It was a dark and stormy night in the city of Aalron. I was hungry and decided to get some chow at Laanro's Bar and Grill. It was then I met a man. He was sitting at the end of the bar, nursing his beer. He clearly had a lot on his mind. He hadn't been there long; rain still dripped off of his long leather coat. I was a couple of seats down, eating my chili con carne. His beer, a Nalora Porter, appeared to have recovered from his brief mouth-to-mouth resucitatation effort, although I suspect that relationship was doomed to be a short one. I stared at my chili con carne, toying with it with my spoon when he spoke . . . "Hey, buddy. You know the biggest problem facing our world today? Flea collars. Damn things smell worse than an elderly male yak. And they chafe across the neck, too. I've got a whole dozen back at the house. Tried various brands too, and they all just as bad." Then to my surprise he began to itch. Not just his arms, or a face like a normal human, but his under arms, between his fingers and he was reaching down to itch somewhere I didn't want to think about when SHE walked in, straight of heaven or one of those wet dreams mechanics have. She looked rich, and she had legs that I'd have bet one of my imaginary paychecks went all the way up, and she had one of those "you scratch my back and I'll scratch your anatomical hmmm" kind of looks... and she had grease up to her elbows. She might be having car trouble, or it might have been elbow grease, but there was no way I was going to figure that out from across the room. I could read her nametag from across the room, however ... ____________________________________________________________ Free 20MB Web Site Hosting and Personalized E-mail Service! Get It Now At Doteasy.com http://www.doteasy.com/et/