You Make Me Feel So Young
                 By
    Russell Hatler and Kasie Evans


Misty Manson perched precariously on a wooden stool beside the brown, Naugahyde massage table that had been pushed up against the wall of her basement office in the Springville, North Carolina, town hall. It was 8:25 on a Monday evening. The nether-folds of her tight, white cotton pants described the image of a delightful camel toe. It may have been somewhat uncomfortable, but the suggestive silhouette did bring in the big bucks. Misty was naked from the waist up, hardly the couturial protocol one might associate with a professional physical therapist. But she was young and lovely.


Gerald Kramer, age 73 and counting, sprawled face up on the massage table, his Tommy Bahama shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and his knee-length, black satin gym shorts snugged up over his bony knees. Gerald was neither young nor lovely, but he did have a few points going for him. He was comfortably well off, retired, widowed and generous to a fault. Gerry wasn’t millionaire rich, but he was no longer obliged to pinch pennies. Misty was taking Gerry’s blood pressure.


“A man walks into a bar and sits down beside a beautiful blond,” said Gerry, staring up at the ceiling. “He pulls a frog out of his pocket and sets it on the bar.
‘This is a very special frog,’ the man whispers to the blond.
‘Looks like a regular frog to me,’ replies the blond. ‘What’s so special about your frog?’
‘This frog eats pussy,’ says the guy with a big grin. ‘I taught him how myself!’
‘I don’t believe it,’ scoffs the blond.
‘Hike up your skirt,’ says the guy. ‘And slip off your panties.’
The blond does so. The frog just sits there. The guy shakes his head sadly.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’m gonna show you one more time…’”


Gerry let out a gleeful snort. Misty blushed prettily, pinched Gerald hard on his left nipple and said, “Why Mr. Kramer, that’s really naughty!” To which Gerry grinned, rolled over on his right side, and slipped another twenty into Misty’s overflowing tip jar.


Springville, population 31,416, is a sleepy bedroom community situated roughly forty miles northeast of Raleigh. The diverse citizenry of Springville is comprised of farmers, tradespeople, technicians, and retired executives who spent the bulk of their careers in Research Triangle Park, the high-tech capital of the Southeast. Five years back, when the town’s coffers were in great shape, the city fathers decided to position Springville as the most desirable retirement destination in Eastern North Carolina. To that end they hired a Public Relations firm from Fuquay-Varina to devise a scheme that would help them realize their dream. The PR guys took a survey and determined that what Springville needed most was a Senior Wellness Center.


At that time the town hall had a sizeable basement that had been used primarily for document storage. Since most of the documents had been digitized and stored in a cloud database, the basement was mostly vacant. What an ideal location for a Senior Wellness Center.


Now all they needed was to hire somebody who was uniquely qualified to run the place, preferably a somebody who wouldn’t cost the town an arm and a leg. They sent a recruitment team of one, namely Emory Bridgeford, down to UNC Chapel Hill in search of the ideal candidate. Emory was a retired high school Social Studies teacher whose nephew was mayor of Springville. Emory had never married but he did know a thing or two about Wellness Centers. He was a lifelong member of the YMCA.


Emory searched far and wide for a qualified candidate. He decided early on the candidate needn’t have a PhD in Physical Therapy, although UNC had the best program in the country. A Master’s would suffice. That alone knocked $15,000 off the starting salary. He was also looking for a female. Knock off another $10,000. Now we’re talking. In the end his search boiled down to five candidates, three of whom were already gainfully employed by Planet Fitness. He finally settled on Misty Manson, a fully qualified physical therapist who also sported a mighty fine figure. Even though Emory had never married he was nevertheless a card-carrying, male, heterosexual. Mighty fine indeed.


Misty had her undergraduate degree in Biological Science and her Master’s in Physical Therapy from UNC Chapel Hill. She’d hoped to complete her PhD but her Sugar Daddy died and the money ran out. Her Sugar Daddy’s name was Lemuel Forrester. Lem Forrester developed the generalized algorithm for data mining. Every time you click on a link on your phone or laptop LFDMA, llc, gets a tenth of a penny. It adds up!


Lem once told Misty that when he was a younger man, he’d placed first and third in a circle jerk contest. Those were the good days. Lem’s wife of thirty-five years died of ovarian cancer. Those were the bad days. Misty helped Lem get over the bad days. And she helped him re-experience the good days. After a fashion.


