Ovid 17 The Talking Head free porn video

This one is PG-13. The usual suspects are free to post this at your sites. Others please ask - permission is freely given. Enjoy- The Professor Ovid 17 The Talking Head By The Professor I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw the sign welcoming us to Ovid just ahead. It was ironic, I supposed, for here I was, one of the favored who could come and go from Ovid as I pleased and yet I always looked forward to returning to the small town which had become my home. I know Susan felt the same way. I couldn't see the look on her face there in the back seat, but we had talked about it before. Susan and Steven Jager had gone with my husband Jerry, and me to enjoy a weekend in Oklahoma City sans kids. We had gone to an Oklahoma University football game down in Norman to appease Jerry and Steven, had a nice dinner together, done some shopping, and retired to our respective rooms where we enjoyed the opportunity to make love without the interruption of children. We had driven back fairly early on Sunday. The clouds were building up as a cold front drifted in, promising freezing drizzle and miserable road condition by afternoon. Of course, the weather would be a little better in Ovid with no drizzle to worry about, but Jerry wasn't aware of that since of the four of us, he was the only one who could not remember his previous life. If he had, he would probably be aware that the gods kept things a little more temperate in Ovid than the rest of the state experienced. I wondered often what Jerry would think if he suddenly regained his memories of being Randy, a fraternity brother of mine. How would he cope knowing he was married to a woman who had once been his best friend - his best male friend no less? And what would he think, seeing his twins and realizing they, too, had been fraternity brothers of his? Then there was Ashley, the daughter we had given life to together. Maybe, I thought with a sigh, it was best that Jerry didn't remember any other life. The shock of learning what he had become - a husband and a father - might be too much for him. We pulled up in front of Susan's house and were all surprised to see a police car at the curb. "You forget to pay some tickets, Steven?" Jerry joked. "Surely it's not a break in," Steven mumbled to himself. Crime was rare in Ovid for obvious reasons. Even if I hadn't seen the officer standing by the car, I would have known it was Officer Mercer. Although people like Jerry didn't notice, people like Susan, Steven and I were well aware that Officer Mercer was the only patrol officer Ovid had - or needed. "Something's wrong," Susan whispered to me under her breath as we all got out of the car. I was afraid she was right. "The Judge needs to see you right away," Officer Mercer informed me without preamble. "You should be there too, Mrs. Jager." "You guys go on with him," Jerry advised, oblivious to the danger the rest of us sensed.. "Steven and I can pick up the kids at the sitter's." I just nodded and joined Susan in the back seat of the police car. "What's wrong?" I asked Officer Mercer once we were on our way. "It's better if he explains it," he replied. I didn't ask again. As messenger of the gods, he would have told us only what The Judge wanted us to hear. His actions, however, told me a lot. Never had I been required to drop everything on a Sunday to attend to city business. Something very, very serious had happened. We were ushered into the chamber normally reserved for city council meetings. The room was arranged with seating and a long desk for the council members at a raised platform with a gallery for about fifty observers facing the council desk. The Judge in an expensive business suit had taken the spot normally reserved for the mayor, and seated with him at the council desks were the highest members of the pantheon. Even the gallery was half full, the lesser gods and goddesses making up the majority of the spectators with a few trusted humans such as Susan and I making up the rest. Diana, looking unusually demure in a dark blue dress, motioned us to come sit with her. "What's happening?" I asked her, my voice nearly lost in the drone of nervous voices around us. "That's what we want to know," she replied cryptically. Before she could add anything else, a gavel sounded. "I call this meeting to order," The Judge said authoritatively. Silence was instantaneous and respectful. "We have a potential crisis on our hands," he began. "Rather than summarize what had happened, I have asked Mrs. Patton to attend this meeting and show us." I gulped. My talent for projecting the stories of Ovid's residents into the minds of others had never been used on such a large group before. An encouraging nod from The Judge assured me that it would be no problem, though. "Mrs. Patton, we must move quickly on the information we have just been given. Please access the file for Ashton Wells." "Yes, sir." With a sigh I concentrated my mind on the subject and began to flow into the familiar trance... ***** My co-anchor had just finished the typical light-hearted anecdote that ended all of our normal newscasts and Camera One was blinking at me once more. It was a medium shot, I knew, so the viewers