sieve. Does it say she had fun when we were together?	No! She says she can't believe you're such an immature idiot, spending your life hiding in a cave.
Does she say she misses me and the good times we shared?	No! She says she's going to marry a banker, or a lawyer, or someone who wears a tie.
A TIE?... Does she say anything good at all?	No... but she has one thing right. She says she doubts you will live very long if you keep robbing trains and banks.
Awww Guys!... The sky is spinning. Sundance, this is terrible... shoot me!	I can't shoot ya. You're my best friend... Harv! You shoot 'em.	Well...?... OK! Butch, let me use your gun. You won't be needing it.
<handing over 6 gun> Harv! You better not fuck this up!		Well, I'm not goina miss you from here Butch.
Harv... you better hurry... Harv?... Sundan... <croak>		BOOM!
	I think you were a little late there Harv.	For God sakes Sundance, the poor son-of-a-bitch was dying. You didn't have to tell him what Etta said
	Since when did you become Mr. Sensitive?	I don't know, it just seeems like you could have lied.
	I did.	What?
	She still loves him.

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Ode to a Death Valley Skull (11-01-2001):

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Understanding Women, A Primer, Step 1 (09-18-2002):

I was four years old. Sally was my best friend. We played together. We ate together. We went to the store together. We went to the bathroom together. We rode bicycles together. We must have ridden bicycles around the block a thousands times. Sally didn't have a bicycle. I had two. Sally always rode the good bike. No matter how I tried to work it, she always got the good bike.

With guys it was pretty simple, the biggest guy got the best stuff, simple, easy to understand. But with girls there was this extra complicated dimension. Boys couldn't figure it out, but girls seemed to have an intuitive grasp of “manipulation”. They would use unrelated issues to achieve a goal. “I'm going tell on you for throwing a rock at that car”… “What's that got to do with riding bicycles????” Sally didn't know it, but the balance of power was about to change.

It was a dead cat. I found it behind a pile of bricks between two garages. It was pretty dead. The maggots and the bugs had already had their share. There were several scraps of fur still clinging to the skull. I looked at it with wonder. It had once been an animal and now it was… not. There had once been a brain inside that moved the whole creature and now it was empty... for the most part anyway. The teeth were very interesting, and still sharp. “Ouch!”

“What have you got back there?” asked Sally. “It's what's left of Silky… I think”. I held up the decaying skull. Sally shrank back in horror. She didn't see it as an item of curiosity at all, only something to be feared. I held it closer. She jumped back. “Get that nasty thing away from me!” It was a new experience for me. I had never seen Sally afraid of anything. I thought I'd better give it a little test, just to be sure. I approached and shook it at her. She screamed and ran. Having never actually had the upper hand on Sally, I decided to make the best of the situation and chased her down the street. “I'll rub it in your hair…I'll put it down your pants”. She screamed hysterically for a whole block. I never realized she could outrun me.

I decided to see if this newfound phenomenon held true for all girls. I found Portia, Harriet, Nancy, and Madelyn all talking on Portia's front porch. I walked up. They were talking about something really boring, dresses, I think. Madelyn, stopped the conversation, “Do you smell something???” They all looked at me. I pulled Silky out of my pocket! POOF! They all vanished in an instant. “Well! That settles That”, I said to myself standing all alone there with a wry grin. “We'll see who's running the show from here on in”.

I finally made it home from a hard day's play. My mom was waiting on the back porch. “What have you got in your pocket?” “Nothing... Just Silky's head.”“Drop it on the ground right there mister… and take those pants off too.” She didn't sound very happy. I wonder how she knew? I was given the bums rush upstairs to a hot bathtub along with a good scrubbing and a serious scolding. I never saw those jeans again.

After many hours of reflection on the whole thing I came to the conclusion that the conspiracy was much deeper than I had previously realized. It's the women! They're all in cahoots. They will say anything, do anything, and use anything to make us behave in a manner consistent with their liking. If one of us gets out of line, they will gang up on him and manipulate him back into position. “Boy I can't wait till I grow up so I won't have to put up with them.”

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Life List (09-09-2003):

I was digging thru an attic chest the other day while looking for my Birth Certificate. There was a small box in the corner of the chest that looked strangely, vaguely familiar. I pulled it out and opened it up. It was a bunch of writing by my mom. There were letters, poetry, essays, etc. One item seemed to stand out. It was a neatly folded piece of paper with an ornate hand drawn border around the title: "Life List". It was dated 1929… she must have been in High School. I opened it. The list wasn't long. Each entry was carefully penned …

1. Graduate.
2. See Washington D.C.
3. Go to Paris.
4. Get Married.
5. Have Children.
6. Travel with my Family.
7. Live Happily Ever After.

