A conversation that Bobby and I overheard at a local bar.

Frat Bro #1: “Who’s this Doris cunt anyway?”

Frat Bro #2: “Just some chick I’m nailing.”

Frat Bro #1: “Is she hot?”

Frat Bro #2: “I dunno. She’s alright, I guess. But she’s got great tits.”

Frat Bro #1: “So she’s a dog that’s stacked, huh?”

Frat Bro #2: “Whatever, I’m just fucking her, dude. It’s not like I’m gonna marry her or anything. The only time I ever even see her is when I need a booty call.”

Frat Bro #1: “Yeah, I hear what you’re saying, man. I got me like five or six bitches like that.”

Frat Bro #2: “The best part is that she actually thinks we’re a couple. So she’s always spending money on me and shit. She even does my homework for me.”

Frat Bro #1: “Whoa, man! Check out the hottie that just walked in with the butch-dyke-feminazi.”

Frat Bro #2: “Wow, I’d hit that shit in a second, dude.”

Frat Bro #1: “Seriously. So let’s make our move already.”

Frat Bro #2: “Okay, but who gets that shit?”

Frat Bro #1: “We both do!”

Bobby and I spent the previous weekend hanging out with his grandmother and, as always, Wingy totally inspired us to fight the good fight. So, after listening to these misogynistic assholes, we pounced into action like a pair of revolutionary superheroes.

Bobby stealthily pissed into a cup. Then, while the frat bros were stalking their prey, he slipped over to their table and filled their glasses up with his urine. Meanwhile, I snuck up behind the frat bros while they were spouting their bullshit pick-up lines to the two females (I had to do something, after all, one of them was my drummer’s ladyfriend {though, I didn’t really know who the other one was}). Winking at Nike (who was visibly annoyed at having to endure the frat bro’s verbal assault), I pretended to accidentally bump into the two douchebags. When they turned around and scowled at me, I mumbled: “Sorry, assholes.”

Picking up on my cue, Nike and her friend placed their respective feet squarely in the scrotum region of the distracted dickheads like they were punting footballs for the mighty Buckeyes. I kept walking. Walking and smiling. Nike and her friend gave each other a high-five, flicked off the squealing pigs, calmly stood, and marched out of the bar.

When the frat bros finally composed themselves enough to return to their table, they were relieved to discover that they still had some beer left. After chugging the piss, one of them declared: “Let’s get the fuck out of this dyke bar and go back to the house where we can do some serious drinking.”

Bobby and I were, of course, laughing our asses off. Woo-fucking-hoo, another victory for the good guys!

Flashback #2: I’m driving aimlessly around the greater Columbus area. I tend to do this a lot lately since I constantly feel claustrophobic in my shitty little apartment. To escape, I drive in circles and chain-smoke cigarettes.

Somehow, I ended up on some back-ass US highway in some fucked-up part of Ohio. The sky is dark as shit, but filled with twinkling stars. I can easily make out the Big Dipper and Orion’s belt (at least I could an hour ago when I stopped at that red light {I had an overwhelming urge to run it since there wasn’t a soul around and it seemed to last forever, but for some strange reason I just waited patiently until it turned green}).

I keep hallucinating streaks of blue. Everywhere I look, it’s blue. In the middle of the illuminated sky. Engulfing the road ahead of me. Under the other vehicles I (infrequently) pass. In my own car as I flip through the radio stations looking for a good song (have you ever noticed that when you really need to hear a killer tune on the radio, you can never find one to save your fucking life? {for further information on the lameness of the airwaves, please listen to the Depressed Idealists “Radio Free Radio.”})

These hallucinations scare the shit out of me because I’m already sorta petrified that I’m going insane or something, not to mention the distinct possibility that I might freak out and crash the car. I probably shouldn’t drive. But that leaves me no refuge from my shithole of an apartment and that horrible sinking feeling that I’m trapped.

Nike was spiritually exhausted. Somehow, she was managing to cope with her mother’s passing (human beings have an uncanny ability to endure practically anything {I just wish we didn’t have to}). She was simply trying to take it one day at a time. Although she still cried herself to sleep every night, the nightmares had mostly stopped.

She’d just finished taking a make-up midterm (all of her Profs, except one Psychology asshole, had exempted her from midterms because of her mother’s untimely death), which she’d bombed. She figured that it wasn’t too big of a deal since she could always drop the class. Nevertheless, this realization totally bummed her out since it was the kind of choice about her academic future that she’d usually make after discussing the situation with her mother. Now, she was left all alone to make life’s difficult decisions.

