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Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is too weird for words and 100% purely coincidental.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 1 I stuffed my last cardboard box of personal belongings into the cargo hold of my girlfriend's Toyota Rav4, jumped into the passenger seat, and waited while she fussed over a map with directions to our new home. She flipped her shoulder-length hair out of her eyes for the umpteenth time and squinted to read the tiny letters. " She put the Rav into drive, and we started on our way. Darlene was a smart, feisty, petite brown-haired woman, just under five feet five inches tall, with small breasts, shoulder length hair, and a freckled baby face. I met Darlene at a local tavern where we developed an unlikely May-December relationship.

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Her second expedition of seduction ended in bewildered frustration. I usually have to beat men off with a stick," shaking her head in disgust, she demolished another White Russian. Darlene's rent check went south, along with about 25 or 30 personal checks and ATM transactions; each bad check racked up a $35 bank charge, $25-30 in returned check merchant fees, and her account soon was bleeding red ink by several thousand dollars.

"Maybe you should offer to beat them off with a stick, you know, fifty shades of kinky? The certified letter ordering our eviction was the last straw.

Our bartender presented her with another complimentary White Russian as his sacrifice to the Gods of Wishful Thinking. A few moments later, our generous drink master returned with three tall White Russians. Still waters run deep, and it didn't end well. " "A twofer is the first and last time something happens. Why the fuck would I want to be named after a stagnant pond? Everyone needs a hobby and sex was her diversion from work.

"One is for you and the other two are honor guards for the dead soldiers," he pointed to the two empty glasses. "Okay Dennis, that was a twofer," the book she was reading sailed across the room, missing my head by less than an inch. " Her smile was a weird combo of mischief and annoyance. She collected orgasms like some folks collected postage stamps.

We sat across from each other at the kitchen table as, like an unwanted house guest, a shroud of gloom settled over the room. "Damn, can't believe I forgot 'em," she slapped the palm of her hand on the table and let out a laugh. Darlene's exotic view of life trended toward the spiritual rather than the religious. My friends from college are living in an off the grid cabin in the Rockies.

I braced myself for her answer, "What kind of Hippy Village are we talking about? They owe me some money, maybe we can stay with them." "What's their address?We crisscrossed Denver and the surrounding suburbs chasing every "For Rent" sign we could find. "Well, if you hear anything, please give me a call.Thank you," Darlene frowned as she hung up the phone.Our financial camel lay mortally wounded, it's back Wroke beyond repair.We needed a new place to live, and we needed it fast.According to local legend, the original owner ordered the hook's construction to allow him to observe activities of untrustworthy bartenders behind the bar while also keeping an eye on equally untrustworthy patrons. Hell, she flirted with everyone: Men, women, and even the bartender's mangy tomcat. I pitied the lucky guy who won Darlene's attention.

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