Snake & Freaky John
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“Course, fuckin’ spinach didn’t exist before Popeye came along,” Snake declared, pausing to fire up a bud. “After the cartoons came out, kids all over are clamoring for spinach, but it’s just a joke they made up, like Soylent Green, so they fuckin’ genetically engineered it.”
Freaky John took a toke himself and swallowed the smoke. “No fucking way.”
“Way, dude. Why do you think it tastes so bad?”
Freak acknowledged that this was true. “But dude, lots of shit tastes like shit. Fuckin’ liver, for instance.”
Snake sat up, offended. “Motherfuck! You don’t like liver?”
“Fuck, no!”
“How the fuck can you not like liver? It’s like, fuck, it’s like—nature’s perfect food!”
“It tastes like shit,” Freak enunciated.
“Dude, you’re just gonna sit there telling me you don’t fuckin’ like liver and onions?”
Freak blew a smoke ring. “Shit and onions.”
“But…” Words failed. “You’d like it if I made it.”
“No fuckin’way.”
“Way!”
“No,” Freak repeated, slowly. “I. Do not. Like liver.”
Suddenly Snake was on his feet. “Up! Get up, fuckface.”
Freak looked suspicious. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you why, moron. We’re gonna go out, we’re gonna pick up some fuckin’ liver and onions, I’m gonna fuckin’ cook it for you, and you’re gonna sit there and eat every bite and you’re gonna fucking love it, that’s why! Now get off your ass, we’re going to Food Town!”
Freaky John crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not going to fuckin’ Food Town.”
“You’re going to fuckin’ Food Town.”
Freak glared. “You got any money to pay for the liver?”
“Need I remind you, asshole, I am the wheels of this fuckin’ operation. I pay for the gas, car insurance, license, registration, fuckin’ inspections, windshield wiper fluid—”
“I’m not going to Food Town!”
“—oil changes, hubcap fees, parking tickets, speeding tickets—”
“Unbelievable.”
“Are you listening to me?”
Freak cupped a hand to his ear. “What?”
“Fuckin’ retard.” Snake took a deep hit to calm himself down.
“Hey, man, pass the bud,” Freak protested.
“Fuck you,” Snake replied, charitably. He went over to the window and looked out at the street. It rained earlier that night. Now the streetlights made funny-colored reflections on the wet pavement. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and finished the joint. “There’s liver in White Castle burgers, y’know.”
“Is not.” The Freakster stretched out a toe to hit the button on the remote control. The TV glowed to life. “News is on.”
Snake was back on the couch. “That anchor lady’s hot. I tell you about that dream I had?”
“The one where she’s a nun?”
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“Only every night this week, man,” Freak giggled.
“Dude, nuns are hot.”
“Fuck!” Freak sat up and looked at the television. “Is that Margaret?”
Snake leaned forward and squinted. “Yeah, it is. See, the thing about nuns is—”
“Dude, what the fuck is Margaret doing on the ten o’clock news?”
“Freak, we’re talking about nuns here, okay? Don’t change the subject, it’s rude.”
“Shut up, I’m trying to hear.”
“Why? She’s right next door. You can listen to Margaret anytime.”
“Aw, fuck, it’s over now. You can’t shut the fuck up for three fucking seconds? Three fucking seconds? Cause that’s all I asked, was three fucking seconds.”
Snake opened his mouth to reply, closed it, looked down at his watch, counted to three, and looked up again. “Obviously.”
Freak pushed himself up from the couch and reached around in his shorts for his keys. “I’m going next door, see what’s up with Margaret.”
Snake bounced up and straightened his biker vest. “She’s fine. Unless she’s, like, dead or something.”
“That’s why we gotta find out. Although it’s a win-win situation either way.”
Snake lifted an eyebrow. “Because…?”
“If she’s alive, we can still get in through her kitchen window if we run out of food, and if she’s dead, then she can’t complain about the stereo.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Snake pulled the door open. “After you, sir.”
Freak slipped into his sandals, went out into the hall and banged on Margaret’s door. “Yo! Margaret! Open up!”
No answer.
Snake took his turn. “Yo, Superstar! We saw you on TV! You looked hot!”