Feeling lonely, she was walking slowly down the hallway of her dorm. She almost burst into tears when she reached the door to her room and jiggled her key in the sticky lock that always took a minute to open.

Today, however, it popped open on the first try and the radiance of the room appeared to Nike’s tired eyes the same way the sun must’ve appeared to that poor little girl stuck in the well in Texas when she was finally rescued. The room was covered from the floor to the ceiling with flowers. The centerpiece of the massive arrangement declared “I ♥ You” in giant white lettering, which contrasted beautifully with the dark red hue of the hundreds of roses.

It was a magnificent sight that magically changed Nike’s tears of sorrow into tears of joy. Never before had anyone (besides her beloved mommy) done such a remarkable act of kindness for her at the exact moment when she really needed one. Though, Nike had no fucking clue as to who could’ve possibly performed such a beautiful gesture. Her father was way too busy going nuts to even notice her at the funeral so she quickly ruled him out as a suspect. As she continued to ponder this vexing question, a young man in a three-piece suit tiptoed quietly into her room cradling a boom box.

“So I’ve been e-mailing people all over the country and I’m starting to get us some shows,” proclaims Stan (who’d become slightly more proficient at communicating verbally since his salad days of hacking).

“Really, where at?” I eagerly reply even as Jim (who’s still totally lost in the haze of springtime love) seems relatively unimpressed by Stan’s announcement.

“We’ve got gigs for sure at a metal club in Cleveland, some emo party in Cincy, and a punk festival in Dayton. Plus, a bunch of maybes, including one in California.”

“Sweet, I’ve always wanted to go to Cali. This summer’s gonna fucking rock. Speaking of which, did you find anything out about getting the record pressed, Jim?”

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘What’s up with the record?’ We should really have a seven inch out before we tour,” I state slightly annoyed as Stan falls asleep in his chair.

“Oh yeah, I totally spaced on calling that guy. Sorry, Sandy, but all I can think about lately is Nike. It’s like she owns my every thought.”

“Well, that’s great and all, Jim, but what about the fucking band? We’ve got big plans. This summer’s gonna be crucial and we kinda need some of your attention too.”

“Like I said, ‘I’m sorry, man.’ But I don’t really need your shit right now.”

“What shit? I’m not giving you any shit.”

“Yes, you are. In that smug, holier-than-thou way of yours, you’re giving me all sorts of fucking shit. You’re pissed off, as usual, and you’re taking it out on me.”

“I swear to fucking God, I’m not doing any such thing. I just want things to work out for the band. Is that too much to fucking ask?”

“It’s not what you’re asking, it’s how you’re asking it. I swear, it’s like you’re jealous of Nike or something.”

“Jealous? What the fuck are you talking about? I could really give a shit about her. All I care about is the band.”

“No, all you care about is yourself. Man, you can be such a selfish fucking prick. You just can’t handle the fact that I’m in love, can you?”

“Are you on fucking crack, Jim?”

“It’s so obvious it hurts. Open you’re fucking eyes, Sandy. Think about it. Normally, you’ll talk with me for hours about anything, even when I go off about biology and other shit that you don’t really dig. But whenever I bring up Nike and my feelings for her, you immediately change the subject. You can’t handle the fact that I love her and that she loves me. That we’re in love and you’re not.”

“Wow, where the fuck are you coming up with this shit? Seriously, I’m gonna check your bong. I think maybe you’ve been filling it with crack instead of weed.”

“See, you don’t even want to talk about it now. You really are a bitter bastard sometimes. . .”

“Fuck you, Jim!”

“Whatever, I’m outta here, man. I’ve got a wonderful woman to go meet.”

As Jim storms out of our band meeting, I’m left alone with nothing but Stan’s snoring to keep me company.

Trembling, Mr. Steaminson is hiding under the couch in the family room where he’s formed a pentagram with candles around the ouija board. He can hear faint moaning coming from upstairs as he intones, “Ghosts be gone!” Terrified, he shits his pants and prays to his personal God (which is the refrigerator {if asked why he chose the refrigerator, he would likely reply with either “Why not? It’s as good as any other God. Plus, it makes ice cubes and provides me with food. What other God can do all that?” or “What are you, some sort of faggot?”}). When the moaning stops, he crawls out from under the couch with his eyes darting around the room. After he assures himself that the coast is clear, he turns on the television and watches static for hours to calm his nerves.

Van wakes up on his couch at the crack of dawn. Even though he fell asleep so late, he’s still too excited to sleep in. Rubbing the sand from his eyes, he quickly dials Bobby’s number on the duck and blurts out: “So did I pass the test last night or what?”

“Leave me alone, I’m trying to fucking sleep!”

