Chapter One

Chapter One:

Concussions: 0

Penalties in Minutes: 0

               

                Zigmund Marchand, or Ziggy as his friends would call him, played hockey as a child with the inhabitants of Dogtown in the greater St. Louis area where he broke the noses of boys his age. When the winter was frosty and cold his friends would freeze a layer of ice across a parking lot. Some of the boys didn't own skates, such as Ziggy, and had to find different ways to help contribute. One boy, Gary Javaux, who owned a pair of skates and stood four inches taller than Ziggy--about a foot or so after he had his skates on--elected to use his size and skill to intimidate the other boys in the parking lot. For children of weaker fortitude, such as a Clark Nilan, Bob Smiley, Dalton Ebershol, and a Tyler Maevers, this tactic work. But not on Zigmund Marchand who, with his nappy mess of black hair, would shout insults at Gary throughout the game.

                The time would come of course when both boys would settle their differences on the ice in the same tradition that all hockey players do. Gary never feared small little Ziggy. He stood taller and wider, could skate better, and was older by a few months--not much, but a kid takes anything in stride. Ziggy came from a poor family, whereas Gary's father supervised a packing company and his mom an RN down at Barnes Jewish Hospital. When December's chill bit the ground and the splashing water from the Motorcycle Shop's water hose collided, it was, as Clark Nilan would say, a battle between two classes.

                Good versus evil, twerp versus bully, poor versus rich, and small versus tall. If the inclusion of profanities and sexual advances toward the other's mother was omitted, then this bout could easily have fallen under the Biblical David and Goliath tale. The neighborhood kids saw it as such. They would crowd around the parking lot and watch the game, waiting for someone to stand up to big bad Gary Javaux.

                Gary Javaux was a fan of cross checking his smaller counterparts, in part because there was no officiating or penalty box. No one would dare call a penalty on Gary, in fear of testicle swatting from his stick or an errant elbow. When Gary edged close to a player attempting to dig the puck out from the tire of a sedan, he would raise his stick to his chest as if doing a bench press. He would normally stop if there was a car ahead of him, while Gary never feared his fellow classmates and neighborhood kids, he feared the bruising from his father. Once behind his opponent, Gary would drive his stick in the back of them shoving them into the icy pavement or into the door of the car.

                He applied the same maneuver to Ziggy one day when the puck became wedged between a pickup truck's back tire and the curb. Ziggy knew he didn't have to see Gary to know what was coming. When Gary knocked him to the ice, Ziggy's mouth collided with the curb. The collision smashed his lip open and knocked two teeth loose in the process. Gary didn't stop playing the puck as well, he mocked Ziggy as he slid his stick under him trying to free the puck from the curb and tire.

                The smaller Ziggy knew that if he were to beat up Gary, he would have to get in close to him so his long reach couldn't keep him at bay. He also knew that Gary was on skates and could topple over easier than himself.

                With each drop of blood and each whack of the stick, Zigmund Marchand thought of why no one would stick up to this a*****e. If anything he felt like a beaten prisoner more than a beaten player.

                When Ziggy stood up he did more than just shove Gary Javaux. He flew from his crouch and wrapped his left hand around his sweater. Gary dropped his stick and tried to push Ziggy away, but Ziggy had moved in too close to do so. Ziggy's right hand, as future players would come to know it personally, came around the corner of Gary's face like a drunk driver. Three quick smashes, motivated by rage, and Gary Javaux's knees began to wobble. He tried to hit Ziggy back, but after the second punch broke his nose and tears formed in his eyes, he wasn't quite sure where Ziggy was.

                Ziggy reached over Gary's head and grabbed the back of his shoulder pads and began to yank the taller boy down. Gary fell to his knees with his head facing the blood matted ice. Ziggy threw four uppercuts that slammed into Gary's nose and brow, opening him up like a Christmas present.

                Clark Nilan and Bob Smiley cheered from the opposite end of the ice, Dalton Ebershol and Tyler Maevers rushed to where they could get a better view. The other players and spectators moved like a herd of cattle to where the scrap was taking place. They cheered with each punch that Ziggy landed with some boys hugging each other knowing that the tyrants reign of terror was coming to an end.

                The fight ended when a passing patrolman saw the scrap and tried to pull into the parking lot. However he did not know that the boys there had iced it over. His patrol car lost stumbled on the ice like a baby horse when it's first born. It glances a stack of motorcycles, toppling them over like dominoes, before slamming into the side of a rusty red mustang.