Misty accepted Emory’s offer on the spot. The decision wasn’t difficult. Since her premature ejaculation from the student population at UNC, Misty had toiled at a number of temporary jobs, none of which utilized her physical therapist skills. Most recently she was a day-shift lap dancer at the Triangle Cabaret. The tips were good, but the employee benefits program sucked.


It turned out Misty was a pretty good organizer. Once she was settled in an apartment in Springville, she went straight to work. She cleaned out the town hall basement, ordered ten exercise bikes, four Stairmasters and three treadmills. Then she sat down with a local architect. Together they laid out individual offices with floor-to-ceiling walls for Misty and three assistants. They also penciled in male and female dressing rooms, male and female shower areas, and a reception desk.


As an incentive to recruit qualified assistants, Misty ordered top of the line laptops for each of the four offices. The town had an IT department. Misty cajoled the department head into lashing the laptops together into a Local Area Network so the assistants could play computer games against each other during lulls in the action. When the town council saw the bill for the whole shebang, they had second thoughts, but they were already committed. The Springville Senior Wellness Center was the centerfold of their advertising campaign. And Misty Manson was Playmate of the Decade.


For the first couple of years Misty was content to bank her paycheck and run the show. Operating hours were 9:00 to 5:00 five days a week. Misty and her staff showed up at 8:00 every morning to get things started. But then one day on her way to work she blew out the engine in her 2012 Honda Civic, and when she checked her bank balance, she realized something had to change. That’s when she came up with the idea for the Happy Rascals.


Every resident of Springville over the age of 55 was automatically a member of the Springville Senior Wellness Center. The expenses of the Senior Center came out of the town budget. Members were charged $25 per visit, which included an unlimited supply of bottles of water, a locker for their street clothes, personalized fitness programs and hot showers after workouts. T-shirts, caps and gym shorts were sold at the reception desk. All things considered the Springville Senior Wellness Center pretty much paid for itself.


Misty’s staff consisted of three associates, a receptionist, and a part time bookkeeper who also handled the Human Resource stuff. Misty reported directly to the Town Manager, Harry Whitehead, who gave her free rein over the operation. Harry had other fish to fry. He had his hopes pinned on a much more lucrative position down in the Triangle but so far Harry hadn’t had much luck in getting somebody to sponsor him. This was primarily because Harry had a closet drinking problem which exacerbated his issue with anger management, which was itself related to his attitude towards women, but it wasn’t all Harry’s fault. He’d had an overbearing mom and his dad left town for greener pastures when Harry was five.


Misty’s three assistants, two female and one male, were under the age of 35. They were all trained as physical therapists although only the male, Tommy, had an advanced degree. Of the females, Linda had a BA in Biological Sciences from ECU and Mary Beth had an undergraduate degree in History and Political Science from Duke. All three were personable and hardworking but when the clock struck 5:00 they had better things to do than hang around old people.


The town council’s Public Relations campaign seemed to be working. After two years over twenty percent of the town’s permanent residents were eligible for membership in the Senior Wellness Center, a hundred fifty of whom were weekly participants in the program. Another two hundred showed up from time to time to run on the treadmills and dish the local dirt. At the outset of the operation geriatric males outnumbered geriatric females two to one although more and more women seemed to be showing up as the elderly population grew.


Misty not only managed her assistants, she worked alongside them. She had a few favorites among her growing roster of male clientele, one of whom was Gerald Kramer. Gerry had been there from the beginning of the Wellness Center program. He was a retired Senior Programmer from IBM. He’d started out his illustrious career as a third shift operator back in the day when computers were bulky mainframes and worked his way up to become a top-notch systems programmer.


Gerry’s wife, Marge, died in a boating accident on Jordan Lake the year after Gerry retired. When Gerry came across an article on the Springville PR campaign in the local rag, he drove north to see what the fuss was all about. He loved the relaxed pace of Springville. He loved the idea of a Senior Wellness Center. And he was secretly enthralled with Misty even though he was a good forty years older than she was. He sold up and moved to Springville where he was destined to become the leader of the band.


“You look a little out of sorts this morning, sweetheart,” said Gerry, sitting on a metal folding chair across the desk from Misty.


“My damn car broke down on the way to work this morning, Mr. Kramer,” Misty said, shaking her head. “Excuse my French. I just got a call from the repair shop. They said it’ll cost $1,600 to fix the engine. I don’t have a spare $1,600 laying around. And even if I did, after they fix it, it’ll still be a damn 2012 Honda Civic.”


