“What’s a four letter word for recreation?” Jalie asked, pen poised above the local newspaper. She was sitting in her backyard, on a pile of plush cushions arranged beside the pool. The backyard looked like a cross between the hanging gardens of Babylon and a frat house. A woman was lying on her stomach on a chaise lounge nearby.

“Fuck.” Said the woman.

“What?”

“A four letter word for recreation. Fuck.”

“Observant, anonymous skank, but that doesn’t fit here. Ah, ‘play’…” Jalie quickly scribbled in the letters. After a moment she lowered the puzzle and turned her attention to the woman beside her who was sunbathing in the nude.

“Who the fuck are you?”

At that moment Hobo Nick stepped out the back door onto the patio. His stringy hair was greased back into a ponytail. He was wearing a silk vest along with loose, flowing black slacks and Gucci loafers. A large camera hung from a strap around his neck. Seth trailed out after him, grinning. Nick raised the camera and snapped a photo of Jalie’s confused expression.

“It’s photography, baby. I’m gonna be a pro. Tiffany here is my first model,” Nick explained. “Say hello, Tiffany!”

The woman sat up on the lounge and waved to the camera. Sunlight was glinting off her oiled skin and things were bouncing merrily. All three of them were momentarily distracted until Nick snapped another picture. Upon closer inspection, the woman looked like a poorly made wax model. Her augmented breasts pointed in opposite directions. She was also cross-eyed, which worsened the effect. She had the pockmarked skin of someone who has had a long relationship with crystal meth. Seth and Jalie grimaced. Nick noticed their disgust and shrugged.

“She’s letting me pay her in IOU’s and a bag of oranges. Don’t judge. Anyway, I thought I’d try my hand at the porn business while I’m still young. I’m starting out slow with some soft-core photo shoots. I’m gonna need your pool for the afternoon.”

“No fucking way is that walking herpes sore getting into my pool.” Seth said flatly.

“Since when do you know anything about the porn business anyway?” Jalie asked.

“I happen to have a very extensive history. Besides, I watch a lot of it. That has to count for something.”

“Being a slut and watching porn doesn’t make you an expert.” Jalie pointed out.

“Tell that to your sister.” Nick shot back.

Seth leapt in front of Nick just in time to catch Jalie before she tackled him. As a result, Seth took a knee to his sensitive areas and went down. While Jalie was helping Seth stand again, Nick ran giggling back into his attached apartment.

“Son-of-a-WHORE!” Seth growled.

Jalie led him to the pile of cushions and helped him sit down. She then turned to Tiffany.

“Hey, you! Picasso’s wet dream! Run along. You smell like tanning oil and shattered dreams. Shoo!”

Tiffany collected her bikini and scattered. Jalie turned back to Seth, who was cupping himself and seemed to be in a foul mood. Jalie dug into an ice chest placed nearby and brought out two bottles of Molson Canadian. She popped the cap off each with her teeth and handed one to Seth. He took it, and set it gingerly between his legs.

“I should have let you kill him.” He muttered.

“Nah. I would have regretted it eventually. Probably.”

“I’m regretting it right now.” Seth noted.

“You’ll live. You need to remember to be on your toes. If you’re getting back into the ring, you have to quicken your reflexes again.”

As if to prove her point, Jalie threw a bottle cap at him. He was still staring blankly at her when it smacked him in the center of his forehead.

“All right, I get your point.” He said, picking up the cap and twirling it in his fingers. “What about you? You’re back in the ring sooner than I am. How are your reflexes, sensei?”

He flicked the cap at her but it flew left into the pool. Seth frowned at it while Jalie snickered. She was still giggling when a large rock struck her in the side of the head. She dropped to the side, staring upward and blinking. Nick stepped from the shadows of the patio, brushing off his hands.

“Her reflexes aren’t that good.”

On a lazy spring afternoon Jalie was sitting outside of a Circle K market, watching a family of four unload from their mini-van. The husband was walking the family dog: a medium sized mutt that looked far overdue for a bath. Sitting beside Jalie on the curb was her brother, Jay. His two year old son was attached by a nylon leash to the bike rack beside them. Jay had given him a package of twinkies to keep him occupied. Jalie held a newspaper and was studying the crossword once more.

“Seven letter word meaning ‘hermano’.” Jalie said, glancing at her brother.

Jay shrugged.

Jalie rolled her eyes and penciled in the word ‘pendejo’. The family dog had wandered to a flat expanse of dirt beside the store. It stumbled before lifting its leg to take a leak. It finished and stepped in the puddle, then promptly retched up an impressive ball of hair. As the family climbed back into the van, the mother was struggling to shove the dog off her leg. Jalie watched them with one eyebrow raised as they drove off.

“That dog reminds me of someone.”

It’s come to my attention that I’m a little bit rusty. A couple years ago, I was expecting violence everywhere I turned. I rarely let my guard down. I’ve become a little bit complacent. Comfortable, even. I’m still perfectly capable of my own violent ends, but as far as being on the receiving end, I’m a little slow on the uptake. I got lazy and now my distractions are outweighing any sense of self preservation I used to have. Still, I have a feeling I’ll get by provided nobody brings any ponies, rainbows, or Vincent Price look-a-likes ringside.

It has also come to my attention that Sara Pettis would make a fortune if she would release a sex tape. I’d buy it. So would King and Barnes, I’m sure. In fact, ninety percent of all RWA employees and viewers would buy it. We could use an Elvis impersonator for an actor. Film it on the beach and call it “Blue Hawaii: Kumonyawannalayme”. If you have any sense of pride at all, Sara, do this. Do this for RWA.

I said before that I have no real knowledge of Nigella Helms-King. That’s still true. I did, however, once know an Englishman named Nigel who worked as a bellboy at a hotel in Liverpool. I made him recite the entire film “Yellow Submarine” or forfeit his tip. His tip was forfeit anyway when he told me he was actually a Swede.

As for Andrew Barnes, well… Some might say he’s a little bit delusional. Then again, people have said that about me more times than I can count. I think maybe Barnes is attempting to use his masculine wiles to distract me from a victory. Personally, I think he’s rather adorable. He reminds me of a stray dog. It’s dirty, it doesn’t know any tricks and it’s nowhere near housebroken… But it has its own charm once you get past the smell and its attempts to hump your leg. I’d share my beer with that dog. I’d feed it and water it and let it sleep on the couch. I forgot what I was talking about. I think I want a dog.