The Acolytes of Crane

9 THEODORE: DANGLING





“The next morning, I woke up and snapped to my feet. I had that feeling again: the presence of someone. Prying eyes were watching me, and my amulet started to glow faintly but ominously. Even though Zane had my best intentions at heart, I still felt troubled.”

The house was abnormally quiet and echoed every move I made; the crack of my joints, or the shuffling of my dirty callused feet across the wooden floor. Usually, I heard the background sound of the news echoing from the radio in the kitchen or my Grandma’s rocking chair, creaking as she rocked with a word-find booklet in hand.

I had my blanket wrapped about my body like a cocoon, and grasped it firmly to avoid any cold drafts as I straggled through the house. I shed my cotton chrysalis and searched the whole house as if I was in a SWAT team about to engage in close quarters combat. The entire house was empty. My eyes darted about, betraying my apprehension.

I looked through the window at the backyard. As I saw a revolting sight near the wood-line, fear gripped my heart. I gasped; surely I did not see what I thought I had just seen.

Sticking out, behind the shed in the backyard, two sets of legs stretched out on the grass. The accompanying feet were concealed by rose bushes.


‘Grandma! Grandpa!’ I screamed as terror threatened to throttle my throat. I panicked and ran through the porch, and bolted down the downtrodden steps. In my haste, I tripped over the steps near the grass, dropping to all fours. A couple of my fingers sunk through the ground and my fingernails were caked with dirt.

When I arrived at the shed, I found lifeless and eyes peering upward at the clouded sky, those of my grandma and grandpa. Horrified, I rubbed my eyes for tears, but nothing was there. I pulled my curled hands away from my eyes. Marvin’s face suddenly changed to the actor’s from the black and white movie that I had watched last night. With a wink, he turned his head to me and said, ‘Here’s looking at you, Ted.’

I heard a twig snap behind me. I turned, and my eyes were staring down the barrel of a forty-five caliber pistol. The handgun trembled in the hands of none other than the person who desired me dead, Travis Jackson. His eyes were those of a demon’s. Grinning malevolently, he pulled the trigger. POP! I winced and closed my eyes when the gun fired. No bullet exploding into my skull yet. I opened my eyes again, and saw a tiny black flag extending outward from the barrel of the gun that read in white letters, you are dead!

I awoke, sweating. It was a dream.

My neck was incredibly sore. I sat up to catch my breath and rubbed my neck.

I looked down toward my feet, and I found a present. A perfectly wrapped gift lay upon the ground next to my bedpost. On the gift lay a tag that read: Open now. Was I still dreaming? It was not Christmas, not by a long shot. Excited, I opened the present. It was a brand-new pair of basketball shoes: magnificent and top of the line.

They didn’t feel like regular shoes. When I lifted them out of the packaging, they must have weighed twenty-five pounds each. I used both hands to pull them out one by one. I fumbled and dropped the second shoe, and it slammed the wooden floor with a large bang.

‘Is everything alright in there?’ my grandmother hollered from the living room.

I yelled back and told her everything was okay. It was a good feeling to hear her voice after that nightmare. I sat there, contemplating whether I should trust that gift. I was afraid that if I put them on, my feet would explode. It was time to consult my on-board nanocom. I lifted my hand and from my palm appeared a tiny hologram. I studied the image intently: yes, futuristic, awesome shoes much like mine, but completely different in concept. The holographic shoes appeared to be made of metal. Not only that, mechanical components adorned these shoes. I had to communicate with Nezatron directly in thought to be sure of what I had in my possession.

I emitted a thought. Nezatron, this is Theodore.

‘Theodore? This is Nezatron. How can I be of assistance?’ he asked over the nanocom.

I thought—I found some shoes in my room today. They look like basketball shoes, but displayed differently on my IPU. Did you send them to me? They weigh a ton.