After Bobby hangs up on him, Van hastily puts on the same clothes from the previous evening and dashes off to the 7-11.

Bob is sleeping peacefully along the shore of the Buckeye River. He’s made this particular spot his new residence based on the belief that if he sees the magnificent river every morning then any lingering desire to drink will soon be eradicated from his head. Sure enough, when he wakes up, he’s desperately craving some hooch. However, as soon as he gazes upon the river, his addicted mind is cleansed. He stares at the river for over an hour. Then, he dons his red vest (which he used as a blanket for the long cold night) and follows the river to his place of employment.

Nike is still searching for a card on the mesmerizing floral arrangement when a voice bellows: “I love you.” She spins around to see Charles press play on the boom box, which emits Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” from its speakers.

Awestruck, Nike’s wondering how this complete stranger could’ve possibly known that was her favorite mushy song? (I fucking know how he knew this fact: Almost every female {and quite a few males} our age watched Say Anything when they were a budding adolescent and the combination of Lloyd Dobler’s awkward coolness and Gabriel’s sappy song sent chills through their hormonally-fueled bodies and this tune, therefore, became practically everyone’s favorite mushy song {this is why it’s been played for the last slow-dance at every prom for like a decade or something}). Before she can come up with an answer, he extends his hand and declares: “Hello, my name is Charles Watson Skinner and I want to be your boyfriend.”

Overcome by emotion, Nike throws her arms around the guy and embraces him with all of her being. Locked in a reciprocal hug, her sense of loneliness vanishes.

Indeed, she feels secure for the first time since her beloved mother passed away. It’s almost like she’s found the misplaced key to her soul. Knowing someone was there for her, she felt whole again. Squeezing his chest, she whispered in her suitor’s ear: “Thank you so much, Charles.”

This is how Nike’s relationship with Charles began. For the next few weeks, he was always there when she needed somebody (which was often). Moreover, she still thought he was kinda cute and so she quickly began to see him as her handsome knight in shining armor. He, meanwhile, continued to act upon his elaborate plan to develop their relationship according to his desires.

Walking along the Buckeye River, I’m fuming over my recent altercation with Jim. He and I have never fought like that before so, of course, I’m pissed and confused. My brain is pumping thoughts out at an increasingly hectic rate. Occasionally, I scream the word, “fuck,” much to the consternation of the Ohioans who are trying to enjoy a peaceful family picnic along the banks of the river. I’m also chain-smoking cigarettes (a habit which I acquired thanks to Stan leaving his fucking cartons around everywhere {you see, I discovered a few weeks ago [the night before a big Philosophy exam] that smoking helps me focus when I’m studying and, now, I’m learning that it also seems to help me vent my frustrations [I figure that if smoking helps me with my many present problems then I could really give a shit about any long-term consequences it may cause, it’s like who knows how long I’m gonna be on this godforsaken planet, and if it is a short stint then I want to enjoy it as much as humanly possible]}).

Was the fucker right? Could I really be jealous of their relationship? Sure, I’ve had my own epic problems when it comes to relationships, but if they truly are in love then, of course, I’d be stoked for my best friend. And her? I think she’s a nice lady and, if she makes Jim happy, then I’m fucking glad that she’s around for him. I just wish that he’d spend as much time with me as he did before he met her. And, sometimes, I really want to hang out with him and she tags along and it feels like everything is all weird and different. Plus, he’s been kinda slacking on the whole band thing lately. And whenever I need someone to talk to, he’s always off doing stupid shit with her.

Stupid shit with her? Wait a second, it sounds like I kinda am bitching about her.

“Fuck me!” I shout. Jim was right. I totally am jealous. Fucking-a, that guy’s always right. I’ve probably been treating them both like shit this whole fucking time. Why didn’t I realize that months ago? Why did it take a huge to-do with my best friend to realize that I am a petty asshole? What am I gonna do now?

I gotta find Jim! And Nike.

Wingy had just finished packing, a task which she abhors since it reminds her of when she had to check her husband into the Retirement Fun Land (her bastard of a son forced her to do it since her sweet sweet Chalmers was suffering from Alzheimer’s {the bastard insisted that he was too much of a burden for her to handle by herself so she begrudgingly complied with this demand [though, she always regretted that decision]} and when she was putting his stuff together for that relocation, she had a premonition that she was essentially preparing his coffin {sure enough, he died two weeks later}).

After she places her suitcase in the trunk of her VW Bug, she carefully removes a copy of Everyone Really Is Fucking You Over from a nearby box and holds it up to her face (she can’t resist the smell of periodicals fresh off the presses). While still standing in her garage, she starts to thumb through the issue (much like I do when I go to Borders {for the record, I’m not a corporate whore [there just aren’t any other bookstores in the greater Columbus area]} and read all the magazines without paying for them).