I mused at the beautiful simplicity of her goals and wondered what she would think of the list today if she were still around.

I continued my search only to find another similar piece of paper. It seems my mother had appraised her earlier goals at later dates. It was an addendum to the original list that had been added a little at a time over the years.

1. Graduate.	The depression is getting worse. Today I had to drop out of High School and help with the farm because Dad is sick.
2. See Washington D.C.	Today Virgil left for the war. He will be going through D.C. I guess he will have to see it for me.
3. Go to Paris.	Virgil got shot in France and is in a hospital in Paris. He sent some pictures, probably as close as I'll ever come.
4. Get Married.	Virgil came back from the war. He is in pain. I'm sure with God's help and my love he will be OK. We will be married soon.
5. Have Children.	Last year I gave birth to a healthy son; Craig Owen Leidy. I wanted a girl and he has brown hair and freckles… I think I'll nickname him Sandy.
6. Travel with my Family.	We had planned a vacation for the last two summers. Last year was measles, this year tonsillitis.
7. Live Happily Ever After.	Virgil died today after only 6 years of marriage.

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Tactical Error (01-09-2006):

Santa was good to me this year. He brought me a marker. For those who think a marker is something indelible, I can only say, “You’ve been missing out.” For the rest of us who understand the manly art of paint-ball war, we know full well, that a marker is a paintball gun. By the happiest of circumstances, Santa also looked in favor on my girlfriend, bestowing upon her, a marker also. So, it was only natural that we would go out into the woods to play with our new toys.

I have always been a good shot. I got my first BB gun at the early age of eight. God help any small critter in sight. Birds, lizards, large insects, and occasionally a cat, were all considered fair game. For the record… dogs were not.

Then I upgraded to a Sheridan 20 cal. pellet gun. I was now a serious hunter. Rabbits, squirrels, etc. were soon in short supply. I got a 22 at the tender age of 10. So, it must be obvious that I have always been a good shot.

I know a special secluded place with lakes and large oak trees. I took Janet, along with our paint ball markers, out for a little target practice. The fact that she had never shot a rifle before was obvious by her stance, placement of the butt onto her shoulder, sighting ability, etc. I was glad to help her with all the basics, and within a short space of time, she was able to hit a tree if it was within spitting distance.

I found a fallen tree and a bunch of empty beer bottles nearby. I set up 11 beer bottles on the stump. We backed off a ways and took turns shooting at the bottles. It was a challenge, and she loves to compete.

Something went terribly wrong. In my defense, I would simply like to point out that paint-ball guns are not that accurate… She beat me! … 6 bottles to 5.

Then in an ill-advised act, displaying an incredible lack of taste… she launched into her victory dance. This dance consisted of various taunts and butt wiggles.

I am not sure exactly what happened but somehow my marker slipped into off-safety. Then, as if by magic, directed itself in the general direction of Janet’s victory-dance oscillating butt, and discharged… Pow … SPLAT!

She let out a yowl, turned, and faced her attacker, ready to fire. I was also ready. It was an all-out short distance, gut-blast shootout… paint-balls a-flying. Then I realized my error. Click… Click… Click… My hopper was empty… but hers was full.

What is it about the English language, that a girl cannot under stand the words: TIME OUT! … OUCH!  … STOP! ... YEOW! … QUIT IT! … OW! … YOU WIN! I GIVE UP! … OUCH!

She emptied the hopper on me … I must have taken 100 paint balls at close range.

Today I have more welted and bruised area than not. I am in a lot of pain in a lot of places. But, a single thought keeps rattling around in my head… “What a great girlfriend!”

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Flash Flush (06-28-2006):

The guys had been chiding me, “You’re 59. It’s time to get your butt tubed.”

I’d protest, “I’m healthy. I spent 20 years as a vegetarian. I don’t need no tube.” But a month later, during my checkup, the doctor echoed the guys warning. “You’ve reached that age… We better set you up for a colonoscopy.”

“No doc… not… not…”

“Yes… the Tube!”

He wrote me a prescription and set up a date. The prescription was for something that would clean me out allowing for better tube visibility. I filled the prescription. Looking at the label on the bottle, I read aloud, “Flash Flush?... sounds pretty serious.” The lady at the counter just grinned. I waited for April 2nd, my designated date with the tube, to roll around.

Her name was Gloria. I’m told it was a nickname, being a derivative of an expression most men would use when they saw her slither into a room. She didn’t walk, she oozed. She had a wasp waist mounted over two basketballs that seemed to be hung on separate syncopated Slinkys. I had put in a lot of effort in an attempt just to get her to notice me between hits from the best looking guys at the beach. I was obviously too old for her, but hey, stranger things have happened.