“I wish I could help you out of your dilemma,” said Gerry. “I could loan you the $1,600 but that wouldn’t fix the real problem. Short of marrying a dot com millionaire, I can’t think of a lot of options when it comes to improving your financial prospects long term. Not in Springville, anyhow. I’m sure the town council would go bat shit crazy if you asked them for a raise. Just thinking out loud, but how much do you think it would take to get you out of the hole?”


Misty thought for a moment.


“$600 a week tax free would do the trick,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s what I used to make in tips down in the Triangle. I’m afraid I have a bit of a checkered past, Mr. Kramer. I don’t mind sharing my secret with you, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to any of my friends or colleagues.”


Misty went on the explain her dubious job description when she worked at the Triangle Cabaret before being hired to run the Senior Wellness Center. Gerry listened to her tawdry tale. Gerry was a good listener. He was also more than a tad bit aroused by her plight. And her potential. Nor did Gerry get easily aroused these days.


“So, if we get six guys, counting me, to kick in $100 a week to improve your financial situation that would make you whole?” asked Gerry. “I think that’s doable. What kind of incentive might we offer in exchange for their pecuniary expression of good will?”


“I think we could promise to provide some one-on-one, hands-on stimulation to improve their outlook on life,” said Misty. “All in the name of wellness, of course.”


“I don’t think we should offer to provide this special service during normal business hours, do you?” asked Gerry. “Loose lips sink ships and all that.”


“Say six guys, forty-five minutes each max, fifteen minutes between sessions to clean up after,” said Misty, doing the math. “I’m pretty sure I could provide special needs services between 7:00 and 9:30 three nights a week. If a guy achieves his personal goal a few minutes early, so much the better.”


“I’ll recruit the other five core candidates,” said Gerry. “I can be your guinea pig until we fine tune the process. The seven of us, you included, will form the nucleus of the operation. The inner circle if you will. Once the word gets out, I’m sure there will be lots of other guys who are eager to join in on the fun. You get with the town council to schedule the special needs time slots. I think we need a name for our group of special needs clients. Let’s call them The Happy Rascals.”


“What do you hope to get out of this, Mr. Kramer?” asked Misty suspiciously. “And Happy Rascals works for me.”


“The honest satisfaction that comes from helping a fellow human being out of a jam,” said Gerry with a grin. “Plus of course the joy of periodically achieving my own personal goal.”


“If I’m gonna pitch this to management, don’t you think we need a more sophisticated-sounding title than Happy Rascals?” asked Misty. “Something that sounds vaguely scientific.”


“Good point,” replied Gerry. “How about Holistic Rejuvenation? I think that covers all the bases.”


“I’ll run it up the flagpole and see if Harry salutes,” said Misty with a grin. “Wish me luck.”


Misty went upstairs and walked down the hall to Harry Whitehead’s office. Harry was busy updating a bunch of Excel spreadsheets on his laptop. He glanced up and motioned Misty to enter. She came in and sat down. Misty explained what she and Gerry had in mind, omitting the salient details. She used the phrase Holistic Rejuvenation several times, as if it were a term of common usage within the scientific community.


“Isn’t that really what we’re all about here at the Senior Wellness Center?” she asked. “About putting the spring back in a man’s step. In a woman’s step too, come to that.”


Harry was in one of his rare, good moods. He toggled over to the balance sheet for the Senior Wellness Center and noticed that, in addition to goodwill, they’d generated a cool $160,347 in revenue during the past two years, not counting T-shirts and caps. The town hall was shuttered after 6:00 pm, for all practical purposes, so space was available. Of course, they’d have to engineer secure access to the basement area with card keys and pass codes but that wasn’t impossible. He gave Misty provisional approval to proceed with a nominal budget of $10,000. He suggested a start date three weeks hence. Misty agreed. Misty went back down to her office where Gerry was just hanging up the phone.


“Mr. Kramer,” she smiled. “We have Harry Whitehead’s permission to go ahead with The Holistic Rejuvenation project. I’m excited.”


