Disclaimer: I do not own Budweiser, and am in no way affiliated with their Advertising Team, so don't expect polar bears, or mauling by polar bears, in any of their future commercials. I do not own the White House, or the president. If I owned the president, I would get him a dictionary, a speech therapist, and a one-way ticket to a certain Craphole Island, where he would be foisted upon Jack, Kate, Locke, the French Chick, Charlie, Claire, and Turniphead (who is guilty by association to the womb from which he came). I do not own Playboy (the mansion, the bunny,or the magazine). Drake's Diner is fictional, as far as I know. If I'm wrong, I do not own Drake's Diner. I do not own carrot sticks, floral-patterned sofas, Motel 6 (even though my dad composed their theme song), the Buccaneers (if such a team exists), or Barton Park (yet another vision of our beloved Victorian Man-Hater). I do not own Pretty Woman (the rights or the film), or, unfortunately, since he has disturbingly-gorgeous hair (at least he did until Shall We Dance), Richard Gere. I do not own the lottery, cabins, the stereotypical characteristics of cabins, skilifts, the stereotypical characteristics of the elderly, the phrase "humble abode," cacti, dog food, dip, escape routes, the CIA, dumpsters, Shakespearian phrases, or anything you may endeavor to sue me for. I DO own The Imaginary University of Denver, its admission policies, and my retainer.
Previously on On Thin Ice: We are introduced to Phoenix Drake, the only female member, and the Captain, of the St. Cloud State University Varsity Hockey Team. Phoenix obliterates Jerome Kush's manhood. Phoenix's father (who is no longer among the breathing) had a son from a previous marriage, who has a wife and a child of his own. Phoenix has two sisters (Dallas and Manhattan). Justin Drake loves breaking promises. Ferris Drake loves pinching pennies, until they disintegrate. Mrs. Drake loves to hate Justin and Ferris. Manhattan loves romance novels. Garrett Frankford loves Dallas. Garrett Frankford's mother LOVES Garrett! Phoenix is more concerned about Garrett Frankford's lack of Artistic Expertise than she is about his similarity to a tomato.
"If you're determined to imprison someone in a hotel, make sure it's a ridiculously-expensive one." –Dallas Drake
Drake's Diner: The Surprises That Come From Falling
Very few things in life came naturally to Phoenix Drake.
In fact, hockey was the only thing she could have done in her sleep, with both hands and both feet tied behind her back.
Only her father understood that hockey made her feel alive.
While others tolerated her love of the game, her father loved her all the more because of it.
For her eighth birthday, Harold made Phoenix her own ice skating rink.
It was in those first moments on the ice that she would learn one of the most valuable lessons a person can be taught.
With trembling fingers, she laced up her skates.
Legs wobbling, she held out her hand to her father.
Hand clasped firmly in his, she allowed him to escort her onto the makeshift rink.
She took a single tentative step.
And then another.
Confidence sufficiently boosted, she released his hand.
Immediately, she landed on her ass.
Unshed tears shimmering in her eyes, she glared up at him.
Petulantly, she pouted, "You promised me I would be great."
Rather than laugh at his overwhelmed daughter, Harold Drake affectionately chucked her under the chin.
"You WILL be great, my Phoenix, but greatness takes time. With time, and practice, I promise you, you will revolutionize the game of hockey."
Phoenix's eyes bulged in wonder.
"But, I…I don't want to revorution anything. I just don't want to fall down."
He helped her to her feet, placing a tender kiss to her forehead.
"Sometimes, Sweetheart, the best things in life come from falling down."
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: A Revolutionary Swashbuckler
It would take many years, and a decidedly-stoic young man, for Phoenix to fully absorb the wisdom of those words.
She had never forgotten the grave tone of his voice.
The way his eyes had clouded over, how his brow had furrowed, would forever be emblazoned in her memory.
That was the most resolute he had ever been.
Well, that, and whenever he insisted that she WOULD play hockey for The Imaginary University of Denver Buccaneers.
"You and that team are destined to be a perfect match, my Phoenix," he would triumphantly declare.
"After all, where better for a woman to revolutionize the game of hockey, than on a team called the Buccaneers? You will swashbuckle your way onto the scoreboard…and into the hearts of your adoring fans!"
She simply nodded, smiled, and squeezed his hand.
She was incapable of arguing with such unwavering faith in her potential abilities.
And, as he was so fond of reminding her, he was NEVER wrong.