would never know my hands were shaking in nervous anticipation. Trooper that I had always been, I gave my best professional smile for the camera and announced, "And that's the news for this evening. Stay tuned to Newschannel Four for all the latest breaking news, and now it's time for the Tonight Show with Jay Leno." As far as the viewers were concerned, my timing was accurate to a fraction of a second. Most of them would never realize that modern technology allows stations like KFOR-TV to capture a program on an advance feed and start it whenever the producer wants it to air. It was a good thing, too, because my mind that evening was on something more important to me than accurate timing. My agent had called me earlier in the day, just before I had left for the studio. "They loved it, Ash!" he gushed as soon as I picked up the phone. "NBC?" I asked, my heart skipping a beat. "They liked the tape?" "No, Ash," Henry laughed. "They didn't just like it; they loved it!" This was it! It was my big break. For twelve years since leaving the University of Missouri with my journalism degree in hand, I had done everything I could to position myself for this moment. I was about to join the network as a correspondent. They'd probably base me in Dallas at first - or maybe Denver. It didn't matter to me. I had gone from school to a small TV station in Springfield Missouri to another one in Albuquerque and one in Omaha. My latest move had been two years earlier to Oklahoma City and the top-rated television news department in the city. At least it was top-rated now. I had been brought in to anchor the ten o'clock news, and by all accounts, I had done a great job. Now the waiting had begun. I wasn't the only candidate for the NBC job, but Henry thought they were close to making a decision. That was great, because my contract with KFOR-TV was almost up, and if I was going to move on, this would be the perfect time. Of course I couldn't tell anyone at the station. If things fell through with the network, I might have to extend my contract. I didn't want to extend it too long, though. I just wanted to use the extension as a time period to fleet up to the network or at least to a larger market where I stood a better chance of being noticed by the network brass. I practically ran back to my desk the second the studio lights dimmed. With any luck at all, my time in purgatory was about to end. I would be able to say good-bye to a city where the frequent tornadoes were the biggest news and move on to a prestigious network job. Who knows? I might even work my way up to a network anchor position. Move over, Tom Brokaw, here comes Ashton Wells! To my mixed relief and trepidation, my phone indicated I had a message from my agent. I couldn't very well take it at my desk. There were too many people milling around. Since the ten o'clock news is the most important local news time in the Midwest, the newsroom is busy then as well. I ducked into an empty conference room for a little privacy and called Henry. "Ash," Henry answered on the third ring. My heart fell when I heard his voice. It was devoid of any enthusiasm. "I didn't get it, did I?" I ventured with a sick feeling in my stomach. "Sorry, Ash," he replied, confirming my suspicion. "They liked your tape; they really did. They said you were just the type of guy they were looking for, but..." "But?" I prompted. "Ash, most of your work has been just what you're doing right now - anchor assignments. They thought you were weak in the field. They said they wanted someone who had more time as a correspondent." "But I was a correspondent in Springfield," I pointed out. "Yeah," he countered, "and that was a few years back. Besides, what ever happens in Springfield - or in Oklahoma City for that matter?" "Well, there was the Murrah Building..." "Ash, that was almost ten years ago. That's old news as far as the network high-ups are concerned. What we need to do is get you out of the Bible Belt and up here in Chicago. I think I can get you an interview with WGN here in the city." I thought about it for a moment. WGN was a big station all right. And it was picked up on cable and satellite, so I'd get plenty of national exposure. For that matter, I was originally from the Chicago area, and Henry had his office there. But there was a problem. "Okay, Henry, but what happens if I get a job at WGN. Wouldn't I be a junior guy on the roster?" "Sure. So what's the problem?" "I'd get the shit assignments," I told him. "You know, I'd be covering the dog shows and traffic problems. I wouldn't be getting the kind of work that would make the networks take notice." "But Ash, it's WGN! So it takes you a little longer to work your way up. You aren't going to get a network job down there in Injun Country watching the grass grow." I remembered back when Henry had lined me up with the Oklahoma City job and how he had called it a "savvy marketplace" and a "hot midsize market." Now it was the Bible Belt and Injun Country. "So Ash, you want me to pursue that WGN job?" "Yeah," I sighed, resigned to my fate. "Go for it." "Great!" Henry said cheerfully. "You'll see, Ash. Chicago's a savvy market." "Aren't they all to hear him tell it," I muttered out loud after he had hung up. "Bad