“Great!” said Gerry, tapping his finger on an open notebook. “I have our other five guys signed up already. Fred Rogers is a retired construction worker from Durham. You’ll like Fred. He comes across as kind of crude when you first meet him, but Fred’s okay. Next there’s Lou Masters. Lou spent his early life teaching high school English. Lou and Fred are widowers. The third guy’s named Jimmie Silver. Jimmie sold insurance for a living. Never married but he did have a live-in girlfriend for seven years, so he obviously appreciates the feminine touch.”


Gerry paused to take a breath.


“Fourth guy’s Desmond Willis,” he continued. “Des is diabetic, divorced and has a pet Golden Retriever. I have no idea what Des did for a living, but he’s loaded. The fifth guy is Reginald Roundtree. Reggie’s also a widower. He wasn’t my first choice, but I think he’ll come around. He drives a luxurious White Cloud Electric Vehicle and generally lives way beyond his means. Spent his career in middle management at IBM. I worked as a techie under Reggie for two years. Reggie takes full credit for everything his minions accomplish. I didn’t like it. Maybe life has changed him. At least he can afford the price of admission. How about we meet for a drink after work and firm up the plan? No strings attached. There’s a nice place on Mill Street. Say 5:30?”


“Maybe you forgot, Mr. Kramer,” pouted the forlorn Misty. “I’m stranded. No wheels. That’s what this Holistic Rejuvenation exercise is all about.”


“I have an idea,” said Gerry, consulting his watch. “I know this car rental place in Rocky Mount. Nothing fancy but the rates are reasonable. How about we drive up for lunch and rent you a compact after? I presume a week will give the shop plenty of time to get your car back on the road.”


“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Kramer,” sighed Misty. “But you’re forgetting something else. I don’t have the $1,600 to get the car fixed.”


“I’ll give you an advance to cover the cost of my Holistic Rejuvenation sessions,” grinned Gerry. “$100 a pop, three times a week, we should be able to work off the $1,600 in a little over a month if we count tips. Make sure you include budget for a tip jar, by the way. Men do the strangest things when they’re basking in the afterglow of achieving a personal goal.”


“Deal,” said Misty with a grin. “But don’t go getting any funny ideas. I hardly know you.”


“Heavy on the hardly, Misty,” smiled Gerry. “Grab your bonnet and let’s go get fed!”


Lunch was at a Mexican place across from the park in Rocky Mount. It was delightful. After lunch Gerry wiped his mouth on a napkin, reached across the table and took Misty’s hand.


“We need to be clear about something before we kick this whole thing off,” he said. “We’ve got the inner circle nailed down, but down the road we need to keep the target population of Happy Rascals to a bare minimum. What we’re proposing isn’t precisely illegal but some of the townsfolk in Springville are a trifle conservative. The fewer guys we invite to participate the better off we are. I know my gender. Once word gets out, I have a feeling we’ll be inundated by applicants. What do we do then?”


“Too many potential clients is a good problem to have,” said Misty. “But I do see your point. I know how many guys I can comfortably handle in a week. No pun intended. If we were down in Raleigh, there’s no shortage of co-eds who’d leap at the chance to lend a hand. But up here I’m not sure where we go to recruit talent. Most of the ladies in town are either retired and arthritic, they’re stay at home housewives or too young for us to talk to.”


“Somebody once said even stay at home housewives have fantasies,” said Gerry. “I suspect those fantasies often involve getting some strange, but I don’t think they necessarily include getting some old strange. On the other hand, I’m sure every bored housewife in town could use a few extra bucks in her cookie jar.”


“If we have to hire outsiders to help out, we need a hierarchy of skill sets,” said Misty. “Let’s call our trainees HR Acolytes. Once they become proficient, they get promoted to HR Practitioners. Eventually the crème de la crème may rise to the level of HR Meritrician.”


“Brilliant,” said Gerry. “And we could set session rates and tip recommendations based on the skill level of the HR professional delivering the service.”


“Didn’t I hear a story about some guy in town who got a mail order bride from Thailand?” asked Misty. “Phuket, I believe they said.”


“It’s pronounced Poo-Ket,” said Gerry gleefully. “Wash your mouth out.”


“Jonathan Wilkerson,” said Misty, pointedly ignoring Gerry. “His mail order bride’s name was Nana. After three years of marital bliss, Jonathan Wilkerson ran off to Atlanta with his secretary. I think an interview with Nana Wilkerson is in the cards. Nana Wilkerson could be our first HR Acolyte.”


“Probably be a good idea to sound her out before we get too deeply involved,” said Gerry. “Would you like for me to do the interview?”


