Posts Tagged ‘Cleveland’

Cleveland de Brasil

November 2, 2011

Mathew, Mark and Luke all lived in a gated community on a hillside that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. All three of the men were part of the hated 1% of the United States that appeared to be flourishing off of the backs of those being displaced from homes and depleted of savings.
Mathew and Mark had become friends with Luke and his wife Maria a few years back after Luke made a killing buying and selling real estate. Luke’s name was actually Joao, which is John but decided to go with the middle name of Lucio or Luke. Understand? Orange County in California saw home prices tank before the rest of the nation. Luke moved from Ohio by way of Sao Paulo to southern California and quickly became a very wealthy man.
Mathew and Mark’s wives, Martha and Myrtle were friends with Luke and Maria and really appeared to like them but actually were suspicious of them and wondered how it was that both of them could seem so in tune to one another and so happy and content and yet never speak to one another. The quartet noticed that quite often, Luke and Maria would just look at one another without saying a word and it appeared as though they had a conversation with their minds. Mathew finally said to Mark when Luke went to his wine cellar to get a bottle of wine that he had purchased at a small winery in Italy.
“I think these two are aliens… I know it sounds weird but how do two people look so perfect, act so perfect, never fight, never complain and yet look at you as if they know something you’re trying to hide something that they already know about. Who comes from Cleveland and makes a fortune in real estate? What’s their secret?”
The three sets of couples sat eating and drinking wine in Luke and Maria’s backyard that had a magnificient view of the Pacific Ocean. It was warm as the sun began to set. The wine flowed like water. Luke had more alcohol than he had had in quite some time and could not contain himself any longer. Luke was no longer the quiet observer as usual. Luke went from being quiet to loud and aggressive yet maliciously playful all along.
“Let’s play a game… Shall we? Let’s call this game, ‘I know what you’re thinking’… You all must agree to this first. I want to make sure we are all on board,” said Luke.
Maria grabbed her husband by the arm without saying a word. Luke pursed his lips and held his hand up. Maria blinked hard and took a seat with her arms folded.
“This game is called Guess the Guests…Now then… One among us is sleeping with another among us while married to two others among us. One among us has actually been set for life since birth and has set up a faux business to give the appearance of hard work while screwing the secretary while she shoves beads up his ass in his office. One among us worried about insider information that they had knowledge of and is worried about the feds closing in on them. One among us is fucking everything they can whenever the chance presents itself including with friends of their offspring. One among is certifiably cuckoo and is on every sort of medication you could imagine to help this individual walk a straight line. Straight enough so that nobody knows or suspects that something very wrong is going on inside their brain… I’ll make this easy on all of you. If you take me and my wife out of the running on this guessing game, that narrows the field to just the four of you.”
“Luke! Nao… Por favor, pare. Eles nao sabem que podemos ler suas mentes…”
The guests were stunned that Maria could speak another language other than English. She looked like them and sounded like them but then suddenly bust out in another tongue when the chips were down and out.
“You see it for yourself tonight, my dear friends… My wife and I are truly capable of disagreeing, of fighting, of disappointment in one another. Here I am a Midwestern fly-by-night who happened to have that Midas touch… Like Goldfinger, right? I make money hand over fist and you all wonder how. How is he doing this? How do these two manage to get along so well? They seem plastic. They seem fake. They seem to be aliens who use some sort of telepathy to communicate with one another like some sort of weirdo Twilight Zone bullshit, right? You’re goddamn right that I see it in your eyes and read it like a book. I know your secrets… I know your dirty little secrets and you can’t hide from Luke. I know when you’re being honest and that is far more than any of you know about yourselves… So as they say in Brazil or shall I say Cleveland, after too many drinks; go fuck yourselves and cry or have another drink and dance… I will be back. I am going for more of the truth serum… More of that Cleveland Indian fire water. You either be gone or remain when I get back. You have a choice.”
Nobody left the table and nobody spoke while Luke was gone. They were all stunned and shocked by the brash outburst of a man who had never said very much in the past. Luke had never bragged or judged bdfore. Loud Samba music accompanied Luke’s return. Luke laughed loudly with a cigar dangling out of the corner of his mouth, holding four bottles of red wine. He was singing along with the song in Portugese. The guests all guessed it was Spanish. They were wrong.

Batom- a bala bate no meu coracao. Dentes espalhados pelo chao- Natural- E a vezes social… Vai la cou boi!