                The patrolman, along with the angry shop owner and two customers, rushed toward the melee. The officer scooped Ziggy up in his arm, but sprained his ankle on the ice. He braced himself with the other arm against the truck, almost losing control of the flaying Ziggy. The shop owner grabbed Gary Javaux and leaned him back as if to show the rest of the gathering crowd the damage that Ziggy did. A few children shrieked, while others stared with wide eyes and mouths agape. Gary's face was rearranged like a Picasso painting, but doused with a can of red paint. He whimpered as he cupped his beaten face in his hands.

                Ziggy's first hockey fight would result in many things to follow.

                It was then that the kids in the neighborhood of Dogtown--named after families of Filipino descent began eating random stray dogs--noticed that the little black haired kid that they called Ziggy or Zig-Zag, was more than just skin and bones. Clark Nilan would always do Ziggy's math homework in school, all the way up to the end of their junior year. It stopped after Clark was killed in a drunk driving accident, however Ziggy did more than yawn when Clark was around doing his Calculus and Algebra. Bob Smiley wrote his term papers, Dalton Ebershol gave him rides to school when he became the first teen to own a car. Tyler Maevers would always buy Zigmund lunch when the boys would go out after school.

                But the biggest contribution after the fight, was roughly a few days after when Ziggy's parents received a phone call from Niles Javaux. When Jennie Marchand answered the phone and heard who was on the other line, her heart sank like a torpedoed cruiser. Her fear was that Niles, with his money, power, and education, would file suit for damages Ziggy did to his son. Ziggy still hadn't received proper medical attention for his wounds, and she--along with her drunken husband Vernon--was doing everything to scrape together money to fix her son. What she found was anything but that. Despite Gary Javaux being a rich and spoiled b*****d, his father was old school in terms of fighting. When young Ziggy met him finally, he found the father of his nemesis possessing callused palms and fingers, like sandpaper rubbing against his young skin.

                After the phone call Jennie Marchand rushed to the living room where she picked Ziggy up and told him the good news. Niles Javaux would pay for Ziggy's health bill. The following week Ziggy's teeth were held together by braces--a miracle, as his mother would explain, otherwise he wouldn't have kept them--his lip and gums stitched up. His father would joke and rub the top of his head and tell him he looked like Bob Gassoff. As he grew older his comparisons would bounce between Kelly Chase, Todd Ewen, and Basil McRae.

                Another contribution that came from the melee was Niles Javaux's admiration for Ziggy beating the hell out of his son. Though he loved Gary as any father does, he knew his son was anything but an altar boy. When Ziggy went to college he often thought that Niles and his father were switched around at some point. Niles, in Ziggy's mind, should have been his father.

                Niles Javaux first contribution was creating a spot for Ziggy on his pee-wee hockey team. Despite protesting from his son, the forty-two year old supervisor ensured that Ziggy had a pair of skates, padding, and a helmet by the first practice. All expenses charged to him, of course. Ziggy's parents, who often neglected to acknowledge their son, fought most nights than not. Niles, knowing Ziggy's family background, would often take him to the local ice rink where he would teach him to skate and shoot.

                In twenty years Niles contribution to hone the skills of Zigmund Marchand were both a win and a loss. Ziggy was a goal scorer throughout his younger years until he graduated high school. However in his later role he became a goon. The one skill Niles Javaux never taught him was how to fight, but then again he was sure that Ziggy already knew how to do that.

                The second contribution came with the money and power of being a Javaux. The routine walk to school for Ziggy was quickly turned into a carpool, driven by Niles of course. What Ziggy remembered years later was that Niles always had Gary sit in the back, giving Zigmund the front passenger seat. With every ride Ziggy wondered when the day would come when he'd be sitting in the backseat. He also wondered when Gary would jump him. He could tell that Gary was slowly boiling over with every question his father asked Ziggy. It appeared that Niles was more interested in Zigmund than his own son.

                The final contribution came with the choice of college. The packing company Niles ran donated $2,000 dollars a year to a college student of their choice. Over five hundred high school seniors from ten different public schools--and one private Catholic school--applied but Ziggy's name was never found. Niles's own son applied, but was overlook for a number of reasons. During a basketball game Niles confronted Ziggy and told him if he applied he would be considered strongly for the scholarship. Ziggy followed suit, applied, and was awarded his money. Gary loathed the idea.