The apartment was silent.
Freak tried again. “Margaret! The building’s on fire! We gotta get out!”
The door across the hall opened and elderly Mr. Hersch peered out. “The building’s on fire, you say?”
“Not really,” Freak answered. “We’re just saying that to get Margaret to come out.”
“Certainly she should come out if the building is on fire,” Mr. Hersch replied sensibly. “You’re good boys.”
Snake shook his head. “The building’s not on fire, idiot, we’re just trying to get Margaret to come out.”
Mr. Hersch blinked. “If the building’s not on fire, then what is on fire?”
“I dunno, your pants?”
The old man gasped. “My pants are on fire? Jonathan, is this true?”
Freaky John patted Mr. Hersch on the arm. “No, it’s all a joke. There’s no fire, and the aliens haven’t landed, either.”
“Aliens?!”
Snake pointed over Mr. Hersch’s shoulder. “Yeah, aliens! Look, there’s one down the hall! I think he’s the one that set the fire!”
Mr. Hersch blanched. “Really?”
Freak rolled his head back and belched. “No.”
The old man set his jaw. “Make a run for it, boys! I’ll stand guard! No alien bastard is going to set fire to this building on my watch!”
“You do that, Mr. Hersch.” Freak looked at Snake. “You hungry?”
“Yeah.” Snake patted his stomach. “I got a craving for liver and onions.”
Freak was already heading down the stairwell. “Dude, I’m not eating liver and onions.”
“Your mouth says no, but your eyes say yes.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, thanks.”
“Fag.”
Snake flicked his tongue out and made devil horns, which settled the argument.
Outside, the night was warm and sticky. Freak and Snake stood around for a minute, looking around the street.
Freak was the first to speak. “Dude, where we going?”
Snake tossed back his hair nonchalantly. “Food Town.”
“I told you, no fuckin’ liver and onions.”
“You think that’s all they sell, turd-brain? A whole motherfucking supermarket and they don’t sell anything but liver and onions?”
Freak nodded toward a black 1986 Monte Carlo with a three-foot cobra decal on the hood. “Walking or driving?”
Snake hesitated, stroking his goatee. “Snakemobile’s low on gas.”
“Dude, it’s two blocks.”
“Snakemobile is fuckin’ low on gas.”
“Unbelievable.” They turned and started walking. Freak pulled a joint from the pocket of his shorts and fired it up. After a nice deep hit, he passed the bud and shrugged. “How low is low?”
“Fumes.”
Freak nodded sagely. “What about kiwis?”
Snake took another hit and coughed. “What about ‘em?”
“They taste like fucking shit, man. Were those genetically engineered too?”
“I don’t see why not. Fuck, man, that makes sense. Kiwi probably stands for something, like a homonym or shit.”
“Homma…Homma-nimim?”
“Homonym. It’s where you got the first letters of a name and it makes a word. Like ‘Kleenex.’”
“Fuck, really? What does Kleenex stand for?”
“Shit, I think it’s the Klu Kux Klan or some shit.”
Freak stared. “The KKK invented Kleenex?”
“Sure. You see, back in the day, on off days when they weren’t wearing those white hoods and the hoods were just sitting in a fuckin’ closet or something, when one of the KKK guys had a cold, what do you think they blew their nose on?”
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“No joke.”
“Unbelievable.”
“See, that’s why a true American always picks his nose.”
Freak was skeptical. “Why not just use toilet paper?”
Snake shrugged. “Sure, you can do that. That’s what the French do.”
“The French are cool. They make the best fuckin’ toast I ever ate.” Freaky John grabbed Snake’s arm. “Dude! Let’s get toast!”
“They sell toast at Food Town? You don’t have to make it anymore?”
“Fuck, they genetically engineer the fuckin’ vegetables, they can probably manage toast.”
Snake looked admiringly at his friend. “Now, that’s fuckin’ logic. You learn that in law school, too?”
The electric door of the supermarket opened before them. Inside, Food Town was awash with bright fluorescents and air conditioning. An older woman wearing a green Food Town tunic was stocking a pyramid of cans of tomato sauce on a table. Snake thumped her shoulder. “Dude, where’s the toast?”
