Sarge looked like a darker, stockier, older,

Sarge looked like a darker, stockier, older, Korean version of me. His black hair flecked with white and his tan, wrinkled face covered with stubble; Sarge walked with a limp from

an old fishing accident. Some of the village elders had little patience for Sarge. It had been several years since the injury, yet he wandered aimlessly through town,

but since the ocean had dried up he could no longer fish, worse than this, he could no longer perform his party piece of walking upon the water, he was desolate, he though of his

ex wife, inspired by the dried-up desolation. Chuckling to himself, he

leaned back and flexed his tan biceps, he said, "Can you imagine how much heaven I am in? At the gym I am cumming, with a women I cumming, all the time cumming. Fantastic, right?"

"Uh huh," I said as I slid down the bar, desperately looking for an out, "yeah, that's good." Luckily, I saw Stan in a booth towards the back. But as I got up and headed there,

I was intervened by yet another scantily clad wench looking for a ride on my disco stick. Unfortunately, I wasn't in the mood, and I was hoping to get to talk to Stan, so I

made like the paparazzi and followed him. Once he had seen through my poker face, I pursued by dream of writing bad romance novels about a Colombian pool boy named Alejandro.

My pen name, Madame Gauguin, fooled few, but the public is not yet so hungry for pages of poorly written gossip about writers. And the outfits are much more comfortable.