‘Theodore, the popular and trendy shoes that you currently see lying at your feet are not what they seem. They are actually shrouded by a hologram. Their true nomenclature is X73-21. They are the twenty-first model from a series of porta-transmechanical lifters. In fifteen-year-old language, they are shoes that can help you fly, dude. I suppose that explains their weight. These shoes operate on the same technology as your palm device and function on your brainwaves. You can use these shoes to jump higher and run faster. I apologize. I am not trying to sound like a shoe jingle from the nineteen-fifties.’ He paused because of my confusion. ‘The one and only disappointment is that you must reprogram the shoes to present a holographic image of the current shoes you own. We don’t want you to be obligated to explain where you received your X73-21’s.’

I took a glance at my old shoes. They had been so worn and dirty that they were grayish brown, rather than the original white. He was right.

Nezatron had the tendency to release too much information. Like back on the Uriel, when he said my great grandpa Willard cheated on his wife. Although, it was the truth, it wasn’t necessary information to divulge. It also pained me to hear it.

I slipped the shoes on. The paired contraption wasn’t as comfortable as one might imagine. After the shoes formed to my feet, they made an uncomfortable connection. It felt like a million needles stabbing into my feet at once. My tingling feet seemed asleep, like when I sat for far too long.

I thought, can you tell me how to use these things, and can you do it in kid language?

‘I will grant you your request,’ Nezatron said. His upcoming uneasy pause alerted me to a disclaimer to follow: ‘but you must know that I have strict instructions from Zane regarding my explanations on your nanocom. Namely, high, exact standards in my pontification. He didn’t give me clearance to speak using ‘kid language.’ So I will have to take it up with him, Teddy,’ he said, and then he broke into an awkward robotic laugh.

‘Hey that is cool. I like it when you talk like that. How is it that you are laughing? Robots don’t have feelings.’

‘You are going to get me into a bind with my maker. Listen, robots in my time are advanced beyond anything you could fathom. Even with all the modifications we just made to your neuro-pathways, you still could not understand. I am Sepheran—not robotic. I am programmed to feel. I have been programmed to respond to one million, three hundred thousand, and two hundred and six humorous stimuli. The stimuli cause me to react to a laugh or joke. It is my program, but occurs without hesitation and processing. It is similar to your conscious state of mind. I know humor by definition and try to compute it and respond—dude.’

Wow, that is awesome—I thought.

‘No Teddy, Zane is awesome, after all, he created me,’ Nezatron said, before he switched to an audio playback of the tutorial for the X73-21.

After I began listening to the tutorial, I heard a muffled crackle, then a rustle outside my window. It sounded like someone stepped on a cockroach.

Someone was watching me. I could feel it.

Nezatron interjected, causing me to temporarily disregard my own uneasy feeling:

‘Oh, did I forget to mention the shoes can make invisible anyone who wears them. I saved the best part for last. So, surprise!’ I could detect a slight quiver of glee in his voice. He continued, ’I spoke with Zane just now, and I now have his permission. He said I could translate information into a form that might be easier for you to understand. Therefore, I guess that makes us pals. I will be monitoring this channel as well as Migalt. I am not your personal assistant. I have a job to do too, so please don’t rely on me to answer every time I am summoned. Relax dude, and let me know if you need anything. The shoes take about five minutes to calibrate to a human’s feet. See ya, would not want to be ya.’

I was curious for a moment about how the shoes made me invisible, but instead chose to understand that some things just cannot be explained. I left it alone.

With Nezatron absent from my thoughts, I rubbed my forehead. There were trickles of sweat running down my temples. I remembered where I had felt that dread. Fear seized my heart like a vice. Afraid to verify anything, I turned slowly, rotating toward the window.

I gave a short silent scream.

Travis was staring into my room! He looked around curiously, but he didn’t stop to lock onto me with his eyes.

Frightened and desperate, I attempted to channel my thoughts to the loquacious robot:

Nezatron, he is here. Travis is outside my house!


Nezatron replied calmly, as if speaking in a tut-tut manner, ‘I am running a check on the perimeter and the only heat signatures I am finding are yours and your grandmother’s.’

