Loooong week.  Glad it’s over.  Here’s a first draft of something bigger.  xo, Amy

Margaret heaved another milk crate of books from the trunk and sniffed.  Was that pot she smelled?

She turned to find two men standing behind her.  One had long blond hair, goatee and a biker vest.  He carried an open tube of Colgate in his hand.  The other had crew-cut brown hair and wore a “LEGALIZE MARIJUANA” t-shirt.  Blondie spoke first.  “Dude, you want some help with that?”

“Dude, don’t call her a dude, man, she’s a chick!”  Crew-cut smiled apologetically and pointed at his friend.  “Unbelievable.”

“No, I’m okay.”  She elbowed the hatch closed and started toward the door of the apartment building.

Crew-cut held the door open.  “I’m John, I live in the apartment next to you.  That’s Snake.”

“I’m Margaret.”

“We seen you moving in, thought you could use some fuckin’ help.”  Blondie stuck the toothpaste in his mouth and squeezed.  “You got a boyfriend?”

She reached the top of the stairs and trudged past an open door to that of her own apartment.  “No.  Thanks, guys, but I’m fine.”

The pair followed her in.  “Oh, this is nice,” Blondie proclaimed.  “You got any beer?”

“No.  Now, excuse me.  I need to finish moving my stuff.”

“Just a second!” Crew-cut John called from the bathroom.  The toilet flushed.  “That’s nice tile you got in there, I got linoleum,” he announced.

“Yeah, but linoleum’s functional and shit.  You know, like if you puke.  Remember last Christmas?”

John nodded.  “Oh, word.  Unbelievable.”

Blondie scratched himself and sucked some more toothpaste.  “Hey, lady, you got anything to eat?”

Margaret took a deep breath and counted to ten.  “Not yet.  I’m just moving in.  I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, so if you don’t mind…?”

John blinked at her. “Mind what?”

“Argh.  Okay, guys, if you want to help, there’s more boxes in the car.  Go ahead and bring them up and I’ll start unpacking.”

Margaret considered locking the door after they were out, but decided against it.  Like it or not, these guys were her new neighbors.  She finished unpacking the crate just as they returned.

John pulled a Ganesh statuette from his crate.  “What the fuck is this?” he asked curiously, turning the artwork in his hands.  “Reminds me of Captain Kangaroo.  You know, Mr. Moose?”

Snake dumped a cardboard box marked “kitchen/glasses” onto the floor with a crash and sucked down the last of his Colgate noisily.  “You got any toothpaste?”

Margaret’s shoulders sagged.  “Thanks, guys, I think I can handle it from here.”  She shooed them out and closed the door on them.

Snake’s voice came through loud and clear. “Fuck, man, I think she likes me!”

“Unbelievable…”

Margaret sank onto the couch and tried to remember the terms of her lease.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly.  All rights reserved.  Reproduction prohibited without prior written consent.

Freaky John was getting beers in the kitchen when the doorbell rang.  “Snake, man, get the fuckin’ door.”

Snake changed the channel and put down the remote in disgust.  “You know, this is what’s wrong with society these days.  Soon as they ditched the T-tops on ‘Knight Rider,’ the world went to hell in a fuckin’ handbasket.”

“Unbelievable.”  Freak came back to the couch and handed Snake a beer.  “Convertible was cool, though.”

“That’s not the point.  Fuckin’ America’s a disaster right now, and it all comes down to K.I.T.T. and those fucking T-tops.”

The doorbell rang again.

“You can’t say that, though.  Cause we had convertibles before we had T-tops,” Freak pointed out rationally.  “They only put T-tops on the Firebird because they outlawed convertibles for some stupid-ass reason in the seventies.  But you could say the T-tops are what—”

“Dude! Who would win in a fight, General Lee or K.I.T.T.?”

“What the fuck?”

“Who would win?”  Snake punched his arm.  “K.I.T.T. or the General?”

Freak made a face.  “Man, that is the stupidest fuckin’ question you ever asked me.”

Someone knocked on the door.

“It is not fucking stupid!”

“Fuck, yeah!  What’s next, tag team with My Mother the Car and Chitty Fuckin’ Bang Bang?”

Snake blinked.  “Whoa.  That’s got fuckin’ possibilities, dude.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Chitty can fly and shit, right?  What does your Mom the Car do?”

“Will you shut the fuck up and watch the goddamn television?”

More knocking, louder than before.

“How can I?  It’s fuckin’ Michael Knight, he’s like haunting me or something.”  Snake caught sight of himself in the mirror and puffed up his chest.  “Although I have to admit, he looks like me.”

Freaky John shook his head incredulously.  “You are so full of shit, man.  For the last fucking time, you look nothing like David Hasselhoff.”

“Hessendorf,” Snake corrected.

“Whatever!”  Freak threw a pillow at the TV.  “Hey, you gonna answer the door or what?”

Snake pushed himself up from the sofa and opened the door.  “Nobody’s there.”

“Fuck.”

Snake closed the door and came back to the couch.  “People are so fuckin’ rude, you know?  Which brings me back to my original point: everything went to hell when they ditched the T-tops.”

Freak rolled his head and belched.  “Yeah, man, unbelievable.”

“You got any weed?”

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly.  All rights reserved.  Reproduction without prior written consent prohibited.