Stunned by what she sees, she suddenly drops the magazine (much like Bobby does when he’s reading magazines at Borders {you see, one of his favorite pranks is to go into that place during peak business hours and peruse magazines then, when there are like tons of people surrounding him, all being really quiet [this strange tendency to be silent in bookstores is a classic example of socialization, I mean, who among us wasn’t harshly shh-ed at a very young age by a scary-looking librarian?], he tosses the Popular Mechanics or National Geographic or whatever other wholesome magazine he’s holding to the ground and starts screaming at the top of his lungs: “BOOBIE! THERE’S A BOOBIE IN HERE! UH-OH, I’M SO GOING TO HELL NOW! PLEASE FORGIVE ME, GOD, I DIDN’T MEAN TO SEE THAT BOOBIE!”}) and frantically runs inside.

Charles pulls his SUV into the long-term lot and parks next to a black Lincoln Town Car. After making sure that all the doors are securely locked, he walks at a brisk pace (propelled by his increasingly hardening penis) towards the airport hotel.

Unfortunately, his business associate is currently in a meeting. An impatient CWS paces the lobby and carefully plans how he’s going to fuck her (from behind). When his dick feels about ready to burst, he decides to head up to her room to see what’s taking so fucking long. As he exits the elevator on the fourteenth floor, a man in a black suit and sunglasses pushes past him.

Charles dashes down the hallway and eagerly knocks on her door. The force of his knock causes the slightly ajar door to swing wide open. He greets his business associate with a nod and lays his money confidently on the nightstand. While he hastily removes his three-piece suit, she tells him that he’s gotta be fast since she’s starting to feel sick. Ripping off his tighty whities, Charles informs her that will be “no problem,” as he spins her around and acts on his recently formulated plan.

An adolescent female runs home from an emotionally draining day at school. She avoids her mother on her way up to her room. Throwing herself onto her bed, she pulls out her diary. She quickly unlocks the cheap plastic clasp and scribbles down all her feelings, her hopes, her desires, her dreams, her clever little jokes, who she has a crush on, and everything else she’s ever thought into the dairy. After an hour, she feels much better as she locks the diary and hides it under her bed. Then, her door swings open. Surprised, she looks up to see her father unfastening his pants. He too avoided mommy on his way upstairs (or maybe mommy avoided him). The diary is never read and she grows up to be a junkie prostitute. One day, she dies and no one even notices. This is the lovely fucking world in which we live. So is it any wonder that I want to kill myself?

You see, I have this recurring nightmare that haunts my sleeping hours. In this awful fucking dream, I’ve somehow managed to travel forward in time. Although I can’t interact with the people in the future, I do have the ability to observe them. Unfortunately, I always see the same shit: misery, hate, destruction, violence, poverty, war, intolerance, prejudice, and other telltale signs of overall crappy behavior.

These observations alone are enough to make me want to drink coffee all night. However, the worst part is the fact that the people of the future have absolutely no record of my generation. All they have for us is a giant “X.” All my brilliant ideas, all Jim’s crack-smoking theories, all Bobby’s pranks, all Van’s stoner tales, all Stan’s computer skills, all the Depressed Idealists’ songs, all of this amazing stuff that we’ve seen and said and thought and done, all of it is for naught in the eyes of history.

As soon as I make this devastating discovery, I’m instantaneously brought back to the present where I find everything to be covered in darkness. Even the moon refuses to shine at night. Terrified, I attempt to scream. But my mouth can make no noise. So, for the remainder of the dream, I simply sit in the dark and shiver.

When I wake up, I can remember every image of the nightmare vividly. Frankly, it always scares the shit out of me. Then, after a few days, I completely forget about the whole thing. That is, until I have the exact same dream all over again a few weeks later.

“So are you Mr. X or what?” Van asks Bob directly (he’s sick of being coy about this whole fucking game) as they both push open the glass doors to the 7-11.

While the beeping thingy goes beep, Bob turns to look at Van. When his brain finally registers the import of this question, he begins to laugh heartily. It feels good to laugh, for the poor fella has not laughed in a long long time.

