PDA

View Full Version : The Brand New TEN word post



Pages : [1] 2

Rob-rite
08-08-2006, 06:24 AM
A long long time ago, ten word posts were popular. Let's start another...


The rain fell. Jean new she shouldn't be here...but

Tre
08-08-2006, 06:37 AM
The rain fell. Jean new she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player.

persiphone_hellecat
08-08-2006, 06:41 AM
The rain fell. Jean new she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career

DeborahM
08-08-2006, 12:49 PM
The rain fell. Jean new she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell

Tre
08-08-2006, 07:32 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold

persiphone_hellecat
08-09-2006, 01:12 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart

rhymegirl
08-09-2006, 01:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish

persiphone_hellecat
08-09-2006, 01:23 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bull

Tre
08-09-2006, 01:29 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bull. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed...

(Ummm...Los Toros Rojos is the red bulls, el toro rojo is the red bull)

persiphone_hellecat
08-09-2006, 03:50 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her

Soccer Mom
08-12-2006, 05:50 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun.

persiphone_hellecat
08-12-2006, 07:28 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Soccer Mom
08-12-2006, 08:09 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed

persiphone_hellecat
08-12-2006, 08:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

Rob-rite
08-13-2006, 04:24 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Tre
08-13-2006, 04:41 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim

Rob-rite
08-13-2006, 04:44 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger.

Tre
08-13-2006, 04:52 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to

persiphone_hellecat
08-13-2006, 04:58 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a

Rob-rite
08-13-2006, 05:14 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that

Tre
08-13-2006, 05:45 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only

persiphone_hellecat
08-13-2006, 06:00 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojas - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if

Tre
08-13-2006, 07:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun.

"Bloody cow," he whispered

persiphone_hellecat
08-13-2006, 10:26 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to

Rob-rite
08-14-2006, 06:46 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the

Elizabeth Slick
08-14-2006, 07:37 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

persiphone_hellecat
08-14-2006, 07:41 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her

Tre
08-14-2006, 08:38 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor...

persiphone_hellecat
08-14-2006, 09:22 AM
ntains of sand and ice
Posts: 660
Tre is on a distinguished road

The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jenna swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the

Tre
08-14-2006, 09:27 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jenna swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress

persiphone_hellecat
08-14-2006, 09:30 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his

Tre
08-14-2006, 09:43 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!

persiphone_hellecat
08-14-2006, 09:46 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!" At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked

Tre
08-14-2006, 10:32 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!" At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty

persiphone_hellecat
08-14-2006, 10:36 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!" At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk

Tre
08-14-2006, 11:39 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it

Melisande
08-14-2006, 12:06 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair

Tre
08-14-2006, 12:22 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward

persiphone_hellecat
08-14-2006, 08:42 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand.

Tre
08-14-2006, 09:56 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick

Elizabeth Slick
08-14-2006, 10:40 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Tre
08-14-2006, 11:14 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 12:47 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus

Tre
08-15-2006, 01:38 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy

Soccer Mom
08-15-2006, 02:26 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed

Rob-rite
08-15-2006, 03:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions.

Soccer Mom
08-15-2006, 04:10 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 05:49 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me

Tre
08-15-2006, 05:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of

Rob-rite
08-15-2006, 06:03 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at

Tre
08-15-2006, 06:08 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 06:17 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the

Rob-rite
08-15-2006, 06:25 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 06:26 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head.

Soccer Mom
08-15-2006, 06:58 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and
__________________

Rob-rite
08-15-2006, 07:03 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

Detective Tabachnick

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 07:14 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not...

Rob-rite
08-15-2006, 07:19 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 07:29 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

Rob-rite
08-15-2006, 07:35 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 07:40 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can hold it while I investigate this matter. Now,

Elizabeth Slick
08-15-2006, 07:42 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can hold it while I investigate this matter. Now, you had better put a blindfold on that creepy head

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 07:45 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Jean screamed. "There's a head in our microbus! Take it

Tre
08-15-2006, 07:47 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 07:50 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her

Elizabeth Slick
08-15-2006, 07:52 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers. " What in the world is going on

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 07:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers. " What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who

Rob-rite
08-15-2006, 03:23 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what

Elizabeth Slick
08-15-2006, 07:24 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

persiphone_hellecat
08-15-2006, 10:11 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead.