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Bleeding Hearts and Busted Groins
During her Junior Year of high school, she applied to The Imaginary University of Denver.
Racing to the mailbox, to see who could find her acceptance letter first, became a daily tradition.
The day the letter came, her father won the race.
With tears in his eyes, he tore into the envelope.
Devastated, he read aloud these crushing words:
"Phoenix Drake, we regret to inform you that without one of our Athletic Scouts expressing an interest in you specifically, we are unable to accept you into our Sports Program. Thank you for applying."
During her Senior Year of high school, an Athletic Scout from The Imaginary University of Denver expressed an interest in her specifically.
She was unable to meet with him; however, as she had caught the flu from Jerome Kush.
The resulting pummeling of Jerome Kush's groin miraculously soothed her immeasurable rage.
Unfortunately, she was powerless to mend her father's broken heart.
Harold Drake spent weeks on the phone, pleading with said Athletic Scout to meet with Phoenix for five minutes.
The Athletic Scout adamantly refused to reschedule the appointment.
For months, Phoenix simply COULDN'T look into her father's eyes.
She feared that if she dared to meet his gaze, her failures would be reflected within their hazel depths.
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Of Farewells and Falling
"What if I can't do this," Phoenix had sobbed uncontrollably, during her final conversation with her father.
Harold Drake weakly held his daughter to his chest.
"What if I'm not talented enough?"
She hadn't meant to unburden all of her pent up anxieties upon him, not when he needed her to be strong, for all of them, not when her mother wasn't eating and her sisters weren't sleeping and their debts were skyrocketing.
"What if I was never meant to play hockey? What if the day comes when I fall, and I just…don't get back up again?"
He murmured soothingly against her hair, "Phoenix, I raised a daughter who can accomplish anything she sets her mind to. I raised a daughter who will get into The Imaginary University of Denver, and when she does, she'll be skating circles around her teammates. But, most importantly, I raised a daughter who is willing to seek help when she needs it. You have a habit of pushing away, and judging people before you really get to know them, which is understandable, since you do take after your mother's side of the family, a little. Promise me that you won't form opinions of others based on first impressions alone, and always remember that I'm proud of you."
The Contemplations of Phoenix Drake: Realization of Dreams...for the Purpose of Plot Advancement
A month after her father's death, Phoenix forced herself to apply to The Imaginary University of Denver.
Moment of truth, Drake!
If you don't do this now, it isn't going to happen.
Everything your father wanted for you, everything you wanted for yourself, is riding on this.
You may have fallen before, but it's NEVER too late to get back up!
It wasn't until a spectacular morning in September (the sky was a dazzling blue, with not a cloud to be seen; the birds were harmonizing beneath her window; the grass was lush and immaculately-mowed; a gentle breeze teasingly fluttered her curtains) that she finally received the answer she had spent her ENTIRE life wishing for.
After years of falling down, Phoenix Drake was about to embark upon one of the greatest adventures of her life.
Phoenix's Bedroom: Winning a Different Kind of Lottery
On the Spectacular September Morning in question, Dallas pranced into Phoenix's room.
Whistling a jaunty tune, she wildly waved an envelope beneath Phoenix's nose.
"Let me guess," Phoenix snappishly grunted, "your irrational perkiness is a result of this month's issue of Playboy coming early."
Dallas flippantly brushed this off with a sassy, "If by 'this month's issue of Playboy' you mean your letter from The Imaginary University of Denver, then, yes, that is the cause of my 'irrational perkiness.'"
Observing Phoenix's slack jaw and glazed eyes, Dallas anxiously placed a hand against her sister's wrist, to check for a pulse.
Satisfied that Phoenix's heart hadn't stopped, Dallas mauled the envelope.
Scanning its contents, she piercingly shrieked, "THIS IS FROM COACH MARKSON! HE SAW YOU WIN THAT LAST CHAMPIONSHIP FOR THE HUSKIES, AND HE WANTS TO MEET WITH YOU ABOUT A FULL-RIDE SCHOLARSHIP AND A STARTING POSITION ON THE TEAM, AND YOUR FAMILY'S WELCOME TO COME WITH YOU, AND OH MY GOD! YOU DID IT, KIDDO!"
Dallas catapulted herself at Phoenix, nearly strangling her with the force of the embrace.
Instantly regaining her sensibility, Dallas somberly proclaimed, "Dad always knew you would make it."