When I looked again, there was a burst of light and singed grass. Travis was nowhere to be seen. I sighed with huge relief. I guess I was experiencing hallucinations because of all the overwhelming changes pre-ordained into my mission.

Yes, crazy things were happening: flying shoes, communicating telepathically across light-years of space with a mechanical being, and invisibility. It all was every kid’s dream come true. It took a while to complete the programming but the shoes finally calibrated to my feet. I moaned happily. The comfort I had from these dream shoes was amazing.

I downloaded Aikido instructional videos from Nezatron. I decided that training every night in martial arts would be the best course of action. I had to do something to protect the people I was dragging into that mess. Travis wanted something from me. I just couldn't put my finger on it. I felt that if he wanted to kill me, then why was he scoping out my house? Why didn't the Dacturons just drop a bomb on it or blast it from space with a giant laser?

Yes, I had to plan. I paced around my bedroom, muttering to myself. Focus needed to be shifted around finding three more individuals. I had Lincoln, but that wasn’t enough. I knew that if someone entrusted me to do a task, even if it was a small task, I had to complete it.

It wasn’t my job to judge what was significant and what was trivial, because even the smallest error could carry devastating consequences. It was a concept that I was just recently acquainted with by my newfound knowledge of time and place. I could be two minutes early for school, or two minutes late, yet one or the other scenario could forever alter the future, beyond my control.

I took off for Lincoln’s house immediately. It wasn’t as easy as one might think. I was having difficulty harnessing my shoes’ power.

Through intense trial and error, and some road-rash, I found that I could propel myself on my banana skateboard without pushing off the ground. I was cruising. Every time I was around people, I pushed along the ground to front as a kid propelling his board normally. I didn’t need any unnecessary attention. The air was forced against my face and pulled my cheeks back slightly, and I swallowed a bug. I figured it was probably a good idea to keep my mouth shut after that.

I arrived at Lincoln’s house with just a tiny amount of energy expended. I decided not to tell Lincoln about the shoes, unless I absolutely had to. It was in his character to want scientific data for every new variable, which usually meant I was going to be a lab rat. I wasn’t going to be a rat that day.

‘Yo, if it isn’t the missing Linc. What is up buddy?’ I asked, while Lincoln gave me a look like something was amok. He stood behind his wrought-iron door with some window cleaner in one-hand and paper towels in the other.

‘My dad is uncontrollably and disruptively cleaning the house right now. So, if we know what is good for us, we will go somewhere else!’ Lincoln shouted over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. It smelt like dust everywhere, as if Lincoln’s father was determined to aggravate his son’s sinus condition. We knew he didn’t intend to.

‘Let’s go out to your lean-to,’ I said, and started to walk with Lincoln, ‘So check it out. I spoke with Nezatron today. I now have a direct link to both him and Migalt. So I feel safer, only problem is, I have been seeing Travis in my dreams and—’

‘What? Tell me dude!’ Lincoln asked.

‘I thought I saw him outside my window today. I was out of his sight, so he didn’t see me, but he knows where I live, and he had guts enough to stand outside. Nezatron says I’ve been imagining things, but man, I gotta be careful.’ I paused. ‘I thought that if Marvin saw him, he could be done for. I think he is using some sort of port, because where he stood, the ground and the bush next to the window were burnt.’

‘Let’s say Nezatron is wrong and Travis is actually spying on you. So what are we going to do?’ Lincoln asked.

‘Well, Nezatron told me right before I left that if someone was teleporting on Earth and leaving singed grass behind, the port had to be local. He said that type of heat was only generated by using a port within the perimeter of a vessel. Nezatron searched my street for heat signatures and found nothing. He brushes it off, but I think there was a ship, and it must have been cloaked or something. We need to work fast, and we need to find someone today. Did you come up with a plan?’

‘I did, my good ol’ pal. So here it is. . .’

Lincoln told me that the first stage of the recruitment operation, was compiling a list of the individuals whom we would engage, because some people just might not be able to believe our bizarre pitch, or even give us the time of day.