Soccer Mom
08-16-2006, 06:14 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other

persiphone_hellecat
08-16-2006, 06:47 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places

Soccer Mom
08-16-2006, 07:17 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob

persiphone_hellecat
08-16-2006, 07:38 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably

Tre
08-16-2006, 08:05 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul."

persiphone_hellecat
08-16-2006, 08:15 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean

Soccer Mom
08-16-2006, 08:20 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean was aroused. Moonwalking did that to her.

Detective Tabachnick

Tre
08-16-2006, 08:20 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment.

persiphone_hellecat
08-16-2006, 08:23 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook

Tre
08-16-2006, 08:48 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda

persiphone_hellecat
08-16-2006, 08:59 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor.

Tre
08-16-2006, 11:36 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Soccer Mom
08-16-2006, 05:40 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Trabchek left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went

Tre
08-16-2006, 09:15 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Trabchek left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance.

persiphone_hellecat
08-17-2006, 04:30 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Trabchek left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest

Soccer Mom
08-17-2006, 04:35 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Trabchek left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He
__________________

persiphone_hellecat
08-17-2006, 04:45 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Trabchek left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras.

Soccer Mom
08-17-2006, 04:51 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Trabchek left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they

persiphone_hellecat
08-17-2006, 05:11 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress

Elizabeth Slick
08-17-2006, 07:28 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress
couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely.

persiphone_hellecat
08-17-2006, 07:34 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one.

Tre
08-17-2006, 09:32 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov

persiphone_hellecat
08-17-2006, 10:36 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar

Tre
08-17-2006, 09:40 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped

persiphone_hellecat
08-17-2006, 11:09 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts.

Tre
08-17-2006, 11:30 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move

persiphone_hellecat
08-17-2006, 11:36 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next!

Tre
08-18-2006, 12:37 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov

persiphone_hellecat
08-18-2006, 12:41 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes.

Tre
08-18-2006, 12:52 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus

persiphone_hellecat
08-18-2006, 12:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out.

Soccer Mom
08-18-2006, 08:25 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

persiphone_hellecat
08-18-2006, 08:34 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?

Tre
08-18-2006, 09:35 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!"

persiphone_hellecat
08-18-2006, 10:28 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun.

Tre
08-18-2006, 11:21 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing

persiphone_hellecat
08-18-2006, 10:40 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles,

Tre
08-18-2006, 11:52 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 01:05 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around.

Tre
08-19-2006, 01:20 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 01:30 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed.

Tre
08-19-2006, 01:41 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 01:44 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed

Tre
08-19-2006, 03:09 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 03:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols

Elizabeth Slick
08-19-2006, 03:21 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 03:26 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet

Elizabeth Slick
08-19-2006, 03:29 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 03:36 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he

Tre
08-19-2006, 04:09 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 04:30 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse.

Tre
08-19-2006, 04:36 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films.

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 04:44 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro.

Tre
08-19-2006, 04:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 05:02 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco

Tre
08-19-2006, 05:26 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 05:34 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed

Tre
08-19-2006, 05:41 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here?

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 05:48 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

Tre
08-19-2006, 06:02 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 06:06 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black

Tre
08-19-2006, 06:11 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 06:14 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped

Tre
08-19-2006, 06:18 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 06:22 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

Tre
08-19-2006, 06:44 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 07:04 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!

Tre
08-19-2006, 07:43 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 07:48 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said. "Shut up," said Bubbles.

Tre
08-19-2006, 07:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said. "Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 07:59 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed

Elizabeth Slick
08-19-2006, 08:09 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 08:11 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now. The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio

Elizabeth Slick
08-19-2006, 08:13 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now. The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 08:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now. The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared

Tre
08-19-2006, 08:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now." The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared.

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 08:19 AM
146
Tre
Bite me!

