The Even Further Adventures of Dude Totally - Private Guy

I clomped down the narrow stairwell. The railing was like an over-baked breadstick, and about half as sturdy. I wove my way through the corridor like a fat man at the buffet at closing time. Boxes, broken toys and leprosy-ridden, cast-off furniture ganged up on me, daring me to pass. I burst through the front door and into the heavy air of the city night.

I slouched around the corner, and there she sat, waiting for me like a jealous girlfriend. It was my motorcycle. I call her Sally. I might treat my liver like it's my last day on Earth, but, Sally is Daddy's little girl. Rich, buttery leather and enough sparkling chrome that when I ride it through the city, it looks like the Star of Bethlehem making it's way down the street. I kick-started her and wrapped my gloves around her handles. She rumbled and purred as if to say, "I've missed you". I gave her a few quick revs and I could feel her chassis quiver. I gently lifted her kick stand and glided out into the street.

The air was humid and putrid. It felt like I was riding through a giant cube of sweaty, tasteless gelatin and immediately, my armpits went into overdrive. Great, here I am on my way to meet Ms. Molly and I'm going to end up smelling like a beer fart. If it wasn't for the cheap thrills Sally was giving me, I might have turned around and changed clothes, but since I hadn't done laundry in a month, I don't think showing up in sweats and a "Beaver Patrol" t-shirt would have scored me any points.

Not that it mattered. As I turned onto 8th Street, I thought, "Now what is this broad doing with me? How did she find out about me?" And why me? There are a million other gum shoes out there in the big city who would've taken a crack at a dame like this, pocketed the 10 large, and would have held her off with "I'm still working on a few leads." Maybe she thinks I'm a patsy. Yeah, that's her angle. A pro would have sniffed her out while a schlub like me was just trying to get a peek at her bra through the buttons on her blouse.

Who knows? Maybe she was one of those women who read the Penthouse Forum and is into freaky weirdness. Maybe she's one of them there bored, rich broads who wants to bump uglies with a rodeo clown - in full makeup, no less. I came to a red light and pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a dramatic snap of my Zippo, and took hurricane-force drag. Nah, she can't be into that weird stuff. Although, my buddy Slappy once told me he met a woman who made ice cubes out of toilet water and liked having pies thrown in her face during sex. And here I thought I was a big Three Stooges fan.

The Ridgeway was only about 10 more blocks away and I could feel once-proud parts of me begin to shrivel. I had a lump in my throat the size of a baby's head. Sally seemed to guide me in the right direction, reassuring me that everything was going to be all right. Once I hit Ridgeway Drive, I took a left. I could see the diner through the sidewalk steam which slowly unfurled itself like a freshly-woken genie.

I pulled into the parking lot. It was half-empty or half-full, depending on your perspective on life. I slowly guided Sally over the crackling gravel and around the blood-sucking shards of glass. I parked her against the wall, a few feet down from the section where an armada of drunks had obviously been emptying their bladders since the 1940s. I lit another cigarette, because I didn't know what else to do. A few heroic tugs on the cancer stick and my courage came roaring back like a teenager with a big brother. That's when I smelled her. It was unmistakable, like the smell of your grandmother's house. She was close. REAL close, like she'd be watching me all along.

I picked the underwear out of my crack and eased my way towards the door of the diner. I yanked open the door, which gave almost no resistance, and it went crashing against the wall. I stood there in my newly-minted disgrace with the eyes of the haut couture set eyeing me like a dancing epileptic. I swept what was left of my cool into my pockets and jammed my hands in after it. I walked to the counter and ordered a cup of coffee and a Faberge egg salad. The waitress picked at her mole and said, "Honey, if we had Faberge eggs here, I wouldn't have to pick my cigarettes out from the urinals." She was a sweet old broad. Could probably open beer bottles with her eyelids. Then, that smell again, and I hear her voice...

"Mr. Totally, how nice of you to come."

(On the next episode of "DUDE TOTALLY - PRIVATE GUY"):

"I thought I told you to come alone, Mr. Totally"

"I usually do"


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