Once we completed the list, we needed to cross-reference with Nezatron, and eliminate possible candidates who were not of outstanding integrity. Then, we needed to approach them to do our own hands-on detective work.

For that, Lincoln brushed up on his knowledge of the literature of Sun Tzu. I definitely expected Lincoln to have read that classic, because he was always quoting ancient philosophers. Sun Tzu was his absolute favorite. In The Art of War, Lincoln said there were ways of distinguishing friend from foe.

There were certain tests that we could use to expose the subjects’ moral standing. He was going to use his knowledge gained from that book to aid in finding the three extra people we had currently lacked.

The first person on our list was Liam McCaffrey. Liam made the list for his physical attributes. He was seventeen and worked as a dishwasher at a hole-in-the-wall bar called Green Streets. He was on the Triton High School varsity wrestling team.

See, Liam was sort of an anomaly. He stood at five-eleven, two hundred pounds, and his weight was distributed well. Rather than appearing obese, he was the heavyset type that adults approvingly called “a growing boy” or “has big bones.” He once beat a college kid in an unsanctioned match in my grandparents’ backyard near the wood-line. We didn’t know how the match made its way into my grandparents’ yard, but it was entertaining as I breathlessly watched from the window.

Lincoln and I did a background check on him to see if he was legit and of good character. Our findings were solid to say the least. Liam was the son of the local minister. More importantly, he helped me personally.

When I was in sixth grade, a boy came up to me and took my drawings out of my hands. At first, I thought the kids were just having fun with me, and then they crumpled the paper to toss back and forth.

They were teasing me, bullying me. I tried to stand up to them myself, but all the other kids were laughing and pointing at me. Just when I could not take any more ridicule, and I was ready to walk away defeated—Liam came to the rescue.

“Like a paladin warrior, he rose from the mob and stood by my side. He told the bullies that if they didn’t give my books back, he was going to smash their heads like little grapes. Throughout the years, Liam made continuous reference to grapes. I figured that he must have sat around squashing grapes all day. I knew that Liam was someone we needed.”

After telling the story about Liam, I realize I forgot about the nurse. What if she was someone who could help me?

She had called me Theo.

I rub my fingers through my hair, daydreaming that the love of my life was caressing my locks with tender, slender fingers and a contented sigh. The coarseness and grease within my tresses defeat my fantasy, and I quickly withdraw my hand in disgust.


I realize that if I pretend to be a casualty of dehydration, it is possible that the guards will send her in again. I place my hand on the wall and instantly drop onto the floor. I lie there lifeless as before, with my eyes closed and trying to mask the rise of my chest.

I try not to blink, leaving my eyes white and visible for the cameras.

“Prisoner, eight-six-seven-five. Stand up and approach the vault. Stand up, you scumbag! If I have to come in there, you are going to wish you were standing.”

I recognize his tone; he is the troubled guard, for reasons I do not know. Someone must have mocked and bullied him before my time, because he treats me poorly.

Dejectedly, I acknowledge that the nurse entering isn’t a likely conclusion. As I rise up slowly, I see something of significance. My pupils dilating, I glance away, pretending I didn’t see it.

“That is right, you punk! I knew you would get up,” the disgruntled guard says.

“He’d probably kick your ass if he wasn’t locked up, Shifty!” the veteran guard yells.

“I will write you up for using my real name!”

“Go ahead, how many times have you ratted on someone up around here? And when has anything come of it? Leave the prisoner be, or I will write you up.”

Their verbal squabble continues, but it ends for me, because the view box closes.

I decide to wait until the moment is right, to see what is on my floor, but to ensure its safety, I lie down near it to shield it with my body. Grabbing my tablet, I pick up where I left off:

“Ah hell, where was I? I said something about remembering, and then, oh yes, grapes—that’s it. Liam McCaffrey.”