She glared. “I’m not a dude.”
Snake scoffed. “I can see that, but that’s not what I asked.”
“We don’t sell toast, dude. You have to buy the bread and make it yourself.”
The weed was really starting to hit. Freak shook his head and tried to remember something important and logical about genetic engineering. He’d just had a thought about that a minute ago… “What about kiwis?” he asked importantly.
“Produce aisle. And stop coming in here smelling like marijuana. You guys should be ashamed of yourselves.”
Snake swept his mane back magnificently. “Bet your liver tastes terrible.”
She ignored this. “Liver is in Meats, next to the tripe.”
Freakster remembered something. “Fuck, I left the TV on!”
“Do you have to curse?”
“What about ice cream? Dude, you got ice cream?”
The woman scowled at Snake. “I told you, I’m not a dude.”
“Not you, him! Freak, you got any ice cream?”
“Aisle fifteen, dairy.”
“Don’t interrupt, it’s rude,” Snake chided.
“No, I don’t have ice cream…what?”
Snake had Freaky John by the arm, propelling him toward the left side of the store. “Cherry Garcia time, baby.”
“I’m sure I left the TV on.”
“That’s not what’s important right now.”
“I’m pretty sure it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What are we talking about again?”
Snake squeezed Freak’s shoulder reassuringly. “You’re freaking out, man. Let’s get some ice cream and cool you down. Look, there’s Margaret.”
Freak’s eyes vaguely focused on an attractive woman about his own age, with dark-rimmed glasses and straight brown hair, selecting a tub of Haagen Dazs from the cooler. “Yo, Margaret. We just saw you on TV.”
His next-door neighbor burst into tears. “It’s on the news?”
Freak patted her arm awkwardly. “Don’t cry, Margaret. I mean, I’m sad I left the TV on, too, but it’s no reason to cry.”
“It’s not bad enough I lose my job, but do they have to put it on the news, too? What did they say? Do they think I did it?”
Snake laughed. “You had a job? Fuck, man, jobs are for losers. You’re better off without one, you ask me.”
Margaret’s shoulders sagged. “Shockingly, this doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Freak struggled to clear his head. “Why were you on the news?”
“I don’t want to talk about it here. Let’s go home, and I can tell you about it in private.”
“Fuck, being unemployed is the best thing that ever happened to me,” Snake added encouragingly. “Sleep in, go where I want, get paid for doing frigging nothing. Shit, everybody should do it.”
Margaret blinked. “Why do I even talk to you people?”
Freaky John grabbed a random tub of ice cream and headed toward the checkout. “I got what I want. Let’s get out of here.”
Snake excavated something from his nose. “So why’d you get fired, anyway?”
She sighed and followed Freak toward the cashier. “I told you, we can talk about it when we get back to the building.”
Snake was walking with her. “Did you sit on the copier? Cause I’d want copies of that.”
“No.”
“Did you get caught fucking in the break room?”
“No.”
“No? Well, fuck, you didn’t steal anything, did you?”
Margaret stopped in her tracks, tears shining on her cheeks. “Shut up, okay? I’ve had a bad enough day as it is. Now that I’ve lost my job, I shouldn’t even be spending money on this.” She looked down at the carton of ice cream in her hands.
Snake took the ice cream and plunked it on the counter next to Freak’s. “We’ve got it. Don’t sweat it, hot stuff.”
Freak patted his pockets. “Fuck. Snake, you got any money?”
“Oh, now I have to pay for everything?”
“Dude, I forgot my wallet! I’ll pay you when we get back.”
“Did you check your boxers?”
Freak unzipped the fly of his shorts and reached around inside. His face brightened as he pulled out a crumpled twenty. “Hey! Good call!”
Margaret wrinkled her nose. “You guys keep your money in your underwear?”
“Hell, no.” Snake adjusted the leather belt over his jeans. “I go commando.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Outside, Margaret shivered. “Funny how getting back into the heat makes you realize how cold it was in there.”
Freak stared. “That makes no fuckin’ sense whatsoever.”
Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “When you look at it logistically, it makes total fuckin’ sense. It’s all about the differential of the square root of the thermometer and shit.”
“I have no fuckin’ idea what you just said.”
“Me either,” said Margaret. “Let’s just enjoy the silence till we get back, okay?”
Freak nodded. “Okay.”
“Silence is golden,” Snake declared. “Silent night, right? Right?”
They reached the building door. Margaret took care of the lock while Freak held the grocery bag. Snake stood around for moral support.
Freak stepped aside to let Margaret up the stairwell first. “After you.”
“Thanks.” They reached the top of the stairs and turned the corner.
And were met by an icy blast of foam.
“Ha! Think you can just come down in your spaceships and set fire to my hallway? Well, you can take your UFOs and go right back where you came from!”
Margaret screamed and ran back down the stairwell. Freak slipped on the foam and fell on his ass. Snake wrestled the fire extinguisher from Mr. Hersch. “Fuck, who let you have one of these?”
“Oh, Jonathan, Snake, is that you? I beg your pardon, dear boys, I thought you were aliens. Oh, well, honest mistake.” Mr. Hersch smiled pleasantly at Freak, Snake and Margaret, who was peering around the corner. “Would you like to come in for a cookie?”
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
116
LEMONADE
“Of course, lemonade was invented by the motherfuckin’ Mongolios in twelve-something VD,” Snake attested.
Freaky John coughed and passed the joint back to Snake. “Bullshit. Nobody invented lemonade.”
“Don’t be doubting the Snapple Facts, dude.” Snake took a quick hit and passed the bud back. “Fuck, it had to be invented by somebody, why not the goddamn Mongolios?”
“Who the fuck are the Mongolios?”
Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “Fuck, dude, you serious? The Mongolios, man, fuckin’ Attila and…and I think Coolio or some shit like that.”
Freak rolled his head around and belched. “No fucking way.”
“Way.”
“Dude, no. Coolio doesn’t ride around Asia on a horse in some dipshitty hat murdering people with Attila the Hun.”
Snake tossed his hair back impatiently. “Coolio doesn’t have to murder people, fuckbrain, he’s in charge of the motherfuckin’ lemonade!”
Freak shook his head and fumbled for the joint. “What, is that an option in the Hun Army? Kill people or make lemonade?”
“Oh, now you got something against lemonade?”
Freak coughed violently. “No, I got something against Coolio being a fuckin’ Nun.”
“Hun.”
“Hun. Yeah.”
Snake laughed. “Shit, you’re stupid sometimes.”
“Word. Look, Coolio wasn’t back in fuckin’ Mongolian times, he’s like a twentieth-century dude.”
Realization crept across Snake’s visage. “Holy—fuck, dude, you’re right. Music.”
Freak nodded. “Hell, yeah.”
“Metallica even wrote a song about him.”
“Now you got—what?”
“Shit, dude, he’s the big fuckin’ evil sea monster.”
Freak stared.
Snake thumped Freaky John’s shoulder. “C’thoolio! Am I right?”
Freak’s eyes were watering. “Unbelievable.”
“I know, I’m like a fuckin’ genius or something. Dude! Let’s make toast!”
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
Snake’s head came up from the coffee table. “Fuckin’ commies,” he declared. “Motherfuckin’ commies.”
Freaky John belched. “You got some white shit around your nostrils.”
Snake wiped his nose and reached for his beer. “It’s the goddamn, motherfuckin’ commies, is what it is.”
“Unbelievable,” Freak mumbled, leaning down to put the rolled-up bill in his nose.
Snake’s fist came down on the tabletop, causing the neat rows of white dust to scatter. “They don’t want you to know, but shit, man, the truth is staring you right in the face.”
Freak sneezed and immediately regretted it. “Aw, fuck, man, gimme a piece of paper or something to clean this up with!”
“Face it, man. Superbowl is a national holiday,” Snake continued, grabbing a book from the end table and throwing it on the table. White powder flew up in a little cloud from the impact. “It’s the commies that don’t want you to know it.”
“Un-fuckin’-believable. You’re getting it all over the place.” Freak used the book’s edge to scrape the whiteness back into neat lines and leaned forward to examine his handiwork.