“It’s best if I handle that delicate task,” sniffed Misty. “I’m not entirely convinced of your ability to draw an unbiased conclusion. Like asking a fox to impartially assess the egg-laying talent in a henhouse.”


“I am shocked, Ms. Manson, shocked!” said Gerry, but he was secretly relieved. He wasn’t sure his body rub interviewing techniques were up to date. “Let’s go get your rental car.”


Nana Wilkerson was a treat to interview. She was petite, polite, accommodating and delightfully submissive. Furthermore, she confessed that she was intimately familiar with the ticking of a man’s testosterone-fueled inner clockwork and admitted in hushed tones that she knew the best way to guiltlessly alleviate his stress.


Nana worked days cleaning houses in and around Springville. She had two coworkers of Hispanic descent who might be amenable to contributing to the Holistic Rejuvenation project. Yes, she was willing to train them if Misty thought that would help. In fact, Nana was willing to demonstrate her skills on Misty right now if she was so disposed. They were equally effective on the female of the species, although the delivery technique varied of necessity. Misty said she’d take a rain check, and could Nana start work next week? Nana said she’d love to.


Six months later the Holistic Rejuvenation project was up and cooking. Misty had hired seven Acolytes and promoted three of them to Practitioners. She and Gerry set the going price per half hour session at $25 for an Acolyte, $50 for a Practitioner and $75 for a Meritrician. Misty was the sole Meritrician so far, but Nana wasn’t far behind. They also suggested a tip of $100 per session, more if the level of individual satisfaction warranted. Happiness at the Senior Wellness Center was on the rise and the tip jars were overflowing.


At 6:15 on a Monday evening Misty was in her office preparing for the nocturnal onslaught of Happy Rascals. The night’s dance card was filled, with menfolk waiting in the wings in case somebody called in and cancelled. Came a knock at Misty’s door. She opened it. Standing outside, hat in hand, was a member of the Oxford County constabulary. In the back of her mind Misty had always known this day would come but she wasn’t quite yet ready to be arrested. Things were going so well.


“Come in, Officer,” said Misty. “How can I help?”


“My name is Race Carson,” said the cop, ambling into the room. “I’ve heard rumors about certain activities hereabouts and I was curious to know what’s going on.”


“Nothing illegal, I assure you,” said Misty.


“That’s not what I meant,” stammered the officer. “I’m not here in an official capacity. But my sister-in-law, Melanie, might be able to help you folks out.”


It turned out Melanie was recently widowed. Her husband Fred, Race’s brother, had got killed in a car crash up in Rocky Mount five months back. The family didn’t have much cash and Melanie had four kids to support. Race heard there might be work for an enterprising young woman and he wondered if Misty might want Melanie’s contact information. Well Misty sure would like to talk to Melanie whenever it was convenient. As luck would have it, Melanie was sitting outside in Race’s cop car right now.


Race went back out and brought Melanie in. Now Melanie wasn’t much to look at, but Misty could see she was a damsel in distress and Misty was a soft touch, so she ushered Race out into the hall, closed the office door, sat Melanie down and did the whole fifty cent interview. A good thing she did, too, because Melanie possessed a skill set that was unique. Melanie specialized in stimulating the frenulum.


“I’m not sure what a frenulum is,” said Misty. “Can you enlighten me?”


“Sure can, sweetheart,” said Melanie. “You know that flap of skin under the head of a man’s penis? That there’s a frenulum. It’s real sensitive to a woman’s touch if she knows how to touch it. Perks up a man’s pee-pee something fierce. I used to bring old Fred to attention on a nightly basis. Old Fred, he never complained.”


“I could see how that might solidify a marital relationship,” said Misty pensively. “But I’m not sure how it applies within the context of Holistic Rejuvenation.”


“It seems to me you’re ignoring half your potential customers,” said Melanie. “Frenulums aren’t restricted to menfolk. Womenfolk have frenulums too. Tucked up deep inside their female parts. I’ve never tried my stimulation technique on a female frenulum, but I can’t imagine it wouldn’t do the trick. All I’m asking is a chance to try.”


Which led to the formation of the Happy Rachels, a distaff group that convened Tuesdays and Thursdays in the basement of the Springville town hall. The best part was it turned out Melanie’s frenulum-stimulating skills weren’t entirely a matter of hereditary. They could be taught. Soon the entire HR staff were fully trained in male and female frenulum stimulation. And the happiness level of Springville Seniors soared.