                He loathed it even more when he found out that Ziggy was attending the same college as he, and that the reason being was his father's influence. Niles sat his son down the night before prom and explained to him that Gary needed good company in his life. Of all the friends Gary had Ziggy was the best form of good company. Gary explained that he hated Ziggy, but Niles laughed it off and patted his son on the back.

                Ziggy Marchand would not be fighting his way through a semi-pro college team, eyeing a potential minor league contract, without the help of the Javaux's. The day he stood up and broke Gary's face was the moment he knew he could fight with bigger and meaner opponents. When Niles taught him how to play hockey free of charge, and encouraged him to play high school and circuit teams. Ziggy's fists and pockets were lined with the bills and blood from the Javaux family.

* * *

                "I've never been one for judo." Zigmund Marchand said to Tyler Maevers outside the English building. Ziggy's only friend to follow him to college, Tyler had quit hockey and approached life with a more ambitious lifestyle.

                "I was never one for judo at one time too, Zig." Tyler said. Ziggy grew six inches in high school and gained fifty pounds by the time he graduated. Tyler still looked up to him even at five ten.

                "Now I know you're bullshitting me," Ziggy says, "Come on Ty, I'm not agile like you."

                "You play hockey, right?"

                "Yeah."

                "Seems pretty f****n' graceful to me."

                "What makes you say that?"

                "Ballerinas, man, ballerinas."

                Ziggy and Tyler lived on opposite ends of Southern Missouri University, however they always walked a predestined path to the food court after each writing composition class. Fall classes were halfway through and the incoming Missouri winter began sharpening its teeth, it's frosty breath nipping at the necks of young men and women. Ziggy's wide frame stretched the cotton in his windbreaker, even though four months and fifty pounds ago it fit him like a glove.

                "How's that hockey club you signed up for anyway?" Tyler asks.

                "Pretty good. I'm not a playmaker that's foresure," he laughs as they climb a rolling him past a campus officer writing parking tickets, "But I'll get to fight."

                "I thought fighting was barred at college."

                "That's NCAA rules, but we're a club. Each club is in a different regional division who sets the rules."

                "So what happens if you fight?"

                "I'm not sure yet, first game is in two weeks. I went over it with our coach, he said they may toss you out if you instigate it."

                Tyler's bowl of brown hair gets caught on a frozen line of wind. He flicks his head to keep it out of his eyes. Ziggy eyes the food court up ahead.

                "So let me get this straight, you're going to be the goon on the team?" Tyler says.

                "I guess you can call it that."

                "No man, that's what it is," he laughs, "Zigmund Marchand's going to be doing what he was born to do."

                Ziggy Marchand laughed at the thought as well, but didn't know if Tyler supported or opposed the idea. The idea of collegiate hockey clubs fighting the other presented an obstacle that Ziggy was sure he would come to face sometime. Southern Missouri possessed no NCAA hockey team, along with its sister Southeast Missouri State University. Both colleges, however, had installed ice rinks--that at first were used for roller-blading rather than ice skating--that left many students shaking their heads. If there was a consensus taken at Southern Missouri, it would show that a majority of its students came from St. Louis and neighboring counties. Territory from the Meremac to the Missouri River and beyond was Blues territory.

                The rink was installed a year before Ziggy arrived at Southern Missouri, his thoughts being that the St. Louis influence had finally taken its toll on the Dean and the Athletic Director. Yet no prayers were answered, and the two sides came in the middle. Ziggy remembered reading that the college could provide enough funds for a hockey team, considering equipment and seating, but most importantly  insurance. Then again it wasn't all true. Southern Missouri could support a hockey team, and perhaps in a few years join Division I hockey, however they would have to cut funds from the football team, and that was not about to happen.

                The compromise meant that Southern Missouri possessed an ice rink that they maintained at an optimal level. The rink was smooth almost every night and cleared of trash, there was a long stretch of bleachers on one side. Two locker rooms sat at the other end, as well as a hallway that lead to the north recreation center. Bathrooms were surprisingly free of graffiti, though there was the occasional undesirable who drew a flotilla of penises in the handicap stall. The necessities were there, and it was up to the students to form a hockey club.