“Think about it. Banks are closed. No postal service.”
Freak extricated a hair from one of the lines. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”
“That’s just what they want you to think, man.”
Freak glared up at Snake. “Who’s they?”
“The commies, dickhead!”
“What commies?”
“The ones who don’t want you to know it’s a fuckin’ holiday!”
“It’s not!”
Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “No banks. No mail. Lots of businesses close early. Families get together and eat in front of the TV. Now, what the fuck would you call it?”
Freaky John shook his head. “If it was a holiday, it’d be on a Monday. Like Labor Day.”
“Arbor Day.”
“What?”
Snake tossed his hair back. “Arbor Day. That’s its real name, genius. It’s what Labor Day used to be, before somebody made a typo.”
Freak considered this. “No shit?”
Snake leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “I shit you not.”
“Man, that’s fucked up.”
“Yep.” Snake’s boot hit the coffee table. White powder flew up into the air. “Dude. You got a dustbuster?”
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
“Hey, Freak, come look at this!” Snake announced from the bathroom.
“Not again. I dunno, man, that’s pretty fucked up,” Freaky John replied.
Snake appeared in the hallway. “Get your ass in here, dipshit, you gotta look at something.”
Freak lit a joint and took a nice deep hit. “Screw you. I’m not fuckin’ looking at your turds.”
Snake grabbed Freak’s arm and hauled him up from the couch. “Dude! It’s different this time. You gotta look at this.”
“Will you leave me the fuck alone? I don’t wanna see!”
“There’s no fuckin’ turds to look at!”
“There better not be. With all the shit and toilet paper and the color of the piss, it looked like fuckin’ won-ton soup that other time,” Freak counseled warningly.
“That was the whole point, stupid. It was like art, almost. But this is different. You’ll see.”
Freak assented dubiously. “All right, let’s get it over with.”
Snake held the bathroom door open and gestured toward the toilet. “See?”
“Hey! You didn’t get any on the floor! Very good.”
“Yeah, that is pretty cool,” Snake agreed, “but just look at it.”
“The toilet?”
“What’s in the toilet, shitbrain.”
“Piss.”
“Yeah. How does it make you feel?”
“Like flushing.”
“No, dude, I mean the color.”
“Yellow?”
“That shade. It’s, like, motherfucking tranquil or something.”
Freak cocked his head to one side and examined the liquid. “Yeah. Yeah, I see what you’re saying, it’s serene as fuck.”
“You said you were gonna paint the fuckin’ kitchen. Dude! What do you think?”
“Unbelievable. You’re right, man. Color’s perfect.”
“Too bad we don’t have one of those cards with paint swatches and shit, right?”
“I got better than that. Hang on.” Freak disappeared into the hallway and returned with a zip-lock baggie. “We’ll take it to Home Depot.”
Snake hesitated. “We’re gonna take a baggie full of piss to Home Depot?”
“They gotta. Their ads say they’ll match any color.”
“Yeah. They probably get this kind of thing all the time. Hey. They sell rolling papers?”
Freak shrugged. “It never hurts to ask.”
Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
“Fuckin’ nose won’t stop running,” Snake lamented.
“So take some Theraflu or shit,” counseled Freaky John. “Shit works great.”
“It’s not a cold, retard, it’s a fuckin’ sinus infection.”
“I thought they were the same thing.”
“Fuck, I gotta see a doctor, dude, this thing is killing me.”
“You got health insurance?”
Snake stroked his goatee. “No. I oughta go down to the VA and get some benefits.”
“What the fuck’s the VA got to do with anything?”
“I’m a goddamn veteran, that’s what. Christ, you’re stupid sometimes.”
Freak nodded sagely. “I didn’t know you served.”
Snake thumped his chest somewhere in the vicinity of his left lung. “With—” He erupted in a sudden fit of coughing. “With pride,” he choked.
“Good for you. When did you serve?”
“Started the same fuckin’ day as you, dipshit. We joined together, remember?”
Freak scrunched his eyebrows in thought. “No, I don’t think I ever enlisted, man.”
“Did too.”