Nobody in the backyard had ever really heard Samba music before or danced to it except Maria who had grown up with it long before they reached Cleveland. They all drank and all danced and gave very little thought to the things Luke had said. They may as well as have danced naked. Their inhibitions disappeared. The Mexican wait staff and the Vietnamese au pair joined in on the dancing as did neighbors adjacent to Luke’s property until the sun came up over Santa Monica Boulevard.

At about two in the afternoon following the party, Luke stood and stared out at the water the way he had once done at the Atlantic Ocean as a boy and Lake Erie as a younger man. He held a cup of coffee and suffered through a headache as he watched surfers off in the distance wading on boards, waiting to catch the right wave. Maria approached Luke and without saying a word, spoke to her husband in Portuguese. I could write what she said to Luke in Portuguese and it would really sound pretty. In English, this is how it went;

“You nearly let the cat out of the bag last night. I really thought you were going to tell them how we know… They could never begin to grasp how we know things. It would blow their minds.”
Luke or Lucio, Joao or John, took a drink of his coffee turned to his wife and replied without opening his mouth with a big toothy smile.

“Pessoas de Cleveland… pode ser estranho…

“The People of Cleveland… can be strange”


Baseball is not a Sport or Vishnu at the Plate

April 7, 2011

Vishnu Patel was able to anonymously come to the United States without having to wear a scarlet letter or fear for his life so much. In India, Vishnu Patel was simply known as Vishnu since Patel is about as common a name as Jones is in the ghetto.
Vishnu was a Cricket playing prodigy who was a fast bowler. Bowling is much akin to pitching a baseball and has nothing to do with the sport of bowling even though Vishnu came to love that over time upon moving to the United States.
Vishnu was a rich young man in India. He could bowl fast and spin the ball so that when it hit the ground, it would bounce like a superball. Vishnu was sponsored by all sorts of companies that wanted his name on cricket bats. He was in songs and in movies and drove sports cars and had a big home. At bat, Vishnu easily scored and had several centuries meaning that while at bat, he scored over 100 points all by himself. Vishnu was the Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretsky, Brett Favre and Babe Ruth rolled into one. Like the Hindu god of the same name, Vishnu seemed to walk on water but like all mortals he had something about him that tarnished him in the eyes of Indians; homosexuality.
Vishnu had kept his secret under close wraps in India. He was always seen in public with a pretty girl. It was during a test match in Australia that he was photographed dancing and kissing another man in a gay night club. Vishnu had crushed his supporters upon the revelation that he was in fact homosexual. There were death threats and Vishnu’s kept man and he fled the country in 2008.
Endorsements dried up and Vishnu fled for the United States for fear that he would be killed or jailed. There was a fear among Indian parents that perhaps their sons might deem homosexuality as something that would be, “not so bad” because the great Vishnu fancied lads.
Vishnu took whatever money he had left and bought a Tim Horton’s franchise right outside of Cleveland, Ohio. Tim Horton’s was quickly becoming the biggest Canadian export after beer. Vishnu was satisfied being just another Indian in America. People mistook him for a cab driver and a computer technician but nobody recognized him as a former great cricket player except one sports columnist who wrote for the Cleveland Plain Dealer.
Tim Jones, who never lived in the ghetto by the way, relished being a thorn in the side of the Cleveland Indians. It was Tim Jones who recognized the former star who single handedly decimated the West Indies Cricket Club in Barbados. Jones was on had to witness Vishnu’s feat. Vishnu had five wickets as a bowler and batted over a century to defeat the West Indies more or less, by himself. Tim Jones went after the Cleveland Indian’s front office in his column. Here is what he had to say:
