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March 15, 2013…Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

The crowd was in awe of its own silence, waiting for Brad…all seven-foot-seven of him…to drop the pin.

“He crossed the road to get to the gun before Dick Cheney did.”

Roars of laughter, wave upon wave, bellowed from the audience of two-thousand.

Brad lifted his hand, making himself even seem taller.  “Folks, going to take a whiz break.  I’ll be back in fifteen!”

They applauded as he walked off the stage and behind the curtain.  The applause quickly turned to an amused buzz as they discussed the hilarity they had all just experienced.

Dwyer was waiting with beer and pre-lit cigarette just on the apron beyond sight of the crowd as Brad strode off.  Without a word, both were handed to Brad.

“Is she here, man?”

Dwyer’s bald head was sweating with the heat cast by the stage lights.  Even back here he could feel it.  With his smile, the wet shine added exponentially to his usual creepy demeanor.  “Lacy is in the house.”

Brad’s eyes lit up like flames of blue.  “Where is she?”

“Green room…and it will be just you and here, at least until the second act.”

At a near dead sprint, Brad was at the green room in seconds without spilling a drop of beer and with the cigarette dangling from his lips.

She was there, just as Dwyer had said.  Lace Willows, interior designer from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan…a place that until yesterday, Brad had believed was fictitious…who had been visiting a friend in Baltimore and won passes to see the show.  Lace was tall at five-foot-nine…though still nearly two heads shorter than Brad.  She wore a long black evening gown…strapless offering ample cleavage, and only a hint of nylon at the ankles.  Her brunette curls were free and over both shoulders.  “Hello,” she said sheepishly.

“Hi,” was all Brad could respond with.  He imagined her with a horse crop in her hand, slapping it in her palm as he pulled down his trousers so she could have her way with him.

She offered a hand.  “I’m Lace.”

He laughed.  “I know.  I’m Brad.”

“Yeah, I figured.”  Her voice was deep, sounding as though she should be a morning FM radio dj.  “So do we fuck now, or after the show?”

The question surprised Brad.  His eyes searched the room quickly for an answer, but found none written on any of the walls.  “Fuck now?”

“I assume that’s why you brought me here.”  Her hand found the zipper on his slacks without warning.

Amazed he did not jump, Brad stood his ground feeling the light grind of the zipper being pulled down.

“Maybe I am just to suck you off, then?”  Her hand slipped into his pants and found his penis already erecting in her honor.  She pulled the rod free from his briefs and hid her disappointment at how soft it still was with a big grin.

“I really didn’t…”

She dropped to her knees.  “I know you didn’t, but I want to go home with a story.”  She took him in her mouth and quickly sucked him to rock hard.

“Oh fuck,” Brad’s voice offered.

Lace stopped.  “Don’t worry, we can do that if you’re quick.”

“Quick?”

“My flight leaves in three hours.  I won’t be here after the show.”

“Fuck.”  He slipped his hands, one under each of her armpits and dragged her to her feet.

“You don’t want me to…”

“Yes, but no.”  He silenced them both with a kiss, and then surprised himself when he swatted away her hand that began stroking his cock.  “I want more from you.”

Her look suggested she was insulted at his swatting.  “What do you want, then?”

The rocking of the bus awoke Brad and his eyes opened just enough to see the sign welcoming his posse to Philadelphia.

Realizing that his mind was imagining the entire show, he quickly spun to see Dwyer playing solitaire on the drop down table across the aisle.  “Dwyer, she’s not coming?”

Dwyer’s green eyes rolled.  “Dude, we’ve been through this.  She was here on vacation and flew home this morning.  Two ships buddy…two fucking ships.”

Brad pulled his long legs up onto the seat beside him as the Greyhound charter bombed towards the Laff House for tonight’s show.  “Fuck, man…”

The city passed, one Brad was familiar with.  He had finished his degree in Philly at Temple University.  He attended at a time when Steve Watson was giving the school a good name catching passes from Craig Morton in Denver.

“Dude,” Dwyer offered.  “You have a week off after tonight.”

It took Brad a moment before he realized what Dwyer was referring to.  “You mean…”

The bald man nodded.  “Go, man.”

“Can you book me a flight to…um…”

“Saskatoon.”

“That place doesn’t exist…seriously?”

“Yes, it does.  Mind’s grandparents are from a place just west of there…think she said Cut Knife.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the irony, I know.”  Dwyer flipped his lap top open and quickly pulled up the flights.  I will get you out of Philly tomorrow morning, and then to San Antonio for the next show on Friday night.”

“What the fuck am I doing, man?”

A chuckle escaped before Dwyer responded.  “Women have a funny hold on us, dude.  Nothing we can fucking do.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Here we go.  Flight leaves tomorrow at 8:10 in the morning for Denver then, low and behold, there are direct flights from Denver to Saskatoon.  Two hour lay over, mind you.  Then Thursday we will have you leaving at about three in the afternoon with another lay over in Denver…dude, it is too bad you don’t have a show in Denver next week…before landing in San Antonio just before midnight so you can rest for Friday’s show.”

Both men locked eyes…

“Dude, really?” Brad asked.

“I’ll book you a show in Denver.”  Dwyer knew what he was thinking.  “Just don’t be in love, idiot.  No one in love is funny.”

Brad rolled his eyes in agreement and swigged the bottle of flat beer that had been in the cup holder beside his seat.  “Dude…Dwyer…in my dream, I was damned funny.”

“So long as it wasn’t all in your mind, we’ll be good.  Now drink up.  You’re not as funny sober.”

Brad took another pull on the bottle.  “Dude?”

“Yes, Brad?”

“Are you sure this ‘Saskatoon’ exists?”

“Yeah, I’m sure…and you’ve just insulted quarter of a million that live there.”

“Oh, good…not that many, then.”

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