“Unreal. I’m pretty sure I’d remember something like that. What branch?”
Snake smacked himself in the forehead.” You’re like talking to a motherfucking wall. The Army!”
“The Army, huh.” Freaky John laughed. “That’s fucked up, dude. I always thought I was more of a Navy man.”
“Nope. KISS Army, all the way.”
Freaky John stared at the wall for a minute. “I don’t think the KISS Army’s got much in the way of benefits, man.”
Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
22
INSTANT GOD
“Born-againers are exactly the same as mash potatoes,” Snake declared.
Freaky John took a hit off the bong and coughed violently. “Good stuff,” he added, eyes watering. “With or without butter?”
Snake eyed the bong suspiciously. “You’re smokin’ butter, dude?”
“Fuck, no, the potatoes.”
“What potatoes?”
“The ones that are born again.” Freak giggled. “Fuckin’ giant mashed potatoes with crosses on their necks.”
“Potatoes have eyes, not necks,” Snake countered. He took a nice deep hit and held his breath for a minute. “I mean born-again people. All you got to do is get baptized, and you’re saved. Just add water, and bam! Instant God.”
“How do you know? Is that one of those fuckin’ Snapple Facts?”
“No, man, you ever watch that televangel shit on Sunday morning?”
Freak rolled his head back and belched. “Do they have potatoes?”
“No, they only got communion wafers and shit.”
“Oh.” Freak sounded disappointed. “French fries?”
“I said, they only got communion.”
“Baked.”
“Dude, you’re fuckin’ baked, not the potatoes.”
“Unbelievable.” Freak shook his head and poured the crumbs left in the Doritos bag down his throat. “Fuckin’ unreal.”
Snake laughed and took another hit. “I’m glad we can have deep fuckin’ conversations like this.”
Freak smiled benevolently. “It’s cause I’m a student of philosophophy.”
“No, dude, you’re in law school.”
Freaky John grew grave. “Oh, yeah. Unbelievable.”
Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.
Freaky John was rolling a bud when the intercom buzzed. He licked the paper and sealed it before heading over to answer. “Yeah?”
“It’s Margaret. I forgot my keys. Can you buzz me in?”
“Who?”
“Margaret. From next door.”
The toilet flushed and Snake came back to the living room. “Who’s that?”
Freak shrugged. “I don’t know, some fuckin’ crazy woman.”
“I heard that. Snake, it’s me, Margaret. Can you let me in?”
Snake scoffed. “Who the fuck is Margaret?”
“I live in the apartment next door! Come on guys, it’s raining. I don’t have time for games.”
Freak lit up and took a nice deep hit. “Look, I’m not letting you in till I know who you are.”
The intercom was silent for a moment. “It’s raining. I’m wearing a suede jacket and I don’t have an umbrella with me. Will you please just buzz me in?!”
Snake gave the intercom the finger. “This is the sound of me not giving a flying fuck! Now, as it happens, the hot chick who lives next door is a very good friend of mine. I would know her voice anywhere, and you’re not her, so just chill the fuck out and stop ringing our goddamn buzzer!”
The intercom was silent. Snake nodded in satisfaction. “Crazy bitch.”
A crash of glass came from downstairs. Freak opened the door and peered down the stairwell.
His next door neighbor reached through the broken window pane and unlocked the door from the inside.
Freak smiled amiably as she stomped up the stairs. “Oh. I thought your name was Bargaret. Sorry about that.”
Snake concurred. “Who knew?”
She shouldered angrily past Freak and Snake to her own apartment door. Realizing she lacked the key to that, as well, she kicked it furiously.
“Let me help with that.” Snake flicked open a butterfly knife and slid it into the doorjamb, opening it neatly.
Margaret allowed him a grim smile. “Thanks.”
He tossed his hair back modestly. “It’s okay. That’s how we always get in.”
“Uh, I really needed some Windex yesterday,” Freak clarified. “I mean, it was a total fuckin’ emergency.”
“It was complicated,” Snake added.
Margaret slammed the door.
Freaky John blinked. “Do you think she’s angry?”
Snake grinned. “Dude, angry chicks are hot!”
Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.