Dallas's hysteria had, understandably, alerted the entire household to the fact that a life-altering event was taking place in Phoenix's bedroom.
Within about three minutes, they had all swarmed into the already-cramped space, demanding to know if she'd won the lottery.
The sadistic glint in Ferris's eyes betrayed her delusions that if Phoenix had indeed won, she, Justin, and Harper would assume the responsibility of receiving the cash prize.
As Phoenix had yet to reactivate her powers of speech, it fell upon Dallas's shoulders to announce that Phoenix was millimeters away from becoming a student at The Imaginary University of Denver.
And, consequently, they would be traveling to The Imaginary University of Denver, as soon as possible, to meet with Coach Markson about a scholarship and a potential position on the team.
Mrs. Drake fainted against Manhattan, who looked as if she might swoon herself (over the romanticism of Phoenix achieving her dream), at any second.
Harper blithely jabbered, "Phoenix go bye-bye."
Justin raced forward to offer Phoenix a hearty slap on the back.
Ferris regally propped herself against the door, glaring daggers at her husband for daring to congratulate THAT PHOENIX VERMIN.
Those daggers increased tenfold, as he dutifully piped up that once everything with Phoenix was settled, he would be glad to help them move (since he was certain that Mrs. Drake had no intention of being separated from any of her children), by calling an inexpensive moving company for them.
He couldn't possibly cover the cost of the moving bill, but the phone call was the least he could do.
Road Trip to The Imaginary University of Denver: Garrett is no Gere
Two weeks after receiving the letter from Coach Markson, the day of the Road Trip to Denver had arrived.
It was without any remorse, whatsoever, that Mrs. Drake, and her daughters, bid Justin and Ferris a chilly farewell.
Of course, Harper, and their tiny, yet beloved, residence on Norwick Lane, would be dreadfully missed.
Crammed into the backseat, beneath a mountain of luggage, Phoenix and Dallas decided to while away the seemingly-endless amount of miles between themselves and Denver with a discussion of their memories of life on Norwick Lane.
"Remember the first time we met Justin," Dallas hesitantly questioned.
"And, he…he said he wanted to trade us in for 'more expensive' sisters," Phoenix guffawed merrily.
"Remember the first time we met Ferris," Dallas gasped, between uncharacteristic bursts of mirth.
"And, she kept demanding that we put away her coat and bring her drinks and serve her lunch, and where the hell were Justin's damn sisters, and didn't they have enough civility to ENTERTAIN their guest?"
Tears were streaming down Phoenix's cheeks.
Regardless, she still managed to splutter, "And remember what Garrett Frankford told you when you informed him that you were leaving Norwick Lane?"
All the color drained from Dallas's face.
Her golden eyes narrowed to slits.
"THAT'S NOT FAIR! I didn't tell you because…because…," she gritted murderously.
"Because you knew I would throttle him senseless with my hockey stick when I found out," Phoenix venomously supplied.
"NO," Dallas snarled defiantly.
"I didn't tell you because…you're already so determined to believe that he isn't right for me."
She crumpled forlornly against the seat.
"And, I love him, so I want you to love him, too. But, what he said would have made throttling him senseless with your hockey stick incredibly tempting."
Silently, Phoenix reached for Dallas's hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze.
Dallas brokenly stammered, "I told him on Friday night, after dinner, when he was about to leave. I walked him to the front porch, and before he even had a chance to thank me for inviting him over, I just blurted out that I was going to Denver for you, and I wasn't sure when, or even if, I would be returning. He just whimpered that I wasn't obligated to go. In fact, if I stayed here, with him, he would be willing to…to…OH, KIDDO! IT'S JUST SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO DREADFUL! HE TOLD ME THAT IF I STAYED WITH HIM...HE'D BE WILLING TO RENT A MOTEL ROOM FOR ME TO LIVE IN!"
Dallas melodramatically blew her nose all over Phoenix's sleeve, wailing, "IT'S LIKE…DALLAS, YOU'RE NOT DECENT ENOUGH TO BE MY WIFE, BUT YOU'RE PERFECTLY WORTHY OF BEING HELD CAPTIVE IN A BLOODY MOTEL 6!"
Manhattan swooned dreamily from the front seat.
"Dal! That's BEYOND romantic! Remember what happened in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere told Julia Roberts that he would pay for her apartment, if she just stayed with him? She turned him down for all those brilliant, feminist reasons. But, in the end, he realized that he couldn't survive without her, so he brought a rose to her on the fire escape."