We arrived at Liam’s house. His home was the only residence in our area that still had a functioning farm—one of those small one-acre “hobby farms” favored by some suburban families seeking to offset their taxable income. For homecoming one year, a group of teens kidnapped a goat from Liam’s farm, and streaked across the football field in loin clothes, tugging onto the recalcitrant goat with a rope as they did so. It was very entertaining. Thankfully, they returned the goat unharmed.

It was during the day that Lincoln and I first approached Liam’s house to seek his interest. The wind was gusting, and Lincoln kept losing a ridiculous bandana he was trying to wear.

We walked down that block many times before to feed their animals. The McCaffrey house was quite the novelty. They had five goats, ten sheep and two ponies. The ponies were usually locked up. The one time I did see them, they looked like over-fed dogs, as if they just sat and ate all day.

We cautiously walked up to Liam’s house. The driveway was gravel and was almost swallowed by brush. I could not see the driveway from the street, because of the thick cover that smothered it.

We took care; there was no telling how they might behave once we walked up to their house. We didn’t really know them well enough to make an accurate judgment. As we approached, I heard shouting from within the house.

Through the window, I saw Liam’s mother, Mrs. McCaffrey darting around on the main floor. She was gesturing with her hands erratically. Her scraggly locks, rusty orange in color, curled wildly off her shoulders. Her eyes were freakishly blue and mesmerizing. She seemed so intensely immersed in whatever she was engaged in. Lincoln looked over at me for guidance before he knocked. I gave him the signal.

‘Honey! Will you get that please? Hon, will you get the door,’ a man’s voice shouted from the second floor.

The front door swung open so abruptly, that we felt an inward draft breezing by the skin on our faces and upper arms. Just as quickly, the door slammed as Mrs. McCaffrey burst outside and closed it behind her. In her haste, she nearly thrust her body at us, so off-balance was she, breathing deeply.

She didn’t give us any time to manage a simple “hello.”

‘Okay boys, I want you to stand here,’ she said, pulling me over toward the plastic flamingos scattered about on the coarse lawn, as Lincoln, puzzled, followed in tow. Her eyes blinking rapidly, she dramatically held out her arms toward the heavens. ‘You both stand over there. Perfect. Now, you will play the role of the audience as I display my affection and distraught mind as Margaret. It is my most emotional act.’

Lincoln and I exchanged bewildered glances.

She didn’t seem to notice our reactions. Both hands clasped against her chest just above her left breast, she acted as if she were auditioning for a role. ‘I am but a weary soul, and my heart is shackled by your love.’ Feigning distress, she brought the back of her hand to her forehead. With a theatrical gasp of air and a scoff, she continued, ‘Now deliver me from this pain. Go, you insufferable beast. Cure the ache in your soul! Begone!’ She slowly fell to her knees and faked some tears, rubbing her eyes with bent index fingers.

As she kneeled, her gaze reverted to normal, as if she had snapped out of a trance. Quick like a rabbit at dawn, she hopped to her feet. She looked directly at us, just like any responsible adult addressing two kids. ‘Can I help you boys?’

Lincoln and I looked at each other. Simultaneously, we asked, ‘Is Liam home?’

‘No, I do apologize. I so love the theater and that was one of Margaret’s defining moments. I have been working on a play.’ She placed her hands on her hips and sighed, looking off into the distance. ‘Liam is at camp with his father. They will be coming back later tonight. Would you like for me to tell Liam you stopped by, wait, aren’t you boys young to be hanging out with Liam?’

‘Yes. Please ma’am, we don’t really want to play with him. We just want to ask him some questions for a project we are working on. We’ll get out of your hair,’ I said, and I grabbed Lincoln to follow me down the driveway.

‘I will tell him you stopped by—your names?’ she asked.

‘Lincoln Royce and Theodore Crane,’ I said.

Mrs. McCaffrey’s eyes grew sad. Again folding her hands over her heart, she emoted sincere warmth and sympathy, as if it were her own son that died. ‘You are the boy who lost his friend. I hope all is going well for you. I was deeply saddened by your loss. Jason has most definitely found a place in heaven among angels, and I know he is up there watching you now, as does God. God bless you boys, I will tell Liam you stopped by.’