Wednesday afternoon three months later. Gerry Kramer knocked on Misty Manson’s office door.


“Come in,” Misty sobbed.


“What is it, Misty?” asked Gerry, coming in and closing the door.


She handed Gerry an envelope. Inside the envelope was an 8 ½ X 11 grainy black and white photograph. The photograph showed Misty perched on the wooden stool, reaching toward Gerry who was sprawled on the massage table. You could just make out the curve of Misty’s naked breast. The caption on the photo read “Gerald Kramer, a Happy Rascal whose Nipple Misty Pinched.” Attached to the photo was a post-it note that read “$10,000 keeps the secret, Refusal breaks the bond. The Oxford County Register Gazette would love to spread the news. Details to follow shortly.”


“What the fuck?” muttered Gerry, sitting in the guest chair. “I thought what we did in your office was private. Where did this picture come from?”


“I have no idea,” said Misty. “But if the newspaper gets hold of this, we’re sunk. I don’t know what to do.”


“Let’s think this thing through,” said Gerry studying the photo. “The angle rules out an overhead spy cam. In fact, the only possible lens must have been situated on your desk. Hang on a second.”


He got up and went around to Misty’s side of the desk. Her laptop was open.


“Did you know your laptop has two camera lenses? One looking toward you and the other looking in the opposite direction. Looks to me like somebody took a picture using the outward facing lens. No wait. Not a picture. This looks like a still frame from a video. Shit! Scoot over. I need to look at your hard drive storage.”


Misty went around her desk and sat in the guest chair while Gerry rifled through the contents of Misty’s hard drive.


“Son of a bitch!” Gerry exclaimed. “He’s been recording all your Holistic Rejuvenation sessions. Wait here.”


Gerry went into the office next door. When he came back, he was shaking his head.


“Next door too,” he said, sitting back down on Misty’s desk chair. “Looks like somebody’s been taping everything that goes on behind closed doors. Fuck! Let me think for a minute.”


Gerry scratched his head. Then he began typing away furiously on Misty’s keyboard. After a while he stopped and smiled.


“Gotcha!”


“What is it? Or rather should I say who is it?”


“I don’t have a name, but I do have an IP Address,” said Gerry. “I can see the device that was used to select the camera lens and activate the recording app. And I’m pretty sure I can guess who owns it. We need to call a meeting of the inner circle. Now.”


Thirty minutes later the inner circle was assembled in Misty’s office. It was cramped as hell. Gerry and Misty were behind Misty’s desk. Fred Rogers sat in the guest chair. Lou Masters stood next to Fred. Jimmie Silver and Desmond Willis sat on the massage table. Reggie Roundtree stood beside the closed door.


“One of you twisted shits is trying to blackmail Ms. Manson,” said Gerry, pulling out his iPhone. “I don’t know which one it is, but I’ll tell you this straight out. Ms. Manson is under the protective custody of The Dancer, and nobody fucks with The Dancer.”


Gerry scrolled down to his contacts list and selected a number. He clicked on the number. Reggie’s phone rang.


“Gotcha!” exclaimed Gerry.


Reggie bolted from the room, exited the basement through the after-hours door, jumped in his White Cloud, burned rubber, and headed off down the road. Gerry shook his head sadly.


“I never did trust that son of a bitch,” he said.


“What are we going to do?” wailed Misty. “He’s got the photo, he’s headed to the Oxford County Register Gazette, and he’s sure as Hell gonna blow our cover. We’re all fucked!”


Fred, Lou, Jimmie and Des just looked bewildered.


“I don’t fucking think so,” said Gerry. “Watch this.”


He tapped an icon on his iPhone. The screen was filled with the scene of a dusty country road. Misty realized she was looking at the live feed from the forward-facing camera on Reggie’s White Cloud. Gerry tapped on a Joystick Controller icon at the top of the iPhone screen. Four Arrow Buttons and an ENTER Button were superimposed on the screen. Gerry tapped the ENTER Button. Then he tapped the UP-Arrow Button. The White Cloud accelerated. Gerry tapped the RIGHT-Arrow Button. The White Cloud veered sharply to the right and barreled straight into a large oak tree. The screen went blank.


“Nobody fucks with The Dancer,” Gerry said, pocketing his iPhone.


“I think I love you,” said Misty. “Dancer.”