OK, so some of you enjoyed that story-telling experience. Let's tweak the rules a bit (I love tweaking rules--kind of like Calvinball) to allow more than two sentences per comment. You now get up to five sentences and four comments each. No socks, no sax, no sects. The photo is an illustration to get you started. This time the story will be about Annie, a maiden who lives on the edge of a forest near Talkeetna, Alaska.
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The advent of spring was always exciting for Annie, even though it meant that the rising rivers would attract those ridiculous city slickers from the lower 48 who wore their unfathomable tie-dyed fishing vests. The growing number of daylight hours would allow her to start her little herb garden under the attic window and soon she would be producing those amazing delicacies that came only from her kitchen. As she sat by the window watching the dripping icicles, Annie's eye caught an unfamiliar movement about twenty yards down the gravel path. It was still too early to be seeing bears, and besides, bears don't wear orange slacks.
"Annie!" a deep masculine voice shouted. She peered carefully and saw him, all 6 feet of muscular strength and warmth. She shook her head, trying to will herself back to the present. It was a road she promised she wouldn't tread upon again. That was, until Michael trained those baby blues on her, a wide and inviting grin at the ready. The dessert-making could wait.
She hadn't seen Michael since she first entered the Federal Witness Protection program and was stuggling to learn to spell Talkeetna. Michael's charm had helped convince her that Frizzy D'Angelo would never be able to find her once she got to Alaska. Frizzy would never believe that she could leave the exciting and lucrative world of diamond smuggling to settle down as a small-town, snow-bound bon vivant. What Frizzy wouldn't have been surprised about was what exactly Annie was planning to do with her "delicacies".
"What are you doing here? And why are you wearing orange pants?" Annie inquired incredulously as soon as she found her voice.
"Undercover at the visitors' center... dope smugglers...took a break to see you... Hey! I look good in these pants! Orange is the new red!" he replied, breathless and equally incredulous. "Something smells delicious, Annie, I didn't know you could cook!"
Michael shifted his eyes away from hers. He noticed the almost floor to ceiling stacks of boxes lining the back wall of her kitchen - many with international labels. "I guess you've been doing a lot," he said. He picked up the box from the kitchen table, which stood as sentry between the two of them, and studied its label - still avoiding her gaze. "You're sending soap to Angola?"
"Yeah," Annie said. "I've been corresponding on Internet chat rooms with a sheepherder. We talk about his dreams and desires. He found out I make soap and, well, he's tired of smelling like sheep."
Annie, who had never been accused of being smart, was oblivious to the concept that those in the Witness Protection Program were to take every precaution to maintain anonymity. She had also never stopped to think that shepherds in Angola don't spend their days chatting on the Internet.
Michael looked at her with growing dread. *How much information have you told the sheep man?*. Have you shared our...*recipe*? She looked back at Michael and flinched as she recalled that memory that she had tried so hard to forget.
A UPS truck jerked to a stop outside a Manhattan bar named Jerry's Place. The driver carried in a seven-pound box labeled Fragile and asked for "Hudanda Mawebe." He was surprised when a heavy-set Mafia type looked up from his table and said, "Yeah, over here, pal." Noticing the perplexed expression on the driver's face, Mr. Mawebe explained, "It's some fishing stuff from Alaska; I got people there." Odd, thought the driver as he left, it smells more like perfume.
He was momentarily saddened by the fact that she had so easily fallen for the story of the "shepherd" from Angola, when in fact, the guy chatting with her was an inmate serving time at the state prison in Angola Louisiana who performed every year as one of the rodeo clowns. The whole ruse was nearly exposed the year before, when the rodeo clown had been knocked to the ground by a bull and rendered unconscious, which had caused a temporary loss of memory.
"That Annie always was a gullible little thing", he thought to himself as he sniffed in the sumptuous and sensual mix of black cardamom (cardoman?) and lavender and promptly sneezed (for he was allergic to lavender. It was the allergy that had brought he and Annie together in the first place.
A week passed since Hudanda had smelled the cardamon and lavender. Michael's conference at the visitor's center was finished, but he chose to remain in the area, often running into Annie in town or dropping by her cabin. Michael knew something was wrong with Annie - she remained so distant - because no one needs that much soap.
Unbeknownst to either of them, a small plane landed at the closest airport - 250 miles away. A swarthy Mafia-type guy emerged from the plane and removed his turban to reveal a shock of frizzy red hair.
"Mawabe, Fawabe...jeesh. Hey howyadoin. Ya know where I can get a good espresso and maybe some baklava?" he asked the baggage clerk/custodian. He was glad to lose the turban, but he still loved a good baklava. "Gee. The only one around here who goes for that fancy foreign stuff is Annie over in Talkeetna." He started giving the red head directions to Annie's place.
Frizzy worked hard to conceal his surprise at being found out. He had purposely avoided landing in Anchorage because he had been alerted that Michael was in the area. But now here on Kodiak Island was a "baggage clerk" who knew Annie and was giving him directions: "You'll have to go into Anchorage to rent a car, but the directions are simple--just stay on Highway 1 North until it connects with Highway 3. About 50 miles north, after Woman Lake, there will be a right turn onto Talkeetna Road." After making sure he wasn't being followed, Frizzy headed for the nearest bathroom.
Even a good hitman has certain priorities. After a well-deserved relief break, Frizzy reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the sunscreen. SPF 30, of course. No self-respecting red-head would spend a few days in a land with no night without taking the necessary precautions. It may be cold out, but that sunlight can be a real bitch on the complexion.
A woman slammed open the bathroom door. "Get out!!!" She screamed at him. Frizzy looked her up and down and noticed a lot: the fishnet stockings, the wig, the chest spilling over her sequined top. "Hey, take it easy," he purred, "I have respect for the working girls." She smiled at him and reached into her purse.
She pulled out what looked like a simple lipstick, but it was really a transmitter with GPS. She playfully smiled at Frizzy as she applied the lipstick. "Would you like to respectfully engage a working girl?"
"Ya wanna go on a road trip? I kinda got the itch to explore over Talkeetna way." Frizzy inquired. Frizzy thought he heard a little hiccup of surprise from the lady. "Love to, Agnes is my name, charmed, I'm sure." She held out her hand.
A thousand miles away, Michael's boss was listening to the conversation between "Agnes" and Frizzy with eager fascination. "Have you alerted Agent Nelson to Frizzy D'Angelo's location?" he asked his lieutenant. "He's in the area and I can't think of anyone who would be more helpful bringing in this scumbag. See if he can get to the Anchorage airport within an hour. That ought to give him time to be ready when Agent Flemmings comes in with D'Angelo."
But "Agnes" Flemmings would have to make the bust herself. The lieutenant never got in touch with Michael Nelson. It seems he and a female companion had used Canadian passports to make a night flight to Finland. Weeks later, following a tip from an inmate in Louisiana, Agent Flemmings and half a dozen colleagues smashed through the door of a small cabin near Talkeetna, Alaska. All they found was a half-eaten cake in a kitchen filled with boxes of soap.
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