“Chief Wahoo should have a tear in his eye just like the crying Indian from the early 1970’s commercial who was saddened and dismayed by what had become of his land. What has become of Chief Wahoo’s Indians? If the Cavs and Browns don’t make you cry, maybe this year’s Indians will. A mere 9,000 fans managed to make it out to see their team win 7-1 against the Chicago White Sox. David Hasslehoff might draw more than that if he were to perform at Progressive Field. If you didn’t hear it already, the Indians turned their first triple play since 2008 on Sunday. It is nothing like the front office’s triple play of getting rid of their three best players and expecting a dwindling population to step up and pay to see a shell of what once was a proud franchise. Proud like an Indian. Speaking of Indians, most of you would never know this but one of the best players to have ever played the sport of cricket owns Tim Horton franchises right here in the state of Ohio, right in the city of Cleveland. I’d be willing to bet my wigwam and teepee that The Great Vishnu could save the franchise single handedly. Picture any of our current has-beens or never-will-bees pitching like Cliff Lee and batting like a healthy Grady Sizemore. I throw out the challenge to Mr. Patel and Mr. Acta. Do something different. Bring back the crowds. Let an Indian, a real Indian save the Indians from oblivion. Wipe that tear from Chief Wahoo’s cheek and restore that stupid smile once again.”
Everyone who read Mr. Jones’ column knew that he was brutal on sports teams in Cleveland and knew that the Cleveland Indians held the most promise of success in the city of Cleveland before losing several players who may one day end up in the baseball hall of fame. Tim Jones caught up with Vishnu and was surprised what he had to say about the sport of baseball. Vishnu had laid down the gauntlet.
“Meester Tim… I dawn vant to put dawn dee national pastime of a nation but ven I pass by parks and I see over-vait, middle aged men hitting a beach ball, under hand at a speed dat ees barely able to support it in dee air, I liken eet to a hunter tracking a cow. How caan you meese shooting a grazing cow who looks at you stupidly vile lining up her head weeth a scope? Now hitting a baseball might be a tad more difficult but eet ees naught cricket. Cricket ees a sport. Baseball ees a hobby.”
Native Clevelanders or rather white people and blacks who were once owned by whites, who have resided on indigenous people’s land that were mistaken by Christopher Columbus for Indians, were indignant by the brazen comments of Vishnu. It was one thing for Americans residing in Cleveland to attack their own team and their own beloved sport; it was another thing to have a gay foreigner verbally bitch slap baseball. Vishnu had no choice but to face those who loved baseball and the Indians.
Vishnu studied tapes of baseball for a few days and even watched some games on ESPN before contacting Tim Jones to set up a meeting between him and the Cleveland Indians. If you can imagine this, Progressive Field sold out every seat in the stadium to watch the exhibition between a former cricket great and professional baseball players. The Cleveland Indian front office loved the publicity.
Vishnu emerged from a tunnel wearing a collared shirt that had the letters, INDIA across the front with his name on the back with the number 13. Vishnu swung his arm in a circle a few times before facing the first batter. Manny Acta sent up a pitcher to face Vishnu. Vishnu came running up from second base, hit the mound and threw the ball in a windmill fashion, delivering a pitch that did not bounce. A 160 km/h fastball or damn near 100 miles an hour pitch for a strike. The speed gun registered 101 mph. The pitch twisted in the air and dropped like it fell off a cliff. Vishnu struck out two pitchers, then two batters that would be lucky to pinch run and then some real big fish. The guys that might make more than entire population of the average worker in the city of Cleveland combined. One of the bonus babies got a few foul tips before being felled. It was then Vishnu’s turn to come to the plate. Vishnu stood on the plate as though he was protecting a wicket. He wore what looked like a jockey’s helmet with a protective grill with gloves and leg guards that one might find on a goalie in ice hockey. Vishnu whacked everything that came his way whether it was a strike or a ball. The last pitch was an 85 mile an hour fastball. Vishnu took two steps towards the pitch and knocked it into the right field stands where a group of Indian expatriates were banging drums, waving an Indian flag with painted faces. Vishnu carried his bat with him as he would have in cricket as he rounded the bases. Backwards.
It would be fair to surmise that baseball fans, The Cleveland Indians and Americans in general felt badly about the publicity stunt and that would be correct. Upon signing Vishnu to a multi-year contract as a relief pitcher and designated hitter, the Indians suddenly began to win and fans returned to Progressive Field. After a while nobody seemed to notice or care that their star player was not only not American or a baseball player, that he was gay too. As Americans often like to say to one another: Only in America.

Menage a Trois

October 13, 2009

Menage a trois
Filed under: Short Story, obama — blackhumouristpress @ 4:59 am Edit This

