All of the creativity just drained out of

All of the creativity just drained out of my head. Like it had been sucked out with a Kirby vacuum cleaner by a salesman who wasn't going to leave the house until he'd sold that

over-priced suck monster. I tried to put down something witty, or interesting, or compelling, but it was gone. My muse had left with a quarter million and my daughter. Creativity

was not my strong suit. What I was good at was the "non-committal response." In many stressful situations where I was called on to say or do something, I had merely said, "Hmmm."

So when Regis told me I was out of lifelines, I decided to make a stab. "Thirty one!" I cried. Unfortunately the answer was Chaucer. So I kicked him in the groin and stole the mic.

I then sprinted with all of my might to the back door, but to my demise there were security guards standing there ready to fight. To get myself in the zone I pretended that I was

a friend. After all, my mom always said. "Back door friends are best." I'm not sure she was aware of the dual meaning of that saying; I was hoping they wouldn't either. So I

made sure to keep myself facing them at all times, revolver still under the table, close to my right hand. I blushed, however,

when my left hand grazed her bare leg. Man that skirt was short. It's a good thing there was a tablecloth because you don't want certain things to be seen. I quickly

withdrew my hand and unzipped. The breeze helped me cool things off a bit. Man I waa glad the tablecoth was long enough so that noone could see when I plucked