Standing in the elevator at the dorms, I’m on my way up to see Jim and Nike. There is a dork in a three-piece suit standing next to me reading the Wall Street Journal. In a lame attempt to fuck with his head, I cough the word, “narc.” When the dude turns around, of course, he sees me with my head facing downward (as people in elevators are always positioned {in fact, one of Bobby’s favorite elevator pranks is to flick people off while their heads are down [he says that as soon as they pick up their heads, which usually takes about five floors, and notice this obscene gesture, they immediately return their eyes’ focus to the ground]}). Then, as soon as the dork spins back around, I resume mumbling, “narc,” until he turns around again and on and on (Bobby also taught me this).

I get off on the twelfth floor and pound desperately on Nike’s door. I can hear humming noises on the other side, yet no one answers.

“Hello? Is anybody in there?”

“Hm-mm! Hum-mm! Ahh-mm! Uhhhh-mmm! Oh-mmm!”

“Nike? Is that you?”

“Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm!”

“ Jim? Can you hear me?”

“Mm-mm-mm-oh-oh-uh-oh-oh! OH! OH! OH! O! O! O!”

“It’s me, Sandy.”

“O! O! O! O! O! O! O! OH YEAH!”

“I can totally hear you in there. C’mon, open up. I wanna talk to you guys.”

“Sandy, um, we’re kinda busy right now. Could this maybe wait until later?”

“No, it’s super urgent. Plus, I’m sure you guys aren’t doing anything that’s gonna offend my moral sensibilities or something.”

I can hear garbled whispering.

“Please, I need to get some shit off my chest. I’ll cover my eyes, if you want.”

Finally, the door swings open. As I enter the room, even though the lights are off and my hand is covering my eyes, I can sense that Jim is jumping back into bed.

“Hi, guys.”

“Hey there, Sandy!” They both reply in unison.

“Sorry if I was the interruptus in your coitus. You can continue if you didn’t finish. I don’t mind. And my eyes are covered. I can plug my ears too, if you like.”

“That’s okay, we’re cool. But what is it that’s so fucking important, man?”

“Well, after our little discussion at the band meeting, I got to thinking and well. . . Fuck it! You were right, Jim. I was. . . I mean, I am totally jealous. And I was being a stubborn bastard about this whole thing. So, as soon as realized what I was doing, I felt obligated to come over here and apologize right away.”

I think the two of them were actually rendered speechless by my blunt admission (have you ever noticed that, although there’s like a million different ways to apologize, there’s like no good way to respond when someone apologizes to you, especially when you were right all along?) so I decide to break the uneasy silence myself.

“It’s cool, guys. Don’t worry about having to say some stupid shit just to make me feel better or anything. I’m the dumbass, remember? So yeah, anyway, I just wanted to say I’m totally sorry for all the crap I’ve been giving you two. Especially you, Nike. It’s like I didn’t even realize what an ass I was being to you until Jim screamed some sense into me. And I promise that I’m gonna really try to stop being such a prick. Well, that’s all I wanted to say. So you guys should continue doing whatever you were doing. I’ll just shut the door on my way out.”

“Think. Think. Think. I said, ‘Think.’ Think. Think. Fucking think!”

I’m screeching these simple, yet profound, lyrics to the Depressed Idealists’ latest song when a bottle hits me in the leg (which just goes to show you that the kids really aren’t so influenced by rock-n-roll lyrics {on a related note, a select group of shirtless audience members are strutting around in a circle, waving their arms like The Bushwhackers of pro wrestling fame, and methodically kicking the shit out of each other [some people refer to this bizarre activity as “dancing,” but since these dickwads continue their idiotic ritual even after we stop playing music, I have to disagree]}).

“Okay, you dumbfuckers, that one was called ‘The Solution to the Problem of Life.’ We’ve got one more to do.”

Someone yells, “Freebird!”

Stan (who’s actually been awake for most of our set) responds by giving this uncreative heckler the bird.

“I’d just like to announce that this will be our last gig in the greater Columbus area for a little while. You see, we’re finally going on tour this summer. So this one’s dedicated to all you hardcore fans who’ve been with us since the very beginning. It’s called, ‘They Say We’re Crazy, But We’re Just Right, And They’re Just Fucked!’”

As soon as I hit that first thunderous chord (E major, of course), Jim starts pounding the drums and Stan immediately falls asleep.

“I don’t wanna follow your code. You can so-dom-ize me. But even if you kill me, there’ll be a million more of me tomorrow. Hey, Man! Fuck you and your rules. You will never put us down. Even if you lock me away, we’ll always find a way. . . ”

For some unknown reason, this was the only gig we’ve ever played where Jim didn’t get tackled by some drunken hillbilly. Perhaps, it was out of respect for all the energy that the Depressed Idealists had poured into the Columbus scene over the last four years. Or, maybe, it was just because everyone was so fucked up on drugs, they couldn’t remember to shitstomp the band like they usually do. Who the fuck knows?