One day, at the coffee shop, I found myself standing next to her. She smiled, permanently erasing my memory from childhood to the present moment. I composed my best on-the-spot line and laid it on her. “Let’s run naked on the beach for April Fools.”

Her eyes twinkled. She loved the idea, I could tell. She smiled, bit her lower lip and whispered, “I’ve heard stories about you… You’re on.”

Back at home I realized I had a double date. I was to run naked down the beach with an angel and later that night, drink some fluid that was guaranteed to cause a complete and total purge. No biggie. I can handle a little scheduling problem.

I figured it all out. We would go to St. Augustine, run naked on the Anastasia Island, have a bite to eat, and head home. Gloria was on swing shift and had to be to work at 5:00 PM. The Flash Flush instructions said to ingest the entire bottle before 4:00 in the afternoon. To maximize play time, I decided to take the Flash Flush along. That way, if we were running late, I would be able to drink the dreaded liquid and, allowing for the 30 minute ride home, still not be too far out of the direction parameters for my date with “The Tube” the following morning.

Everything went great. We found a secluded spot. Soon we were playing Frisbee, collecting shells, and swimming a-la-au-natural. I’m good with a Frisbee. I’d hang one up in mid air, over her head, and let it float slowly down for the shear joy of watching her wait for it. Time and time again, I would ask her to pick up a shell I had no intension of keeping. Swimming with Gloria that day could only be described as a blessing.

We played too long and too late. We headed straight for home. We hit the last stretch of open road. I made a decision. I pulled over and went around to rear of my SUV to fetch the Flash Flush. I opened the cooler, but couldn’t find the Lemon Gatorade bottle I had used for the Flash Flush. Just then Gloria called from the front. “How far is the next restroom?”

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Sacrifice (08-29-2006):

God bellowed down from above, “Abraham, you must sacrifice your son.”

Abraham wasn’t happy with that. “How about my wife?”

“Sorry Abraham… that wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice, now would it.”

“Whata you care… who?”

“Because then I’d have to deal with her, besides, I sent her down as a test. The test isn’t finished. Now, in addition, for your smart lip, she will go on-the-rag one week a month and I still want your son.

“What’s this on-the-rag crap?”

“You’ll know soon enough… heh heh.”

“Look God, I’m not really buying into this sacrifice shit. Let me understand this. You created us. Then you created a snake to convince Eve to eat an apple that you stuck right down there in her face. So she disobeyed and gobbled down the apple and then tricked Adam into eating from the same tree, dooming us to a life of misery, and now you won’t take the women back… is that about it?”

“Well, close I guess.”

“Wadda you trying to do… make me crazy. I put up with her through all kinds of bi-polar episodes so I can have a son, and now you want him back… what’s that?

“Abraham, you’re pissing me off. I usually smite those who piss me off, but in your case I’ll explain. First off I created man. Do you know why I created you?”

“Ah… no… not really.”

“I was bored, Abe. I was freaking bored. Do you have any idea how boring it is to be God. I know everything. I know what everything is made of… cause I created it. I know what going to happen today and tomorrow. I foresee the final resolve to every situation. It’s not every thing you mortals imagine.”

“OK.”

So I created man and gave him free will so I wouldn’t know what he was going to do next.”

“You can do that?”

“Yeah, I can pretty much do anything.”

“Ah… Okay… I guess. So why all the rest of this crap…. Why the intrigue.”

“Abraham, turns out you men were not all that exciting. You walked around happy all the time with that big stupid grin on your face, eating freely from the trees, thinking you were created in my image. It was fucking pitiful.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… so I sent down something to spice you up a tad.”

“Spice us up? You mean drive us crazy.”

“Spice up… Drive crazy… it all makes for good viewing.”

“So, you knew Eve was going to bring Adam down?”

“I put the apple tree there and told him not to eat… he didn’t. I sent the snake in to tempt him… he wouldn’t listen to a word. I had to do something.”

“I’m not buying this any more, God, I’m not your private little sitcom.”

“I’ll rain fire on your balls.”

“Okay! Okay! What do you want.”

“Your son.”

“You want to see my son die?”

“Not so much really.”

“Then what?”

“I want to see little beads of sweat bubble up on your brow and feel your feelings as you raise the knife.”

“You’re a sicko.”

“I know.”

Yeooooow! My balls are on fire! Stop it! Oooouuuwwww! OK! Stop! Ouch. OK! OK! OK! That hurts! STOP! Anything you want… ANYTHING!

Build me an alter and step on it… I’m getting bored again.

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© Copyright 2004 - Craig Leidy