Joe and Sara were high school sweethearts. Joe was four years older than Sara and so when Joe was in his last year of high school; Sara was graduating from junior high school. At 26 and 22 years of age, the difference between them was no longer and issue.
Joe and Sara married last year and at about the time of the honeymoon in Freeport, Bahamas, Joe suddenly had little interest in sex. Joe had never had never had a problem with impotence in the past but it was becoming increasingly obvious that his libido was not what it was. Something about marriage brought this about. Sara worried that the issue was that she was unattractive or not seductive enough. She followed all the directions in Cosmo Magazine on the six ways to make him scream. Joe’s Wang lay dormant against his right thigh with every new tactic. He was frustrated and angry at his own penis. Joe seriously thought he had a problem until he attended a wedding with Sara of one of her cousins in Akron, Ohio. It was at the wedding that Sara’s chubby cousin Abby, asked Joe to dance with her. Joe had always liked his thin framed wife who was a running fanatic. Sara had small breasts and thin hips and not much in the way of a buttock. Sara had a pretty face. Abby, who was the same age as Sara but lived in Akron while Sara lived in Cleveland, had always carried a little meat on her. Abby was active but was built like a female softball player. Abby had thicker legs and a round bottom with full breasts. After several glasses of champagne and wine, Joe found that while slow dancing with Abby, he had developed a full fledged erection. It was boner of the first order just like he had every morning as a boy and like he used to have upon kissing Sara on the neck. Joe held Abby close to him and was careful not to press up against her. Abby whispered something in Joe’s ear about how awkward one of the men on the dance floor looked with his gaudy tux and bad looking hair piece. There was no mistaking that Joe was rock hard. Abby was surprised at first and pulled back. She was impressed that she had that kind of an effect on Joe. After all, Abby had always considered herself second tier next to her cousin Sara. Sara was the one the guys always wanted to talk to at the movie theater or the mall when they were younger. Abby was pretty buzzed and was enjoying the night. She pressed herself against Joe and smiled up at him. Joe was slightly embarrassed until Sara teased him about it.
“Joey… It appears someone here has joined the military and is standing at perfect attention…”
Joe blushed a bit and tucked his lips in as he tried not to laugh. Abby kissed him on the cheek and rubbed her crotch against him and whispered in his ear so that nobody could tell what she was doing.
“Joey… That feels so good. If I didn’t love my cousin like a sister, I would take you out to the parking lot and fuck you raw… That sounds so crass, I’m sorry. I would take you out to the parking lot and make beautiful love with you. I’ve caught you over the years checking my tits and ass out. You’re not quick enough to look away before being caught… I’m right aren’t I, Joe?”
Joe just smiled. It was about that time that Sara came over, a bit concerned over what they were whispering back and forth. They both motioned over to the man with no rhythm with the crooked rug on his head in a powder blue tux and white shoes. Sara no longer suspected anything. Joe excused himself and went to the bathroom of the banquet hall. There was a black man hired as an attendant in a tux with tails who had a raspy voice like Louis Armstrong. He hummed Celebration by the Commodores that played loudly on the dance floor while he handed a man a paper towel and asked him if he wanted a squirt of cologne. The white man asked if the Louis Armstrong look and sound a like if he had heard the score of the Cleveland Indians against The Boston Red Sox.
“Well sir, I ain’t hoyd the radio since I come to work. I know they was winning in the thoid an that only is cause they have Sabathia pitchin. If they could pitch him and Cliff Lee everyday, they’d never lose.”
“Amazing isn’t it?” Said the stuffy man who wouldn’t normally talk to a bathroom attendant except for the fact that he was riding high on whiskey sours. “They have two Cy Young winners and not a damn guy who can hit. It’s sad. I love going to watch the Indians. It’s such a great stadium but the team stinks.”
While talk of baseball went on, Joe pulled his stiff member from his pants and jerked away at it. He closed his eyes and imagined Abby’s wide ass in the air and his hands wrapped around her, clutching her large breasts while and kissing her on the neck. He then imagined her telling him to slip it into her ass.
“I know you love my fat ass, Joey. Put it in my crapper…”
Joe came all over the wall. It took a little over a minute and the two men were still agonizing over the Cleveland Indians. Joe mopped up the cum that dribbled on the toilet seat and that was dripping down the wall. He stood there trying to urinate for a good minute. He zipped up, washed his hands and joined in on the conversation about the Indians. Joe then returned to the table where Abby and Sara were talking. They continued to drink and Abby flirted out in the open in front of Sara. As drunk as Sara was, she was taken back by her cousin. Joe’s mind was temporarily clear and so he did not engage in the flirting. About one in the morning, Joe hailed a cab to get them to their hotel. Sara barely got in the cab and closed the door before she started hitting Joe with questions.
“So you two have something going on, don’t you?”
“She’s just buzzed… She’s known me forever and just feels comfortable with me…”
“Yeah? She told me you had a fucking hard on while you two danced. Is that true? You were rubbing your cock on my cousin’s twat? You can’t fucking get hard anymore with me but with Abby, you’re ready to go, huh?”
The cab driver alternated between watching the road and the drama in the back seat. Both Joe and Sara were too drunk to notice. Joe was prone to be honest after drinking heavily and so he told his wife what was so appealing to him about Abby. That night Sara slept on the hide a bed in the living room of their hotel suite. Joe fell asleep pretty quickly but Sara stayed up thinking about the whole thing. In the morning she climbed into bed and kissed Joe until his eyes opened. Joe was surprised. He opened his eyes as he lay on his side and just looked at his smiling wife.
“I’m not mad at you, Joe. I thought about it and know that guys get bored and some times want a different flavor. I’m totally not cool with you having affairs and prostitutes but gave it some thought last night… I think Abby would be totally cool with a three some and I think that is something you would really want.” Said Sara.
“This is a tactic to get me to admit what I really think and want and then you’re going to scream and throw shit, right?”
“Absolutely not. I will allow you anything but fucking her. That is sacred between us… The caveat is that I have to be there in bed with both of you.”
Joe was excited. He wanted her to call Abby. He thought that they could have breakfast and then come back to bed and fuck all afternoon. He pictured himself eating Abby out and maybe even slipping his tongue up her wide ass and when the desire became overwhelming to put it in her, he would pop it in his wife who would be in the corner finger diddling herself. Joe then visualized giving it to his wife from behind and while she licked her own cousin’s cunt and tits. Joe was almost trembling with desire.
“Can you call her now?”

