Instructed Ladyhunting 5; Extended Epilogue

Part Four

So having conquered the Gladiator of Awkwardness in the Arena of Love, I winked at Danielle and threw many bills on the table and scooted out the door of that chick farm, Bob Evans.

I needed transportation, and I needed it within a half hour. Danielle was going to be out of work by no later than 10:30, and the unscrupulous valet man had absconded with my station wagon. I stood there on the curb, squinting into the darkness at the three cars in the lot. I scratched myself and liberated some paint flakes.

"Hmm." I mused. I find that there are occasions where musing is almost required, and this was about as musey as they come. From my point of view, I had two options: I could steal one of the parked cars and run the very real risk that the one I picked would turn out to be Danielle's, or I could build a new one from scratch with the materials I had at hand.

I took inventory. A pocket full of loose change, another pocket full of tight change, a butane lighter I kept to start small fires, a linty, dried-up gummi bear (red), nail clippers (in case I got lucky), cell phone with a dead battery, pictures of my cats, a broken padlock without a key, a small satchel of rabbit food and a little wad of rubber bands.

"Suppose I could use these quarters as wheels, and make it run off butane and rubber bands..." I grumbled. I put my equipment back in my pockets. Not good. I rummaged through them again, on the off chance that I'd written down some sort of wisdom from TSB regarding lack of transportation. A lot of good that did me. I only managed to drop my gummi bear down a storm drain at my feet.

"No sense crying over lost bears," I said to myself in a deep, manful voice. I dried my tears and perched on top of one of those newspaper vending machines and waited for Danielle to come out.

Fifteen minutes later, she did. She burst through Bob Evans' double doors wearing a clingy blue shirt with slits in the sleeves, dark blue jeans and a radiant smile.

I fell off the newspaper machine.

"Sweet minty Reagan!" I hooted from the shrubbery. "You is attractive."

Danielle whirled. "Paul? Get outta those bushes. That's where the squirrels live."

I leaped three feet vertically, hovered for a split second, and then moved laterally. I landed at Danielle's side and hit her with an S5 grin.

"That's Sexy 5," I explained, using bold. "It's a scale, sort of like tornadoes, and 5 is the strongest." I brushed some leaves off my torso in a very alluring manner.

"I can barely keep my clothes on. It's taking all of my concentration to maintain a legal appearance, so do a girl a favor and throttle back on the grins? Unless you want to bail me out of jail."

I put a few teeth away.

"That's better. So? Where's your car?"

"That's an interesting story," I explained, indicating the seriousness of the situation by molding my face into that of a politician with bowel discomfort.

"Have a Tums," Danielle said.

"Thanks. Well, I had a car when I came in here. A real nice one too, with white stripes on the tires. But....well, remember when I went to the bathroom about forty-five minutes ago? Before my banana creme pie?"

"I'll take your word for it."

I bit my lip and lowered my head slightly. "I was actually out saving orphans from nuclear meltdown, and my car got stuck in some melted nuclears. I had to climb out onto the roof and throw the children to safety. They cheered, but...but..." I stared stoically at a gas station in the distance, gritted my teeth and began to weep in a reserved, masculine manner.

Danielle put a hand on my shoulder. "There, there," she said. "Were you insured?"

I nodded.

"It's okay. We can take my car."

I sniffled and looked around. I pointed at a cleavage. "That's pleasant," I said.

"That's what it's on display for. Come on. Where are we going? An interesting fellow like you must have some idea how to keep busy on a Thursday night."

Aww. Despite the hardships thrust upon her, this girl's faith in my hairy prowess had buoyed her through it all. This encouraged me to the point where I felt comfortable rooting through her purse.

"Quit that."

"Well, I thought we'd go skiing."

"It's June."

"Pah."

"Regardless of your dismissal, it's still 70 degrees."

"You're probably under the impression that skiing involves snow and other such frozen delights. I'm aware that one can cover a hill in one's backyard with snowcone dribblings, but that gets expensive. No, what I have in mind is dune skiing!"

"That sounds kind of fun! Like, redneck skiing! Do we use barrel staves and twine and sticks and stuff?"

"Not us professionals." I said, and steered her toward a Mazda 3 hatchback.

"Well, Mr. Professional, what do you use?" she replied, steering us back toward her car, a silver Chevrolet Cobalt.

"Luggage rack pieces," I said haughtily. "And hose clamps."

Danielle unlocked the Cobalt and got in. I tried the door, but it was still locked. I pulled the handle several more times before Danielle yelled out the window.

"The Mazda's not mine."

"Pah," I said, and got into the Cobalt. "To The Dunes!" I announced in a gentle holler, and hooked a casual foot out the window.