                The decision was almost immediate. Two weeks after the ice rink opened--possessing the befitting name of "Southern Missouri North Rec Ice Rink"--a group of St. Louisans--along with two Russians and a Czech--got together to form the Southern Missouri Falcons. During the second meeting the group decided that falcon was too gay of a name for their hockey team, and instead chose the bears. The third meeting concluded that bears was too widely used, and, finally, chose the name Butlers. The name coming after the county that Southern Missouri played in. In the closing weeks of the semester the Butlers never played a game, but instead constructed the groundwork for their team.

                They advertised across the city of McCutcheon, Missouri. In every Mexican or Grecian restaurant, there was a poster of the Southern Missouri Butler's and their mission. Throughout most of the Rhodes 101 gas stops there was a list of contacts for those interested as well as the notice of a $150 fee to play. In the local Aldi's and Goodwill customers would stumble upon a poster of men sitting in the middle of an ice rink wearing only tight compression shirts--there was not an official team jersey until the following school year--baggy gym shorts, high white socks, and hockey blades of various colors. Most people who saw the poster thought of the Southern Missouri Butlers as a homosexual figure skating dance troupe, or a musical band that somehow performed their songs on ice. The Mexican waiters at the four restaurants in McCutcheon, would draw mustaches and sombreros on the boys. They would cross out Butler and replace it with Gringos, and under their breath and in the kitchen they would call them "pinche pendejos."

                The clerk at one of the Rhodes stuck some of the posters in the bathroom, only to find later that someone had used it to wipe their a*s with it--the thick paper clogged the toilet. One of the clerks at Goodwill used them to blow her nose. A secretary at the campus clinic used a poster to soak up Sprite that she spilled. A homeless man used a set as bedding, a fraternity member as tissues for after sex messes. The posters found more meaning as tissues and toiletries rather than as guides for information.

                However the advertising campaign had success when the semester ended and fall strolled around. It caught the eye of Ziggy at the local shopping center. And even now he still sees the old and new posters posted around the library and in the hallways of the English building.

                Ziggy and Tyler ate at the food court where Ziggy saw two more posters of the Hockey Club. When they left they headed down Somersett Boulevard to Andy's Bookstore. He saw two more posters there, as well as one for Southern Missouri's judo club.

                "You guys are not as zealous when it comes to advertising." Ziggy said.

                "We don't need a lot of guys to compete with the other colleges," Tyler says, "We just like having people around to wrestle."

                Ziggy peered at the lemon colored Southern Missouri Judo Club poster that had five young men in bright white gi's, wearing shaded belts. Under the picture said: What Can Judo Do For You? Find Out!

                "What can judo do for me?" Ziggy said as if to think aloud.

                "What do you mean?"

                "My bad, just reading your poster." Tyler peers over Ziggy's shoulder and grins.

                "The answer is obvious, Ziggy!"

                "What do you mean?"

                "Think about it," Tyler places his backpack on the ground beside a stack of Janet Evanovich novels. "Grab my arm."

                "What the hell are you doing?"

                "Do it! Like in a hockey fight, grab my arm!" Ziggy goes along and reaches for Tyler's arms. Tyler swats his hands away and grabs Ziggy around the collar.

                "What the f**k man?" Ziggy says.

                "Judo, Ziggy. It's about controlling your opponent's momentum and weight." Tyler lets go of Ziggy's collar.

                "I guess you are right, I guess." The thought of wearing a gi and wrestling men barefoot on a mat disturbed Ziggy. He couldn't see himself wrapping his legs around an opponent's arm and wrenching them into submission. What problems he faced with people he could settle with his fists. But he knew that Tyler was right, and that wrestling a person's arms could give him the advantage in a tilt. While judo is done on a mat in a gym, and hockey is on ice in a rink, Ziggy saw the power it could unleash.

                "Try it, Ziggy. We practice tomorrow night at seven at the north rec."

* * *

                Judo is Japanese for the "gentle way", and was founded in 1882 by Jigoro Kano. Hockey has a longer history, dating back to the 1300s where it was IJscolf to the Dutch. However modern ice hockey's roots came from the 19th century Canada where Canadian troops would slap a wooden ball around a frozen lake. Perhaps that is the one thing that ice hockey and judo may share in common, is a birthday, but in philosophies they differ greatly. Judo is not about blocking one's punch but instead using it against them. No one could tell a hockey enforcer that, who use their face as a punching bag.

                The large divide between hockey and judo made Ziggy more remote to it. The graceful technique of throwing and subduing an opponent on the mat. Getting up and bowing to them and showing them honor was something he could not grasp. However it reminded him of his differences with his family more than anything.