She walked away and started-up with another dramatic monologue. Lincoln and I looked at each other again and took off down the gravel driveway. With Liam’s house to our backs, I asked Lincoln, ‘If her husband was at camp, who was the man upstairs?’

‘I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. It couldn’t have been good. He was calling her honey,’ Lincoln said as he shook his head.

So, now we knew Liam and his dad were at camp. Lincoln and I sized up our progress to date. To recap, we needed three people who were of impeccable character, and had specific skills.

First, Liam was not available right now, and we were running out of time. Second, we knew that whatever Liam’s mom did, it shouldn’t reflect upon Liam’s character. But—if Liam’s mom was doing what we thought she was, then we need to ensure that Liam didn’t inherit her questionable moral values. We were definitely off to a sluggish start.

The next boy on our list was someone who had a reputation as a “bad boy.” We knew him better than most people, and we knew he wasn’t actually a troublemaker. He wore this toughness as a fa?ade in order to appear “cool,” designed to hide the true nature of his kindness. He viewed his innate generosity as a weakness, but we viewed it easily as strength.


He always skated behind a local bread factory by the freeway. This factory, named County Hearth, was probably the hottest spot to skateboard because of its industrial layout, and because it shut down every day at six—allowing skateboarding enthusiasts to congregate there as if it was a shrine. The location, just off the frontage road by highway six-ninety-four, was known for a concrete embankment near the loading dock—perfect for skateboard tricks and stunts.

People played games of SKATE there. It was a match no different from HORSE or PIG in basketball. The object of the game was to match or better the trick that the previous skater had cleanly landed. If a player bailed or blanked on the board, they would find themselves with the next letter in sequence of the word, as if each letter was a dreaded penalty to be imposed. The first person to unwillingly complete the word, SKATE, would be eliminated from the competition.

We arrived at the Hearth to shred the concrete embankment with our decks, but all the regular skateboarders were missing. We figured we would get some practicing in.

I had a banana board, and I was oddly good with it. As if it were second nature, I easily executed the slick motions that awed my friends. A sign of my skill was that grip tape was sparingly added to my board’s front and back ends, both of which curved upwards. Most boards—for amateurs—had the entire upper surface covered with grip tape.

To do an “ollie,” I would pound the tail of my board down to the ground with my back foot and simultaneously jam my front foot against the roughness of the grip tape. This action would cause the board to rise up, and soar into the air along with me.

If I whipped my front foot outwards, directing my slide sideways away from the board, I could flip it. It would rotate like a slick bullet shooting through the air, and finish a complete revolution so that I could once more regain the skateboard on the ground. It was a trick known as the “kick-flip.”

The ollie and the kick-flip were just a couple of “mother” tricks, which would give birth to wide range of more difficult tricks such as backside-kick-flips and others.

I could not do many tricks, but one of the few I did with superb proficiency was the kick-flip. I would execute my kick flips so beautifully that the board would clap against my tail foot as if wanting to connect to me. I knew it was well received, because people tried to model their flips after mine.

‘What do we have here? A couple of aspiring shredders! What is up, dudes?’ Dan asked, as he carved the corner of the street.

Dan Anderson, otherwise known as Dangling Dan Anderson was sixteen years old, and our next target. Perfect timing. Dan was about the same height as me, which was just over five feet. His hair was brown and mohawked. His shoes had their giant tongues stretched halfway up to his shins. Being an adolescent, his face farmed a bit of facial hair that looked like peach fuzz.

When Dan was fourteen, he was at Fulton’s baseball fields, skating around the pavilion. That day, he took a break to rest his back against the pavilion walls. His friends were standing in front of him, chatting. One of the kids looked over and noticed something that was amusing. Dan had recently ripped his pants on a failed trick and there, draped out on the ground—through his torn up-jeans—laid Dan’s family jewels. They were displayed so prominently and unforgettable, that even Dan laughed at what happened, and he didn’t care in the slightest. The nickname stuck.