Dallas blew her nose even more fervently, yowling, "BUT…GARRETT FRANKFORD IS NOT RICHARD GERE," before lapsing into an indignant and contemplative silence, for the remainder of the journey.
University-Provided Cabin: Of Bears and Beer
Phoenix was utterly EXHAUSTED.
I might have worn myself out with the bitchtacular ranting about EVERY Motel 6 we passed.
But, what sort of GENTLEMAN believes a MOTEL ROOM is a proper substitute for a PROPOSAL?
Dallas, why the fuck are you settling for Garrett Frankford?
You deserve a man who would build you a castle in the sky.
Rather than exploring with her mother and sisters, Phoenix CLOMPED toward the back of the dwelling, searching for the bedroom with the most scenic view.
It was a rustic, should-have-been-on-a-postcard cabin, located just fifteen minutes away from The Imaginary University of Denver Campus, in Barton Park.
The walls were wood paneling.
The floors were wood paneling.
From its position before the fireplace, a bearskin rug (with the head still attached) leered up at them.
Deer, moose, and elk heads were mounted above the mantle, scrutinizing their every move through glassy eyes.
The dim lighting was sensual enough to inspire Manhattan to suggest roasting marshmallows they didn't have, over a fire they didn't know how to construct.
As if the discovery of the animal heads wasn't unsettling enough, Mrs. Drake, Dallas, and Manhattan were utterly flummoxed by the skilift positioned three feet from their backyard.
"Great," Manhattan shrilled theatrically, "first the deer head condemns me with its unblinking eyes, and now…A SKILIFT? You know what this means don't you?"
Petrified, Dallas and Mrs. Drake could only wring their hands.
Manhattan lowered her voice to an ominous whisper.
"It means that we'll be INVADED by high school students on Senior Trips."
Dallas frantically gulped.
Mrs. Drake grinned wryly, inclining her head to the left of the skilift Manhattan predicted would torment them to no end.
"Things COULD be worse. Imagine how the poor simpleton, the one being paid to put a shirt on a polar bear, feels right now."
Dallas and Manhattan gawked, thoroughly aghast, as the polar bear lunged at the simpleton in question, knocking down the horrified Budweiser Camera Crew, in the process, like so many bowling pins.
"Budweiser's Advertising Campaign peaked with frogs," Manhattan philosophized dreamily.
"Polar bears are too cuddly to sell beer. Although, if the footage of this guy getting his ass mauled is included in the commercial, I can basically guarantee that every guy I know will turn to alcoholism after watching it."
Phoenix's Bedroom: So, You've Conquered My Bed, But You WON'T Conquer My Heart
Phoenix, meanwhile, had stumbled upon a bedroom that suited her.
The wood-paneled floor and wood-paneled walls were inescapable it seemed.
At least the blue-and-white-checkered pattern on the curtains and bedspread reduced the "I'm-a-Mighty-Woodsman-who-Gets-Off-on-Slaughtering-Fuzzy-Things" vibe considerably.
Most importantly, the view was divine.
Although, she supposed any view was indescribably preferable to the view of a polar bear's insides, which was what that poor bastard from Budweiser, who was currently being bitten in half, was experiencing.
The polar bear's feeding frenzy aside, what disturbed her about the room was the enigmatic lump in her bed.
Peevishly, she prodded at the mysterious mass.
Gradually, the mass emerged from beneath her blankets, revealing the most nondescript male she had ever beheld.
His wood-paneling-brown hair was straight, immaculately-cut, and not a single strand was out of place.
His face was chiseled, but not enough to be described as "rugged."
His lips were full, but not enough to be described as "pouting."
His eyes were positioned in such a way that they were perfectly symmetrical on both sides of his nose.
His eyebrows were bushy, but not enough that they consumed his entire forehead.
He had no enormous ears, freckles, or unfortunately-protruding teeth.
His sweatshirt bore the Buccaneers' logo.
His jeans were obviously not designer, but not ratty enough to have been salvaged from a dumpster, either.
His shoes, which she grudgingly gave him a few Brownie Points for, as he had displayed the common courtesy of removing them, before deciding to make himself comfortable in A BED THAT WASN'T HIS, were all-black, completely-devoid-of-distinctive-markings, tennis shoes.
He adjusted his average-sized glasses on the bridge of his average-sized nose.