                The graceful calm of Jennie, the bloodlust of Vernon. The way Jennie would take a punch from Vernon and roll with it. Judo was Jennie. Hockey was Vernon. Ziggy would rarely call them mom or dad but instead by their first names. He thought mothers and fathers should never fight.

                Thirty years ago Jennie Marston and Vernon Marchand met under the bleachers at a high school football game. It was during the second quarter when Jennie felt the prickly crawling of a yellow jacket on her smooth white calf. She swatted at it, but in the process her glasses fell from her face between the crook of the bleachers. She mumbled minor swears under breath, nothing loud. She was in fact the goody two shoe of Forrest High. She was a devout Catholic and a member of the rosary club. In her spare time she wrote poems about living in Montana or Wyoming. As Jennie climbed down the bleachers she stumbled over a small child who didn't notice her climbing down. When she leaned forward she kicked her leg up to try and balance her, giving everyone from the third row up a glorious view of her panties. The parents and students there thought that for a good natured choir girl, she possessed long legs and a nice robust rump.

                Jennie, embarrassed, scampered down to the foot of the bleachers and ducked underneath to retrieve her glasses. She thought she was in a horror movie at first, waiting for the bleachers to crash down and squish her. She thought they would fold back and eat her with their metallic teeth.

                But she caught a glimpse of a faint orange glow. It went out and came back again.

                "Hello?" Jennie strained her eyes, but anything beyond five feet was like a myriad of blurry fighting images. She saw the glow again and was hit with a strong and pungent scent.

                "Oh s**t," the person murmurred. "Um, you won't tell anyone, will you?"

                "I'm just looking for my glasses." Jennie said. The man, Vernon Marchand, smothered his roach on his palm and placed it back in the side of his letterman jacket. He knelt to the ground and retrieved her glasses and handed them to Jennie. When she put on her glasses she saw a wide face with curly brown hair that made Jennie think of the slinky collection her mother had. She giggled.

                "Your hair looks like a bunch of slinky's." She said, Vernon laughed.

                In the five minutes that transpired, Vernon Marchand would say three things to Jennie Marston the choir girl. He would say that she was welcome, that her brunette hair reminded him of the leaves in the fall--Jennie blushed, thinking that a young man like Vernon could be a poet--and that he thought her panties looked great. Both of them, judo and hockey, were different people but somehow attracted to each other like the opposite ends of a magnet.

                Jennie met Vernon again in front of the liquor store, back when they sold milkshakes and malts. Vernon stood with his friends smoking pot when he called her over. His friends laughed and called her the Panty Girl, Jennie blushed of course. She felt drawn to Vernon when he she knew he was everything her mother would disapprove of. He smelled of drugs and a can of beer. If she could she would open his files from school and see that he made D's and C's and had no interest of attending Washington University or SLU. But Vernon was brawny and strong. He had curly slinky hair, and had to have read Emerson, or so Jennie thought. As girl's tend to be, she wanted someone who could protect her. In psychology it's the 3 P's, protect, provide, and procreate. Vernon Marchand didn't have to become a physician to provide.

                Jennie's infatuation and Vernon's admiration of her a*s lead to the two dating for a few months. During prom Vernon wore a white tuxedo--complete with bellbottom pants--with white suede shoes. Jennie wore a white dress, though her mother knew she was not pure anymore. During the slow dance Vernon fumbled in his pocket for a little black box and proposed to Jennie on the high school gymnasium. Jennie said yes, perhaps convinced that if Vernon could buy a ring he could provide a family. Vernon had pushed pot for a few weeks and saved up.

                Jennie believed that she could change Vernon from his addictions in spite of their premarital fetishes. She read of Christian women roaming the states, sleeping with anyone who'd take them in just so they could spread the Gospel of Christ. Though she was taken for one man, she felt that her love for Vernon would win him over to the Truth in the end.

                And Jennie tried with great fervor to turn Vernon over to the Lord. When Reagan was tearing down walls, Jennie was praying for an answer to her husband's behavior. The Lord spoke to her and told her to have a child. She believed it would be a miracle since Vernon worked as an iron-worker at the time. There was a nasty medical rumor going around that iron-working men could not reproduce because of the flashing sparks and scolding heat they endured at work. While Vernon worked Jennie thought of ways that would be comfortable for him, though every position was fine. The thought of one wrong turn or flinch could mean no baby terrified Jennie.