Sara had more class than that and her ultimate idea was to bring zest back into their bedroom. Sara discussed going to their grandfather’s cottage near New Buffalo, Michigan, right off the shores of Lake Michigan. Sara set it all up. Sara had started menstruating on Monday and by Friday; she was already for action again. Joe went into her bathroom to see if there was another X on the calendar in her bathroom. It was a calendar of various cats. Sara loved cats. The cat of the month was a Siamese. All Joe could think about was climbing all over Abby. It was going to be great. The only thing that might ruin things is if Abby had her period. Joe brought it up to Sara and Sara asked Abby. Everything was clear. Joe tried not to look too excited by that news but he was jumping up and down inside.
Joe and Sara picked up Abby on a day that had a clear fall day with a hot breeze. Joe took the top down to his Jeep and packed the cooler with sandwiches and beer. Abby got in and sat in the back and said barely a word as they headed west towards Lake Michigan on the Indiana Toll Road. Joe tried hard not to speed but if he could have gone a 100, he would have. Joe began to notice Sara and Abby were unusually quiet and feeling awkward. They both had their arms folded and were staring out of their sides of the Jeep. Joe saw signs for wineries and decided that he would hit a few of them with the girls. Both girls were happy to sample some reds and whites. They hit four in a five mile area and were beginning to get giggly. At the last one called Hickory Creek; the older man opened up a bottle and gave them all a healthy pour and then poured another for them and poured one for himself. The older guy with a gentle smile discussed the wineries he visited all over the world and was most satisfied in Michigan of all places. Joe bought six bottles of assorted red and rushed to the cottage. The girls carried in their back packs and Joe carried in the cooler and case of wine. They stood in the living room and looked at each other and laughed. It felt very junior high to them all at that moment. Joe attempted to down play the whole thing and he was buzzed enough to do it.
“Okay… We’ve all had sex before but just not with each other. I think we know one another to be cool with this…”
Joe went to one of the three bathrooms and washed his nuts, cock and armpits and popped some mints into his mouth. He emerged from the bathroom ready to go. Sara asked him to go down to the basement to get the extra pillows that her grandfather kept in storage. Joe pulled the light chain and jogged down the stairs. It was dark in one corner but it looked to him like there were people sitting on the couch. It scared him. He pulled the next chain to illuminate the entire basement. Sitting in the corner on the couch were two Indian looking men with large beards. These weren’t the Indians that Columbus found when he landed on the island of Hispaniola or modern day Haiti and Dominican Republic, these too were not the mini mart “hello my friend” Indians. They were Pakistani convicts that had lived two years in Guantanamo Bay Cuba. They had been Cricket players that had given large amounts of money to a mosque in suburban Detroit to help build schools in Pakistan. The money was placed in an account to help fund terrorist activities and training in Afghanistan. Amir and Amal had no idea that their money was being used to fund terrorism. They were born and raised in Pakistan. They had played professional Cricket for Pakistan and were supposed to marry identical twin girls who were also Pakistani in the states. They arrived at O’Hare Airport in Chicago to meet their future wives. There they were; two clean cut Pakistani athletes who happened to be identical twins, meeting their future wives who were also identical twins. As they cleared the door way, they saw the two women that were to be their wives. They wore different color head scarves to differentiate them just as Amal wore black and Amir wore white. The moment they stepped off the plane in Chicago, several white men in suits with ear pieces and sun glasses, hustled them away. They had a bag placed over their heads and when the hoods were removed they were in Cuba. For two years.