His wood-paneling-brown eyes bore expressionlessly into hers.
Mechanically, he remarked, "I'm terribly sorry if I frightened you. It wasn't my intention."
Is this guy for real?
He doesn't sound 'terribly sorry.'
In fact, he doesn't sound terribly ANYTHING!
Not only is he about as stimulating as a stapler, ROBOTS are more emotional.
If I was in charge of the CIA, I would hire this guy on sight.
He is the sort of person you could instantly forget about, while you were conversing with him.
For irrational reasons she couldn't quite define, his intriguing blandness irked her.
And the fact that her interest was piqued, slightly, well, irked her even more.
He continued to assault her with his disconcertingly-blank stare.
Obviously, he was waiting for some sign that she forgave the intrusion.
Crossing her arms protectively over her chest, she proceeded to glare him into submission.
"Y…you did…didn't f…frighten me," she agitatedly spluttered.
Well played, Phoenix.
Just because the asshole invaded your room DOES NOT mean he has the advantage!
It isn't too late to regain control of the situation.
"Shouldn't you be outside with your little friend, you know, getting your ass handed to you on a platter by that polar bear," she growled, false bravado firmly intact.
THAT'S MY GIRL!
"Not when the alternative is undeniably more appealing," he countered, listlessly.
"And what would the alternative be exactly," she ferociously gritted.
"Having my ass handed to me on a platter by you," he tediously perked.
HOLY SHIT!
Is he...HITTING ON ME?
Of course, he's not hitting on you, MORON!
He probably never even had a Flirting Mechanism installed.
And, even if he was hitting on you, it wouldn't matter.
He's in your bed.
He's in your BED, without an invitation.
THAT is the issue!
Apathetically, he appraised her, as if there were some unspoken understanding between them that supported his breach of etiquette.
What right did he have to take her bed hostage, to examine her so impassively, to fascinate her with his overwhelming blandness?
"Besides, I am not representing Budweiser. I am here on behalf of Coach Markson. He likes to welcome the new recruits by inviting them to dine with him and his family. So, consider me your invitation."
Phoenix had never felt so out of her conversational element in her entire life.
Sure, Manhattan is constantly plaguing me with grandiose speeches about "thither" and "thou" and "wherefore art," but she only does so when referring to Shakespeare.
What's with his pompous 'on-behalf' bullshit?
He couldn't possibly be more than year or two older than Dallas.
Even her grandparents would never use the phrase 'on behalf.'
LOATHSOME BASTARD!
TALK YOUR AGE, DAMNIT!
Of course, somewhere within the drudgery of his monologue, he had implied that free food was available.
She jutted her jaw defiantly.
"Count me in!"
He eased himself off of her bed.
He didn't convey any frustration over relinquishing his spot.
He didn't convey any pride over her acceptance of his invitation.
He shook her hand.
They exchanged names.
He didn't convey any pleasure that they been introduced.
He didn't convey any interest, whatsoever, in her Missouri-an accent.
He didn't convey any curiosity about her Distinguished Hockey Career.
"Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock," he reminded her, with absolutely no alteration in the pitch or tone of his voice.
With all the zeal of a rusty nail, he departed.
Once she was alone, she heaved a sigh of supreme irritation, which she had been gallantly repressing, throughout their ENTIRE encounter.
Lividly, she muttered to herself that staplers were DEFINITELY more stimulating than Caleb Bradford.
Coach Markson's Nowhere-Near-Humble Abode: The Ally and His Cactus
Coach Markson's humble abode was anything but humble.
The house itself was larger than the White House.
Phoenix had her suspicions that Coach Markson's annual income far surpassed that of the president.
Not surprising, though, when you can't pronounce "nuclear."
As for the lawn, it was more expansive than twenty hockey rinks.
Regardless of the sheer magnitude of his property, Coach Markson employed no servants of any kind.
A lack of servants was probably to blame for his wife's prickly disposition, and her severely-pinched, haggard, prune-like face, arms, legs, neck, etc.
Scouring the twenty stories of the Markson Mansion, as well as spending the last ten years of her life pursuing four boundlessly-energetic offspring, had reduced her to a horrendously-shriveled shell of her formerly-vivacious self.
Coach Markson delighted in inviting the members of his teams, and any friends or significant others they chose to bring along, for dinner, three times a week, if possible.
Mrs. Markson delighted in regaling EVERYONE with tales of her children's accomplishments.
