I came up with this idea a while back - as usual. For some reason, I forgot about it, and then I was flipping through a list I had, of ideas, and decided right then and there that I was going to write it. I whipped up this chapter in about 30 minutes flat. Amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it- eh?

R, E, and R! (Read, Enjoy, and Review!)

The Melting Man

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Do you know, the Melting Man?

The Melting Man;

the Melting Man.

Do you know, the Melting Man,

who drives from Borrow to Nome?

Congratulations, [a line was placed where someone had written the word;] Hamilton Holt,

You have been selected f-r our annual Toughest Truck Driver Competition. Your name was enter- in a drawing, and your selection was - [a line was placed where someone had written the word;] The Sahara Desert.

The competition begins on [another line and another written word] May, 15. Your assignment is to drive five loads of potatoes across the Sahara Desert on your latterly assigned dates with the quickest times. A- hotel and plane fees will b- paid for.

Your competition will be driving similar, harsh climates with measured, similar lengths. If you have any complains with this, please cal– 9—7~~89.

Another letter will be sent containing more information on this contest.

To exempt from th- competition, p-ease call: 1800-567–0—. Thank you.

Hamilton Holt stared in disbelief at the letter. All other mail had dropped, unheeded, to the ground, and was beginning to blow around the room along with a white blur of snowflakes. Groping behind him, Hamilton pulled out a chair and slumped down in it, oblivious to anything, and everything.

Suddenly, he shot up, slamming the letter on the wooden table in disgust. "After fifteen years, they do this?" Hamilton blinked in surprise as he saw that a small snowdrift was forming on the corner of his couch and coffee table. He turned around, closed the door, and sat back in the chair to stare at the letter.

And of course, the most important part, the exempt phone number, was watered out. Groaning in frustration, Hamilton got up and began to gather the other mail from around the room. It too was partially watered out, but there hadn't been a big problem with that. Not until now.

Sitting down, Hamilton flipped through the other letters. "Bill, bill, bill, water, phone, electric... Yadda, yadda, yadda. Ten. All there." Whistling now, Hamilton reached out with his foot to the nearby kitchen cabinets and kicked one open. An iron pot tumbled out, spilling piles of paper on the slightly damp floor. Rolling his eyes, even though he knew he would never fix the problem, Hamilton scooped up the pot and slopped it on the table, dumping the newer bills into it. He would do them later. There was a bigger problem on hand.

Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, Hamilton prayed that the snowstorm wouldn't knock out reception, and pressed 5-Send. His boss picked up on the first ring, thankfully.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, what is it? I'm busy here. I can't be interrupted by the likes of-"

"Griper, it's me."

The voice shut up quick. "Hammer, it's you. Good. I've been aching to talk to someone who's not concerned about when their cabbage is going to arrive. What's the problem?"

Hamilton glanced down at the letter in his hand. "It's a big one. Sure you want to listen?"

Griper was confident now - assured. Hamilton grinned slightly on the other end of the line. "Put me up to it. It won't be as bad as that road spill up by Fairbanks."

"A spill by Fairbanks? Haven't heard of that one."

"Oh, it was just a load of fish. Middie said that he wasn't going to be able to look at another pike for days. Eh, you know the drill."

"I still can't stand soybeans," Hamilton chuckled under his breath. "Anyway, Gripe, you need to take a look at this for me. I just got this letter in the mail and it says I was entered in this... Toughest Truck Driver Competition? Now there's got to be a mistake. I didn't enter myself in anything, and I've been working for Power-Produce for fifteen years - going on sixteen! And you know me. I don't bother with anything outside of the truck stops. I didn't do this, and I want to know who did. Get to the bottom of it for me, will you?"

Dead silence on the other end of the line.

Hamilton shook his phone, begging the wireless to connect again. He wondered slightly, if the storm outside was getting worse. It was suppose to be the coming of spring. He'd have to re-tape the pipes if the weather kept this up.

"Naw, Ham, come on. You're fooling yourself. You're the best truck driver up past Anchorage, and you know it. This'll be a piece of cake for you."

Hamilton stared at his phone for a long time. "You signed me up for this stupid contest, didn't you, Griper."

"If you win, the company pays you mucho-bucks. I'm talking about fifty-grand here, Hammer. This is big-time. And if you do win, you win for us. I'm talking like- us part of the company, really. This Alaska section can be recognized. You know what I'm talking about?"

Hamilton felt like he wanted to crush his cell phone into minuscule pieces. "I know what you're talking about, and I don't like it."

"Hammer, who drove all the way to Nome when the power lines were out? Hm? Come one, I know you know the answer."

Hamilton debated pressing the 'end' key on his phone. He hesitated. "... I did."

"Of course, oh, modest-one. And who was the first one when Millie's eight wheeler flipped with that load of tomatoes? Come on, spit it out, buddy."

"Me... Oh, for crying out loud, Griper, just tell me the exempt number and get off the line!"

"Exempt number? Oh, then that did work."

"Griper..." Hamilton could feel a few ugly words on the tip of his tongue.

"Freeze it, Hammy-boy. The mail-carrier did his job then. Good. Now, I'm not going to tell you the exempt number because I don't want to, and you're the best person for this job. All us states had to insert a person to do the competition, if that makes you feel any better."

Hamilton lost his temper. "Why don't you sign MILLIE-BOY up? I am delivering potatoes in the SAHARA DESERT! The SAHARA, Griper! I don't know if you ever studied Geography, but it's in AFRICA! AFRICA! I am DELIVERING POTATOES IN AFRICA! Do you even know why I came to ALASKA to drive?"

Griper didn't even get a chance to respond.

"I HATE THE HEAT! It drives me NUTS! I can't THINK straight in that sweltering, stupid, YELLOW CLIMATE!"

"Why yellow?"

"Because it's HOT, you idiot!" Hamilton got a grip on himself slightly and wondered if he could be fired for calling his boss 'an idiot'. "BECAUSE THE SUN IS YELLOW! Why ELSE?"

"I was just asking."

"Ah..." Hamilton stood up and kicked the cabinet door that had held the pot with the bills, closed. It popped back open since he kicked it so hard. "Ah... Then that just makes everything PEACHY doesn't it? You can ask, and I'll give you answers, but you WON'T GIVE ME THE STUPID EXEMPTION NUMBER!"

"Hamilton, your next letter is scheduled by the mail-carrier to arrive on the 5h. You leave on the 10th. You have five days to adjust yourself to the heat before you start the competition."

"YOU KNOW WHAT ADJUSTING I'M GOING TO DO? YOUR-"

There was a click to signal that the call was over.

Hamilton threw his phone into the cubbard with the bills, and locked it.

Good so far? Great!

Now here's the thing.

Chapter two is not written. I am not going to write chapter two if people don't like this story. If you like the plotline, and where I've directed this to go, then please review, and tell me. If you don't, and I have a limited number of people who comment, and said they don't like it/don't like where it's going - I'll cut it, and this is the end of; The Melting Man.

Question; How'd you like my little poem up there? Came up with it all by myself. *grins widely*