Dan was hard to impress and was volatile. On occasion, he stomped his skateboard in half or banged it against his head if he didn’t land a trick. That was his trademark personality quirk. Our plan for Dan was somewhat weak. We wanted to lure him into a game of SKATE, and impress him with our moves, mainly my kick-flip, and then coax him into our group.

The one true problem with that mission: Dan was a master among novices. Everything I did, he did way better. He was so good, I always tracked his superb moves and re-framed them into “slow motion” in my mind. He ripped the Hearth apart. He was amazing.

Three-sixty kick-flips, switch hard-flips, and anything else I could think of, he would accomplish after a few minimal attempts. Let’s face it, he was a pro in the game of SKATE. He didn’t need X73-21’s to soar. That kid could soar on his talent alone, and he flew in a sense that there were grace and beauty in what he did.

‘Hey Dan, you want to play SKATE?’ I asked.

‘You are damn right I do,’ he answered. ‘I have been waiting all day. Let’s do this.’ He was starving for action.

For about an hour, we shredded. Lincoln and I lost to Dan, and then we all shredded some more. We two lost and well—we lost some more. It was ugly, and my kick-flips were not bringing in the shock and awe in the way I needed them.

As the competition ground on, my stomach started to hurt, dismaying me with its lousy timing. Suddenly, my innards felt like they were twisting and imploding within. Constipation was about to burst. I needed a bathroom. There wasn’t a port-a-potty around to take care of business. For once, I admired women for carrying well-stocked purses—they never seemed to be out of tissue.

A twisting and wrenching pain rose up from the depths of my bowels to haunt me. It was my stomach, and it was becoming worse. I found myself pinching my butt cheeks together to hold it in, but the beast needed to escape.

I needed to do a major class two upload into the forest. It wasn’t a run-of-the-mill bathroom break. It was a steaming, rolling, and writhing burn that twisted my insides. I had about three hundred yards to the forest, which now looked daunting.

‘Dude, I have to go,’ I said, looking toward Lincoln.

I fervently thrust away at my skateboard, steering it toward my dump destination as fast as I could. My legs felt the burn from pushing against the ground so robustly. I didn’t want to use my X73-21’s because I worried everyone was watching me. The faster I skated, the harder the monster within my bowels tried to breach the threshold. The rough parking lot blacktop sent vibrations up my legs, causing even more discomfort.

I was about half of the way to the forest, when I began to run, and that was a big mistake. The running churned the movement within my bowels, and then I farted. I was about ten feet from the finish line, and the blast to the insides of the legs of my pants was devastating. My trousers were now one giant stinking, high-to-heaven stink that could kill any cockroaches that lay in its path. I was soiled, and my innocent pants were defeated by one of the fiercest poops known to man.

There were two semi-trailers affording a convenient cover for my entry into the woods. I took down my pants, removed them, and tried to clean up with some surrounding leaves.

It was tough because most of the items of foliage in the woods were small and useless. The smell was absolutely wicked and morphed repugnantly into the deadliest of nose burning stenches. I cleaned up my legs and butt as much as one could in my situation, unavoidably smearing some of that brown stuff on my fingers and thumbs despite my best intentions.

In conclusion, I had no decent pair of pants, and I somehow needed to complete the mission before I went home. Which was: to find out whether Dan was fit for our team.

With my pants devastated by the brown contents of my butt, there was nothing left to do but try to get Lincoln’s attention. I needed a way out. I edged the semi-trailer and hung the clothed portion of my body by the hitch side of it. I yelled out to Lincoln.

‘What’s wrong, Ted?’ Lincoln yelled from the group. ‘C’mon guys, let’s go see what is up.’ Oh no! How many mistakes can one person make in an hour’s time? I think I was on pace to break the record. I didn’t want the entire crew to see me. Lincoln, with no clue as to the disaster lurking ahead, was leading the whole party of grungy skaters toward me while I cowered behind the trailer.