Jim is strolling down The Ave on his way to class when he sees his beloved Nike about a block or so away. Naturally, he starts walking faster so that he can catch up with her and still make it to class on time. As he approaches her, he notices that she’s with another woman. Figuring that this woman must be Nike’s new friend (whom he’s heard so much about lately), he hastens his pace so as to have an extra moment to chat. However, when he gets within spitting distance of them, he witnesses something that completely horrifies him.

You see, Nike is holding hands with this other woman. Jim does not understand what this gesture means. Nevertheless, his mind starts racing a mile a minute in an attempt to figure out what’s really happening here. What the fuck? Why is she holding someone else’s hand? What the fuck? Is she cheating on me? What the fuck? Am I not good enough for her? What the fuck? Why is she holding that woman’s hand? What the fuck? Is she a lesbian?

There’s a man who roams around the greater Columbus area. By means of the virulent words that he yells at all whom he encounters, he manages to spread much malice. Thus, he is commonly referred to as “Vitriol Man” (or “Piss Dude” depending on who you ask). Unfortunately, this asshole’s been around for like fucking ever. Seriously, you can always tell who’s a freshman at OSU by the way they react to Vitriol Man. If they respond with tears or in a defensive manner, they’re definitely a freshman. However, if they merely chuckle and walk away, or completely ignore him, then they’ve obviously been around town for a while.

So, anyway, Bobby and I are hanging out on The Ave one afternoon (making fun of alterna-kids and frat bros like we always do) when we cross paths with Vitriol Man. As usual, he shouts menacingly at Bobby: “You are a pathetic excuse for a human being!”

“Thanks a lot. I do try. I really do. So I appreciate you taking the time to acknowledge my efforts,” replies Bobby as he attempts to shake the douchebag’s hand.

Undeterred, Vitriol Man hollers at me: “You are a pathetic excuse for a human being!”

I respond by noting: “What other kind is there?”

After weeks of being Nike’s security blanket, Charles soon became her official “boyfriend.” In short, his plan had worked to perfection. The couple started to spend all their free time together. During the week, he escorted her to the dining hall for meals. On the weekend, he would take her out to what passed for a fancy restaurant in Columbus (like {gag me} Sizzler). Nike had never been wooed so vigorously. The guy hardly ever let her out of his sight. He practically suffocated her. Lucky for him, during this period of mourning, her greatest fear was to be left alone. Thus, he became her sole reason to get out of bed in the morning. At the same time, the jerk simply thought of this amazing women as his natural destiny and relished the consistent sex she provided him with.

This odd relationship continued (albeit stagnantly) for all of their freshman, sophomore, and junior years at OSU. During which time, they both stayed in the dorm. Charles did so because he enjoyed the consistent schedule of the dining hall. Plus, he became a RA and thus lived there for free. Nike stayed in the dorm because her father wouldn’t allow her to move out on her own and she didn’t really want to disobey him since he already had enough problems. Moreover, she liked being so close to Charles. Her whole life basically revolved around him. Of course, this fact made Charles’ penis even harder than usual.

Bob was laughing so hard because he hadn’t heard that name since he was a student himself way back in the seventies. In fact, he couldn’t believe the notion of that MacGuffin still existed in the stoner circles of the greater Columbus area. The mere mention of Mr. X really brought back the old college memories.

You see, back in the day, Bob had been a film student. Actually, the Film Studies Department was just starting up at OSU, so he was technically a Rhetoric major (whatever the fuck that means). Man, those were the best years of his life. The only thing he had to do was wake up by noon (film classes were always scheduled for the late afternoon) so he could show up for class on time. And his classes consisted entirely of watching movies and then talking about them. Occasionally, he had to write some bullshit paper too. Still, on the whole, it was a pretty easy existence.

He even had a few friends. Well, maybe they weren’t friends exactly, but there were some other guys with whom he’d hang out and get high and drunk. They had some good times together. Like that one night when they took a bunch of acid and went skinny-dipping in the Buckeye River. They had shitloads of fun splashing around in the water since it felt like they were floating in outer space. Bob really enjoyed his college years. As a matter of fact, he’d always believed that the day he graduated was the day his life started to go completely downhill.

But that was all a long time ago. He was only now beginning to pick up the pieces of his shattered existence and put them back together like a puzzle or something. So he shook these memories out of his head (much like he would always shake off his daily hangovers) and returned his focus to the present day.

“No way, man. That definitely ain’t me. See, my name’s Bob,” he explains to Van as he points proudly to the makeshift name tag on his red vest.