                The sexual fever of Vernon Marchand, the gentle way of Jennie Marston Marchand lead to the conception of Zigmund David Marchand. During the session Jennie made Vernon practice missionary the entire time. The exact opposite worked in this case, most couples change positions every few minutes--as a way of postponing ejaculation in males. However it took Vernon forty five minutes to climax--Jennie would monitor his speed and told him no more than one thrust per two seconds. When Vernon had finished he rolled over and said, "What the hell was that? That was terrible." Jennie smiled. The pleasure didn't matter so much as the warm seed inside of her, now if the Lord was willing they would have a child.

                When Ziggy was born he was raised by the two differing sides of his parents. When his father was laid off from the union, he drank more and grew violent. His mother would never get a job, but instead believed her role was to be at home with their son. Vernon called her lazy and worthless.

                Ziggy was five years old when he saw Vernon hit Jennie for the first time. It was a smack, open palm, that snapped her head back like a trebuchet. He never remembered what the fight was about--something about groceries--but Vernon gave no warning of his strike. He didn't raise his voice, he didn't even swear. He hit Jennie while she was talking and then stormed away.

                It appeared that though Ziggy was a miracle, it was a costly one at that. The Marchand's had a healthy boy in their home, but they couldn't find work and had to scrape by on what they got. The lack of a son would have helped their home, it may have ended Vernon's mean streak. But Jennie would have been left unhappy, she needed Ziggy to keep going with this marriage. A wedge formed between his parents and then between him. Ziggy was alienated.

                Around the time Zigmund was beating Gary Javaux to a pulp, there was a knock at the door of the Marchand residence. When the visitor left Jennie cried in the bedroom until Vernon came home from the bar. He was drunk, and beat her for the first time--in the past he hit her once. Vernon acted out of something larger than a burnt dinner or nagging. When he finished he forced her onto the bed and raped her. Ziggy tried calling around this time, but no one answered the phone.

                Ziggy waited at the police station for four hours before someone came to get him. Though he didn't know it at the time it was Niles Javaux. Niles took him home to his weeping mother who told Ziggy she had fallen down the stairs. Ziggy didn't see his father in sight, and didn't believe his mother. When high school came around Ziggy did everything he could to distance himself from his parents. He played hockey, he scored goals, he went out to eat, he worked a part-time job at a lumber-yard. He jogged, he did homework with Clark Nilan and Bob Smiley, he drank booze, he dated cheerleaders and presidents of the pep and art club. He did everything he could to blind himself from his parents abuse and hate for the other.

* * *

                Ziggy sat on his dorm bed kicking his feet together. He wore his boxers and a white t-shirt. Beside him was his lady friend Rachael Nix. Ziggy called her a lady friend rather than a girlfriend. He thought that there was no commitment in a lady friend, and that a lady friend was someone to screw and eat dinner with. Neither was paranoid of the other, in fact they were comfortable in the sex between classes.

                Rachael had a mole on the arm the size of a dime. Ziggy kissed it. She smiled and opened her eyes.

                "I'm going to judo tonight." Ziggy said rather embarrassed.

                "I'm a little concerned."

                "Why's that?"

                "You'll be rolling on the ground with hot and sweaty guys." She grinned.

                "I suppose you're right. I guess after tonight I won't have much need for you." Rachael slaps his arm and laughs.

                "You a*****e."

                "You b***h."

                "What time will you be done."

                "I never asked," Ziggy said, "But I'd guess around eight thirty."

                "I have a sorority meeting that ends at nine. I've got no homework. I could come over and f**k your brains out if you want?"

                "I would like to watch a movie first." Ziggy said.

                "I'll bring one." She sits up and searches the bed for her bra. Ziggy hands it to her and fondles her perky small breasts before she straps it together.

                "Must be fun having no roommate." She says.

                "A private dorm is rather tight."

           "Tell me about it, listen my mom brought down cupcakes last weekend, want me to bring them over tonight?"

                "I suppose."

                "You suppose?"

                "Depends how I feel."

                "They're vanilla." She strokes his thigh and teases him.

                "Vanilla's my favorite."

                "Damn right it is," Rachael puts on her sorority t-shirt and slips back into her denim capri's. "Is my hair alright?"

                "Just after sex hair. I think it looks well on you." She flips him off and says goodbye. Ziggy rubs his green eyes and wonders what kind of outfit should he wear to judo.