Her name was Ziva and we were sitting indian-style,

Her name was Ziva and we were sitting indian-style, holding hands under the most gorgeous red sunset I had ever seen when suddenly

a sandstorm arose out of nowhere. Ziva and I rushed to shelter in an abandoned warehouse. We could hear the wind howling outside, but inside we were safe. That was the first night

that I sang counterpoint with someone outside of my immediate family. I felt slightly violated, at least in my throat. I always get embarrassed when

that happens. But now my throat was sore and tender from being violated.

Fortunately, I had a supply of cough drops on my person. They were turkey-flavored and purchased in bulk from the discount store. I can't imagine why they didn't sell well.

I gobbled them down, my neck stretching and chins dangling. I could feel my toe nails scratching at the floor as they fell through my gullet. The coughs disappeared, but not the

the rope that Hanji had thrown up. He called it the Indian Rope trick. It was as stiff as a stallion's dick but it was attached to nothing. Hand over hand I pulled myself up

that equine twine as Hanji blew his snakecharming song on the pungi-- like a Bengali version of White Christmas. Up & up I climbed, away from the ravenous ghouls below, toward an

open destiny that had stripper, two blimpy subs and enough frosting to choke an Ethiopian goat. Time to take it to the streets and see what all the hip kids were so excited about.