“Oh, I see. Sorry about the mix-up. My bad.”

“Hey, aren’t you the guy who helped me out last night with that jerk who was trying to buy booze after-hours?”

“No, that was my friend, Bobby.”

“Well, that was a cool thing to do. To help a guy out like that. You see, it was my first day and I could’ve probably gotten in lots of trouble if it wasn’t for your friend. But you know what I always say, ‘A friend of a friend is a friend of mine.’”

Actually, Bob has never uttered these words before since he hasn’t really had too many friends. Though, he has heard others say it on occasion. And he’s still not very good in social situations, so he’s trying his best.

“Sounds good to me. So yeah, anyway, sorry about that whole mistaken identity thing. I gotta get going, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around. Peace out, Bob.”

“Yeah, see ya. And, please, tell your friend, ‘thanks,’ for me. And let him know if he ever needs a Slurpee when I’m working, it’s on me.”

Ever since he emerged from battling his demons in his bedroom, Jim has been like a totally new man. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he didn’t go all New-Agey or hippie or some bullshit like that on me, he’s still pretty much the same old fucking Jim. He just has this look in his eyes now. It’s as if he’s completely content with himself and the whole fucking world. Like he was playing a game of chess for the World Championship Belt and the match had been going on forever and he’d been stressing over each and every move, thinking obsessively about his previous decisions and constantly planning out his next ones. And then, he just got fed up with all that noise. So he trashed the fucking board and walked away, but with dignity, not like he was quitting or running away or frustrated or anything like that. He just stopped playing the stupid game that was torturing him. I guess what I’m really trying to say here is that his eyes were just screaming that he’d been fucked up the ass by life and that he’d been shattered into a million pieces, but that he’d survived and managed to put himself back together again.

Alright, fine, whatever, I admit it: I’m not making any fucking sense. Screw the fancy metaphors, he just had this look in his eyes. Like he was fucking happy, that’s all.

He was even all geeked about the summer tour now. In fact, he couldn’t wait to play out in other cities. Plus, he was really looking forward to seeing some different parts of the country since like the rest of us (it looks as if Jim, Stan, Van, and maybe even Bobby are all going on this little trip with me), he hasn’t visited too many places outside of Ohio. So yeah, this summer is gonna totally fucking rock.

The three men with the black suits and sunglasses (the ones who’d botched the Denny’s operation) were meeting again. This time, they chose to meet at the food court inside the Columbus Mall.

Separately, each of them ordered some grub from Burger King (I once knew this guy who was a cook for BK {of course, they overworked him, treated him like shit, and paid him sub-minimum wages} and, one day, in the midst of a grueling thirteen-hour shift, he exploded with rage {he simply couldn’t take their bullshit anymore, but when he told his boss that he was quitting effective immediately, the fucker had the cojones to claim that if he didn’t finish his shift and give two weeks notice then he wouldn’t receive his final paycheck [naturally, the guy was infuriated by this threat since that money was meant to cover his rent and food expenses until he scored a new gig], but still, he simply could not bear to flame-broil one more fucking burger so, on his way out the door, he unleashed the massive shit he’d been holding for hours [he was not allowed to use the restroom while he was working] on the grill} and he swears to this day that they actually served his poop as a Whopper), but none of them dared to touch their burgers and fries during the course of this meeting since they all know far too well what passes for “food” at these shitty fast-food joints. Indeed, one of the many perks of The Business is knowing all the crazy shit that goes down in this fucked-up world since their boss is the one who’s usually responsible for it.

Wingy was exhausted. What with the flight and the convention and the anticipation of everything, she’d had a rather long day. So she fell fast asleep in her hotel room while still clutching her briefcase. Tomorrow was a big day. A very big day.

Stan’s ‘puter has processed the information and the monitor is now flashing with the results. Just to be sure, he clicks on the repeat icon.

It’s done! My pits may smell like shit and I could probably use a shower since I’ve been working day and night on this stupid fucking project, but now I am done.

My room is littered with volumes of books, magazines, diagrams, letters, pictures, videos, audiotapes, and notebooks full of scribbled ideas. The centerpiece of it all being my recently completed bookshelf (on which a single piece of paper containing a short list of names currently rests).

Exhausted, I put down my hammer and start to write. Well, I don’t write so much as type.

My musty room feels as old as the plight of human beings. You see, after I graduated, I decided that I needed a place of my own. To get some space and figure out what I wanted to do next. But the only apartment I could afford was a tiny studio in the shitty part of Columbus. The bathroom and kitchen are the same room. I have no windows (only a skylight) to watch the outside world.