As they quickly made their way over, Dan looked upon my face. He must have been able to decipher my bright-red complexion, because he yelled, ‘Wait, guys! I think there is something up. Lincoln, why don't you just go see what is wrong with your bro.’

It was obvious we needed Dan for a number of reasons. His agility was remarkable. There was nothing like it out of all the people we knew. What he did effortlessly on that skateboard was magical. More importantly, when he saved me from humiliation, there was no need to test any further.

In a relatively short time, he had revealed his character and secured our initial readings on him. I was impressed with him and felt excited about such a prize find. He was definitely an introspective and empathetic kid worth trusting with our secret.

The rest of the kids took off to skate at this bread company’s parking ramp. Dan had some extra pants in his bag, to avoid a repeat of the dangling incident. He brought them to me, and tossed them around the trailer.

‘You know, you two dudes are straight. Man, you have a wicked kick-flip bro. You shit your pants though didn’t you?’ Dan asked as he covered his nose, ‘same thing happened to me at my grandparents’ house when I was five. Everyone gives me hell for it at family gatherings.’

Dan really enjoyed swearing. He had let every swear word fly from his lips with total disregard the whole time I knew him. It didn’t bother us, because Dan was just being himself.

He asserted that he only used swear words to accentuate his creative expression of self. At least, that was his excuse. Dan told us he was trying to quit per his parents’ request. I personally felt that swearing was a waste of breath. I stepped out from behind the trailer with Dan’s pants freshly fitted, my hands over my hips.

‘That was an awesome thing you did for me, man. Where is Lincoln?’ I asked.

‘He was making sure the other guys left. He was buying you some time, dude. That is a good friend you have there.’

I knew from experience from long car rides that if there was a window of opportunity opening, I should spit through it. If the spit flew back at my face because the window closed too fast, then I knew I made a mistake. Either way, there was nothing to lose but time.

‘Dan, if I was going to show you something, would you promise to keep it secret? You cannot tell anyone, and I mean anyone.’

‘Okay dude, chillax, you are not going to do something weird, are you?’ he asked. He was put off slightly by my pushy demeanor.

Lincoln walked from around the corner of the building. Now that we three were alone, my two friends would be given a premium view of a glorious futuristic technology that I, with my pulse racing, was about to unveil for the first time ever to people of this planet. I had a sinking feeling that if the demonstration did not work, I would be forever ridiculed. But I had to believe in myself.

‘Stand back,’ I said. In a voice quieter to myself I continued, ‘Here goes.’

I pushed off. The wheels on my board smoked, like a spinning yo-yo on a frying pan. I hit the embankment with the force of a raging bull.

I was ready to fly. Just as certain as the Earth rotates round the sun, the experiment worked. With no ramp at all, my board soared magically ten feet into the air, stunning Dan and Lincoln. It was much easier than I could have ever imagined. I felt euphoric, losing myself within the moment.

Like a maverick in flight school, I performed a difficult trick, a fly-by. By the time I returned to earth, Dan and Lincoln had dropped onto their knees in shock.

‘Dude, what the hell was that?’ Dan said covering his eyes, as if he saw something that he should not have. He was hungry for more. Action junkies are just that, addicted to excitement.

It gave me so much confidence to see Dan react in the same manner that Lincoln did. His words were exiting his mouth at an almost painful rate. I have never heard so many F-words before in my life, except during a heated fight between my parents. It was entertaining.

Despite our challenges and minor defeats, we had decisively slain our mistakes and rode our blessings to success. In the end, we had strength, courage, honor, and integrity.

“Dan easily succumbed to the wonder of our story and desired more and more details, lapping them up like a thirsty dog to a water dish. We told him everything, and he accepted it. Despite his faith in us, for the next two hours, as he strove hard to push aside all his ingrained sense of reality, he shook his head and looked at us like we were crazy. It didn’t matter. With my successful implementation of Lincoln’s plan, it seemed that a dedicated, unified and bold unit was finally taking shape. A fearless team was being assembled.”