Tre's Avatar

Join Date: Jul 2006
Location: In the mountains of sand and ice
Posts: 794
Tre is on a distinguished road

The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA

Tre
08-19-2006, 08:24 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA! That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 08:29 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Tre
08-19-2006, 08:45 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 08:48 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande. Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

Tre
08-19-2006, 08:51 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande. Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 08:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande. Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Tre
08-19-2006, 09:01 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande. Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 09:03 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande. Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar.

Tre
08-19-2006, 09:09 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 09:11 AM
was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Tre
08-19-2006, 09:17 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 09:19 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick

Tre
08-19-2006, 11:11 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 11:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles.

Tre
08-19-2006, 11:23 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 11:25 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!

Tre
08-19-2006, 11:56 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 11:18 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistolsand guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby!"

Tre
08-19-2006, 11:23 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life

persiphone_hellecat
08-19-2006, 11:49 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She

Tre
08-20-2006, 12:31 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 12:36 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say

Tre
08-20-2006, 12:54 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 01:16 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Tre
08-20-2006, 01:21 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 01:26 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor.

Tre
08-20-2006, 01:34 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown???

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 01:40 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on

Tre
08-20-2006, 03:47 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on trumpet, her cheeks puffed almost as big as her lips

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 04:12 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on trumpet, her cheeks puffed almost as big as her lips. The Karamazovs juggled three knives two midget clowns and Chalupa.

Rob-rite
08-20-2006, 05:09 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on trumpet, her cheeks puffed almost as big as her lips. The Karamazovs juggled three knives two midget clowns and Chalupa.

"How come this thread is turning into a circus!!" said

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 05:13 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on trumpet, her cheeks puffed almost as big as her lips. The Karamazovs juggled three knives two midget clowns and Chalupa.

"How come this thread is turning into a circus!!" said Rob, just back from his trip to Alpha Centauri.

Tre
08-20-2006, 07:19 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on trumpet, her cheeks puffed almost as big as her lips. The Karamazovs juggled three knives two midget clowns and Chalupa.

"How come this thread is turning into a circus!!" said Rob, just back from his trip to Alpha Centauri.

Cue music: da da dada dada da da da da

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 07:23 AM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on trumpet, her cheeks puffed almost as big as her lips. The Karamazovs juggled three knives two midget clowns and Chalupa.

"How come this thread is turning into a circus!!" said Rob, just back from his trip to Alpha Centauri.

Cue music: da da dada dada da da da da.

Charo started her trapeze act with Antonio, swinging on Tabachnick.

Tre
08-20-2006, 10:49 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else she had written ever sold. Still, she wrote, reams and reams pouring out her heart.

On this particular night, Jean waited for Rob to finish his last set at Los Toros Rojos - the Red Bulls. She was on her second dirty martini, when she noticed Rob flirting with a busty waitress. Enraged, Jean threw her martini--glass, olive and all. Then she got her gun. Rob stepped in front of the busty waitress. Jean fired.

Fortunately for Rob, Jean was a bad shot. She missed him, and hit a bottle of tequilla behind the bar.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Do you realise how much that costs?!"

Jean gripped the handle with both hands and took aim right between his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger. Rob held his breath. His eyes pleading with Jean to understand. The waitress meant nothing to him. She was a temporary distraction from the real worries in his life that he sublimated with tequila and badly written lyrics, if only Jean would surrender to him. He would give anything if she would just drop the gun, fall on the floor and make mad passionate love to Paris Hilton, even though he knew that lesbianism wasn't the norm for Mung bean farmers or cross-dressers in prison.

Rob began to sing the song he wrote for her, "es invierno que los peacocks besan mis zapatos mi amor... Jean swooned. The gun fell and went off striking the stuffed bull head hanging over the bar hitting the waitress. Rob jumped over the bleeding waitress, taking Jean in his arms.

"We have to get you out of here now!"

At the end of the bar, Detective Rob Tabachnick looked at his scotch and soda, sighing. He was off duty. It never failed. Just when he got good and drunk someone got shot and he's should do something about it without even getting overtime. Slowly he rose from the chair. Holding onto the edge of the bar he weaved toward the waitress, tripping over the bull head, notebook in hand. He carefully picked up the gun with a swizzle stick and a burlap sack full of radioactive slugs singing "fame'

Rob grabbed his laptop and castanets pushing Jean out into the dark and foreboding night and into VW Microbus. Its ridiculously loud muffler dashing any hope of a stealthy escape, Rob threw the bus into reverse. Unfortunately they crashed out on the VW's bed, exhausted from the nights exertions. He ran his hand up her shirt. "Hey baby, do that thing you do with your toes. It drives me..."