Worst of all, I cohabitate with many many spiders. I’m utterly terrified of these vile creatures as I’m certain that they bite me endlessly while I sleep. Whenever I see one (which is like every two fucking minutes) I proceed to wrap numerous sheets of TP around my trembling hands, in which I trap the little fuckers before flushing the whole messy clump down the toilet. Though, I’m beginning to fear that I may simply be hallucinating the millions of arachnids that I’m constantly murdering. I mean, how many spiders can one man really kill?

Still, that’s the least of my fucking worries right now.

“What the fuck?”

“Oh, hey there, Jim,” responds a slightly startled Nike. “This is. . .”

“Yeah, I think I can tell what the fuck this is!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“How could you do this to me, Nike? I thought you loved me! I really did,” screams Jim as he speeds away from the confrontation (but not in the direction of his class, more like in the direction of the nearest bar).

My graduation wasn’t that big of a deal really. I don’t even remember the ceremony (though, I do vaguely recall that I may’ve mooned a certain Sociology TA, just on general principle). In fact, my brain is still kinda cloudy as to what occurred during that whole last week of school. I do know that me getting my diploma provided us with an excuse to party like fucking rockstars. Bobby even passed a class that semester so that he’d have a legitimate reason to celebrate and get all fucked up with the rest of us. Basically, we all lived in a drug-fueled haze before we left on our epic voyage.

Anyway, what the fuck could a little piece of paper with some fancy words on it possibly have to say about the validity of my experiences for all those wonderful years?

Mr. Steaminson called up his Professor friend over at the local CC, who patiently tried to explain that his area of expertise didn’t really have much to do with ghosts. Still, Mr. Steaminson was adamant, informing the expert that “everything has something to do with everything else,” before adding: “What are you, some sort of faggot?”

Being an Ohioan, the Professor didn’t want to be considered a homo by an old buddy (this is completely fucked up since the guy’s actually a Professor of Greek Mythology and the entire social system of Ancient Greece revolved around men screwing little boys and it was like a totally normal {if not mandatory} thing to do {but, as always, scholars don’t really live according to their knowledge base, they simply use it to write pretentious as fuck articles in prestigious publications [and, on occasion, get laid]}), so he rushed over to Mr. Steaminson’s house to help him with his pesky ghost problem.

Standing in her garage, Wingy immediately noticed that something had gone awry at the printing plant since she never typesets anything for her magazine in that weird extra-space-between-letters-of-random-words style. So when she saw the last page in the “Letters to the Editor” section, she knew something odd was going down. Perplexed, she raced back to search through her files for the original copy of the letter. She hadn’t been this excited / nervous since she first smoked pot back in the sixties.

We just finished loading our gear into Van’s van. I’m so excited to get the fuck out of Columbus that it seems like I might explode into a million little pieces. I assume everyone else pretty much feels the same way. In fact, I think we’re all expecting some sort of Neal Cassady-esque adventure on the road as we travel across America.

Van’s chilling in the back seat, smoking weed (woo-fucking-hoo, at long last, dude’s got his own stash again!) with Bobby. I’m not sure why exactly, but the guy keeps thanking Bobby profusely. Steady as ever, Jim’s at the wheel, driving us. Stan, meanwhile, is fucking around with his new laptop, which he bought specifically for the trip. He’s in the way back of the van, lurking among the equipment. Me? I’m riding shotgun and controlling the radio.

Our first gig is tonight at some metal club in Cleveland with Kill Em All, Christ On The Motherfucking Cross, Entropy, and a couple of other shitty-ass local hesher bands. I imagine we probably won’t fit in so hot with that scene. I’d be kinda scared, if I didn’t know for a fact that metal kids on the whole are either skinny dorks who like to wear a lot of black or drunken rednecks. Though, I do jokingly warn Jim that he’ll likely get tackled even more than usual.

As we slowly pull out of Columbus, we all (even Stan stopped hacking, or whatever the fuck it is that he does with his ‘puter, for a few seconds) lovingly flick off our hometown. Though, I’m sure deep down everybody realizes that Cleveland won’t be much of an improvement. California, that’s what we’re really looking forward to.

Charles apparently has impeccable timing when it comes to beginning (or, in this case, re-beginning) relationships with Nike. It’s like he has some weird fucking knack for catching her at her most vulnerable moments.

You see, after her bizarre run-in with Jim, she’d been crying constantly until Charles rapped softly on her door. She hadn’t even thought about him for quite some time. Still, as soon as she saw his welcoming arms, she ran right back to him.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the separation period, as proscribed by my Five-Year Plan, is now officially over, Nike. So are you ready to resume our relationship?”

“I guess.”