She typically remained mum when the discussion deviated from her brood.
When the Drakes were first welcomed into the Markson Mansion, most graciously by their host, they patiently endured Mrs. Markson's tales of her children (which spanned a decade), before scattering in all directions to mingle with the other guests.
Coach Markson's Nowhere-Near-Humble Abode: Surrender Thy Carrot
Phoenix made a beeline for the finger foods.
Instantly, she was intercepted…by an undeniably-nondescript youth.
His khaki pants, loafers, and navy, button-down, logo-less, average-length-sleeved shirt, assured her that they had already met.
However, she couldn't recall the circumstances of their introduction.
Monotonously, he stated, "Hello, again. So, you're here."
It was as if he couldn't be bothered to feel even a SHRED of excitement that he was fortunate enough to see her again.
He couldn't even muster aSMIDGEON of astonishment that she had actually shown up, just as she promised she would.
"Yes, I am here. And, quite frankly, I'm REALLY regretting the fact that I didn't search for escape routes BEFORE heading for the food," shesniped mutinously.
"I can show you," he offered, vapidly.
Thoroughly discomfited, she yelped, "You can do what?"
"I can show you the escape routes. Coach Markson was kind enough to point them out for me the first time I was here, and it would be an honor to extend the courtesy to you."
Indifferently, he reached for her hand.
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Bradford," she regally sniffed.
Show me the escape routes?
Is that CIA Code for "make vapid, robotic love with you?"
What if he's just trying to be nice, Phoenix?
You promised your father that you would be cautious about judging others.
Wait!
I wasn't serious about fleeing, was I?
Have I unknowingly committed some atrocious faux pas?
What if I mistook dog food for dip?
Phoenix, why are you getting your panties in a twist over something that was meant as small talk?
You don't need his escape routes, and you certainly don't need HIM!
Without so much as a half-hearted farewell, he withdrew his hand; dully, he strode away.
He had simply abandoned her, with a forgotten carrot stick dangling unattractively from her lower lip.
Coach Markson's Nowhere-Near-Humble Abode: A Blow That Cannot be Cushioned
From her position on the awe-inspiring, floral-patterned sofa, Manhattan observed her sister's hilarious bout of anguish.
Primly, she stifled a gale of giggles behind her hand.
Without warning, the youth Phoenix had been conversing with took the seat beside her.
"You wouldn't happen to know that young lady, would you," he inquired, dispassionately.
Manhattan merely hiccoughed.
"The one with the carrot," he clarified, without even a hint of mirth in his voice.
"Oh, my sister," she stammered, dumbfounded.
Vacantly, he regarded her.
"She's, how to put this delicately, judgmental, determined to form false first impressions of everyone she meets, clearly has no idea how carrot sticks were intended to be eaten and…"
"She's breathtaking," he lethargically supplied.
Instinctively, Manhattan flinched.
You poor bastard!
If you actually intend to pursue my sister, I hope you and your hand are VERY good friends.
Phoenix treats guys' hearts about as decently as she treats their groins.
He jerked her from her reverie with a firm, but not so firm as to crush the delicate bones in her hand, yet not so weak as to be described as "pansy-like," handshake.
"Would you tell your sister that Caleb Bradford sends his apologies?"
Manhattan yammered incoherently.
"Until we meet again, Miss Drake."
With that, he was gone, leaving Manhattan Drake ashen, and prattling under her breath, in his apathetic wake.
Author's Note: I chose to focus on the fact that Phoenix finds Caleb boring, rather than the fact that Phoenix finds him old, since,21-year-olds marrying 35-year-olds isn't as commonof a practice these days, I'm making Caleb 24. The polar bear is a shout-out to the phenomenal Non-damsel. Read her stories; they are all time well spent. I would like to dedicate this chapter to my father. I may not always understand his decisions, but he's never let me down.
Non-damsel: Still reading? Of course you are! After all, my Impotent Power can not be defeated. Now, all you have to do is accept that Johnny Ledger and Rachel Harrington are meant to be together, and my purpose in life will have been acchieved. Anyhoodle!This is one of the few chapters in which you'll see Expendible Manhattan in action. Blink, and you'll miss her!Feel free to review, since the non-existent narcissist in me craves your praise. RANNY, Kadrien, SAWNON, Shanyid, Vincent, Hurley's dudes, Kate's guns, Charlie's heroine, Jack's head, Sawyer's sex appeal!