Suddenly there was a loud thump against the side of the van. Rob jumped up with a start, weapon at...Oh yeah, the bar! Dang it! He remembered too late.

"Come out with your hands up," Detective Tabachnick growled. "Drop the false pretense and start acting real, you know?"

"What the? Jean didnt shoot the waitress - she shot the bull head."

"Yeah? Well the tequila got smashed, the bar got trashed, and if truth be known my ego got bashed."

"Detective Tabachnick, is it illegal to shoot a bull head? If not... why not, and does the legallity pertaining the shooting of anyone? If you don't mind, we're getting it on, OK?

"Ok, but if by that you mean having sex, surely you can put a blindfold on that creepy head. Creepy head? The bull head or Rob, Jean wondered perplexed slipping the leather hood onto Rob and taking out her microscope and tweezers.

" What in the world is going on?" the dective asked, disgusted. "You people are just ... sick! Who introduced the gimp mask!?" he barked. "And another thing, what is that acrobat doing with the flower pot outside there?"

"That's a mime," Jean said. The detective shot him dead. Mime shooting isn't illegal in Nevada, Texas, and other parts west of the Mississippi and even in some places in Canada. It is, however, frowned upon in Quebec.

Rob wondered whatever happened to Marcel Marceau. Some crazed Canadian probably. "What an artist," Rob whispered, "God rest his tortured soul." He cried silent tears and moonwalked against the wind. Jean reverently trapped herself in an invisible box for a moment, wondering if clowns suffered a similar fate. The detective shook his head somberly, wishing he had another scotch and soda, wondering if the busty waitress was still on the floor. Dang! He thought, I should have already called the paramedics.

Tabachnick left Jean and Rob and the clowns and went back into the bar. Someone had already called an ambulance. They were doing CPR. The detective liked how her chest made party hats out of her too tight tee. He was always a sucker for blondes in cone bras. He took her hand.

"Hey baby, what say when they finish, I give you the kiss of life? The waitress couldn't be bothered with jugglers who shouted at her rudely. "Damn Flying Karamazov Brothers!" she said. The Detective shot one. Thud! Demetri Karamazov hit the floor like a dropped Karamazov. Juggling pins scattered. Rob and Jean ran into the bar, Rob striking his knee, Jean her elbow. "Cr*p! Rob yelped. "Call Internal Affairs. Take his gun! This guy's freaking nuts!"

Tabachnick pointed his gun at a Cosmopolitian, "Nobody move! Anybody moves and one of these clowns gets it next! He downed the Cosmo, gun waving from clown to Karamazov.

"Not the clown!" Jean said glancing at his big shoes. She never knew Manolo Blahnik made clown shoes--rich circus. A Mini Cooper pulled up. Thirty-five clowns jumped out. It was the Clown Mafia, come to avenge their own.

A midget clown kicked Tabachnick's kneecaps."OK- who iced Twinkles?" he growled, "She was the best clown waitress in Detroit!" Jean quickly pointed at Tabachnick, still holding a smoking gun. The clowns surrounded Tabachnick, as Rob began to softly sing "Send in the Clowns." The mariachi band joined in. Bubbles deftly twisted an AK47 out of a long blue balloon. "Nobody messes with mimes and clowns - not while I'm around," he hissed menacingly, "I'm Bubbles The Enforcer, a made clown. The flower on his lapel squirted a gas. Tabachnick collapsed. The midget clown honked a horn, signaling the other clowns. They surrounded Tabachnick and began kicking him with steel toed big shoes. Jean undulated at the sight, making Rob scowl. The mariachi band cheered. "Ole! Los payasos!" They fired pistols
and guzzled salsa right from the bowl, staggering backwards outside. One yelled "Pinata!" and strung Tabachnick up by his feet. A rainbow wig fell from his shiny head, revealing tattos of Animaniacs. The clowns whacked him with sticks while he yodeled for mercy. Antonio Banderes stepped from behind the bar. Jean smiled shyly and opened two buttons on her blouse; so did Rob, he's seen the old Pedro Almadovar films. The clowns looked for Catherine Zeta Jones - they saw Zorro. Antonio whipped out his güiro, stroking it seductively...Rob swooned and responded with his blazing castanets. Jenna danced the flamenco, then a number from Chicago, wowing the Jones-starved clowns. Coins spilled from the upside-down Tabachnick's pockets. The clowns swarmed greedily. Jean stared in disbelief. What was Jenna doing here in an orange wig, big shoes and a red nose?