President Obama got the idea to close the base and scatter the prisoners all over the country. Amir and Amal wound up in a prison near Benton Harbor, Michigan. They were in charge of cooking and were helping the delivery guy load cheese and meat in through a service door. The guard responsible for watching them, was fighting with his wife on his cell phone when Amal and Amir, held a box cutter against the neck of the delivery driver. They tied him up and dumped the truck near Stevensville, Michigan before they stole a car at a gas station. They then parked the car and took off on foot, wearing surgical colored clothes. The luck of the draw brought them to the same cottage that Joe, Sara and Abby were going to have their ménage a trois. The give away that the place was vacant was the sign on the window to the mailman to have their mail diverted back to the girl’s grandparent’s winter home in Florida.
Joe stood there motionless in his Ohio State t shirt and Indians hat. The Indians hat had the ridiculous image of a big nosed smiling Indian in the center of the cap. It looked a lot like Amir. Amal laughed at the hat and told his brother in their language that he resembled the figure on the cap. He poked his brother with the shot gun barrel and told him to shut up.
“Take that fucking hat off your head,” said Amir.
“If you yell, I vill kill you. If you reach into your pockets, I vill kill you… Do you understand me?” Said Amir.
The two bearded men lead Joe upstairs into the bedroom where Sara and Abby were naked, kissing each other in the bed while drinking red wine from the bottle. They hadn’t stopped to acknowledge Joe or the other two men standing behind him. Amal yelled out.
“Put on your clothes… Now!”
The two identical twins had become more religious in Cuba. They had gone from rather secular people to believing that America and Americans were pure evil. Upon finding out that Abby and Sara were cousins, ready to partake in sex with Sara’s husband they were convinced that evil reigned supreme among the average American. Case in point; naked cousins, drinking and having sex with each other. While getting dressed, Sara pushed 911 on her cell phone. She coughed when the woman came on to address her. She started asking the men if they were going to kill them.
“Are you going to kill us? If so, just go ahead and shoot all of us. We just ask you not to cut our heads off and put it on Youtube. We don’t want to be part of some martyr crusade to kill innocent Americans. We just came to have a nice weekend at our grandfather’s cabin, Pete Miller who lives in Florida and comes here to New Buffalo for the summers. We don’t want to die… We have nothing against you people…”
The dispatcher quietly dispatched police to the cottage and listened as Sara spoke to the twin men.
“Shut your mouth… Shut up! You people, You people… Vat dee ell does you people mean. Terrorists? Vee grow beards and vee are obviously terrorists, right? Vell Vee are not terrorists and ve are going to get to Canada and find our way back to Pakistan. So as they say here; shut the fuck up, bitch.”
Amir and Amal duct taped the three of them to chairs and grabbed the keys to Joe’s Jeep and headed out on the highway. The two men’s beards rippled in the wind. Tire spikes popped the air out of the tires and the Jeep nearly tipped over. Michigan State troopers and local police swarmed to the scene. The two brothers were taken back to the prison. The official word was unofficial and the prison authorities fabricated a storey for the press. Nobody knew that accused terrorists were living on American soil. They knew that was the plan because it was being thrown around as an idea even though it was already being done. Luckily it was kept under wraps. Nobody knew about Amal and Amir. The cops cut the tape off of the three of them and questioned them for several hours. About midnight, they were allowed to go back to the cottage. Joe knew that the escapees had killed the mood. He was hoping that a glass or two of wine would bring back the feeling. Joe hugged both women at the same time and Abby pushed them both away.
“Look, I love you both and I was willing to do this more for both of you and whatever hang ups you both have… I really believe this was a sign from god to not do this. I mean, god sends us clues and this was a really big fucking clue. We could have been executed by those two freaks… I’m sorry but I can’t go through this,” said Abby.
Sara chimed in.
“You’re totally right, Abs… I really think this was a message to all of us. It’s just too weird and I’m sorry I suggested it… What do you think, Joe?”
Joe was too disappointed to say anything and knew that this whole episode would make his member turtle up for some time to come.
“I don’t know what to say… It’s definitely bad karma…”
At the same time, Amir and Amal thought the same thing. It was a day of dashed hopes for all by coincidence or possibly divine providence. It all depends on what you believe.

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