"Jenna mi amor!" Antonio purred, stroking his güiro with enthusiasm. Jenna slid out of her clown suit revealing a black glockenspiel tattoo.

"I must get to the airport," she announced. "Opus dei ... the albino ... they have the codex." Antonio jumped into the clowns mini-cooper.

"I'll drive," said Jenna sliding in.

The waitress awoke. "Whatta dream! Jenna ... Opus dei ... Antonio Bandaras!"

"What about me?" Tabachnick shouted, still strung by his heels.

"And me!" said Antonio. "I'm no dream, baby, I'm real!" Rob licked his lips in anticipation. Jean seethed with jealousy.

"I need a chalupa," Tabachnick said.

"Shut up," said Bubbles, pulling a mutant Chihuahua from his oversized, striped clown pants. The puppy peed on his shoes. "Damn Chalupa! You peed on my suspenders and my pants are falling down now!"

The puppy shrugged and peed on Antonio's gaucho boots. Antonio blew his clown nose with a giant polka-dotted hanky. Rob hid the hanky in his pocket, blushing. Jean glared,

"Mea culpa," whispered the mutant Chihuahua, "Je te desire."

Antonio kicked the dog into the corner. "Im calling PETA!" That can't be a real Chihuahua speaking Latin and French.

The clown ventriloquist chuckled. "Ed Italiano anache. Want Dutch too?"

Rob began singing again, "Antonio usted tiene un arma grande..." Jean rolled her eyes and kneed him in the groin.

"Puesto le en mi boca..." Melanie Griffith added in harmony.

"Shut up Mick Jagger lips," Bubbles and Jean said simultaneously.

Melanie began to cry, enhancing her Emmett Kelly clown makeup. In the background, Charo joined the mariachi band on guitar. Arm in a sling, Twinkles the waitress attempted serving tequila. The Karamazov's juggled fire in honor of their fallen brother.

Still hanging around, Tabachnik tried to get Melanie Griffith's attention. Charo offered Valeri Karamazov coochie coochie. He politely declined. Tabachnick would have stepped up if only he wasn't upside down. Jean offered to do that toe thing Antonio and Bubbles loved. Rob threw aside the castanets taking Jean in his arms along with a clown. "Make clown love to me!" he insisted. Jenna looked down at his tiny suede Birkenstocks. She grabbed Bubbles. "Let's do it clown-style. Bumb noses, baby! Gimme those big shoes! I've been waiting all my life to do a clown - since I first saw Bozo!" She squeaked his red rubber nose and ran her fingers through his orange yak wig. "Is it true what they say about Cirque du Soleil? Can you contort like that baby?"

Rob stormed off to Charo. "Still wanna coochie coochie, sweetcheeks?"

Charo grabbed a balloon, "Shut up and do me Bozo!

Tabachnick started crying - his tormented tears puddling on the floor. Antonio was dismayed, preplexed, non-plussed, redundant; stared confused...a clown??? He began singing Inna Gadda Da Vida with Melanie on trumpet, her cheeks puffed almost as big as her lips. The Karamazovs juggled three knives two midget clowns and Chalupa.

"How come this thread is turning into a circus!!" said Rob, just back from his trip to Alpha Centauri.

Cue music: da da dada dada da da da da.

Charo started her trapeze act with Antonio, swinging on Tabachnick. He wasn't amused. Suddenly the rope broke! Charo and Tabachnik

persiphone_hellecat
08-20-2006, 11:40 PM
The rain fell. Jean knew she shouldn't be here...but she was in love with Rob, the brooding castanets player. She loved him so much she gave up her career. Nightly, she journaled, a story that would one day sell, hopefully; not that anything else sh