news?" I looked up from my seat and saw Brenda Altman, one of our cameramen - or rather women - leaning against the door to the conference room. "Come to gloat?" I growled. Brenda and I had taken an instant dislike to each other when I first arrived at the station. Of course she knew I was looking to get a better job. Everyone at the station probably knew. It was the sacred ritual of contract renewal all on-air talent went through, and it was no secret that my contract was coming up for renewal. "Hell no," she shrugged. "Believe me, Ash, I like nothing better than to see you move on. I don't give a damn if you end up replacing Dan Fucking Rather." "What have you got against me, Brenda?" I asked. "You've had a burr up your ass about me since I came here. What did I ever do to you?" She swaggered over and took a chair down the table from mine. She could have been an attractive woman in her own way, but she carried herself like a man. I had never heard for certain what her sexual preferences were, but the story around the station was that when she indulged in sex (which she apparently did only rarely), it was with another woman. Not that that bothered me. I didn't much care which way she swung. "You know, I'd think a smart guy like you would have figured it out," she told me. "You came down here a couple of years back and acted like you were God's gift to the broadcasting industry. Hell, the only thing you had done was anchor the news at some station in Omaha just before you came here - and it was the afternoon news at that." I grimaced a little. Her words were hitting the mark. I suspected it was pretty much what the network people had told Henry. Henry had just been nice enough to make it sound more palatable. Brenda saw she had drawn blood and continued, "You know the real hell of it, Ash? You have one of the finest deliveries I've ever seen." I perked up a little. "A compliment - from you?" She gave me another shrug. "Call it that if it makes you feel any better. What I mean is you know how to say the words real well. Hell, you're better at that than half the guys at any of the networks. You're one of the best talking heads I've ever seen. The problem is that that is the easy part and you don't seem to recognize it." "Easy? What the hell are you talking about? It takes hours to put together a newscast as tight as the ones I do." I was pissed to the very core. "The reporters in the field spend half their time traveling to and from a story and while they're on the scene, they ask questions fed to them by someone else." "That's not true!" I pressed forward, "And all you have to do is point the damned camera wherever they tell you to. It's up to people like me to make people like you look good by presenting the stories in a way the viewers appreciate!" I was practically yelling at her by that point. Our voices had become loud enough that Dan Pollack, our producer got into the act. "Is there a problem, kids?" "No problem," I growled. "Yeah, Dan, no problem," Brenda confirmed, but there was menace in her voice. She saved her last remark for me before turning to leave. "I can tell you this, Ash, I want to be there when you do get out in the field on a big story. Then you can tell me how easy it is." I started to call out after her, but Dan grabbed my arm. "Let it go, Ash." "What?" I mumbled. "Is she pissed because her girlfriend's got PMS?" If Brenda heard that, she didn't acknowledge it. She had already reached the door and hadn't looked back. "She's not gay," Dan told me. "How do you know, Dan? Personal experience?" "I thought your name was Ash - not Ass," he chastised me. I backed off when I saw how pissed he was getting. I had already gotten one of my coworkers pissed at me. It wouldn't do to get my producer pissed off as well. "She'll tell you if she ever feels like it." As he walked away, I wondered what he had meant by that. Normally, after a busy night I do a little pub-crawling and look for some sweet young lady who thought it would be cool to do it with a news anchor like me. It was my usual pattern, but I was too pissed to enjoy myself that night. I went back to my apartment and poured myself a healthy shot of scotch, gulping it down without bothering with ice or mix. I'd show them. I'd show all of them what kind of a newsman I could be. When I was finished, I'd have Henry enthusiastically selling me to one of the networks. I'd have the network boys salivating to make me the next big name in network news. And I'd have Brenda Altman's respect... Downing my second scotch in record time, I wondered suddenly why I even bothered to worry about impressing Brenda. After all, she was just a camerawoman at a Podunk TV station in the middle of Tornado Alley. Granted, she did the best camera work of anybody on staff, but so what? She wasn't even that good looking or she'd probably be in front of the camera. Well actually, she wasn't bad looking either. She was well-proportioned, about five-five in height. Her face was at best cute with a dusting of freckles and her hair was a sort of nice shade of dark brown even if she did keep it cut a little short and boyish. She probably attracted more dykes that way. But no, Dan had said she wasn't a lesbian, and Dan had known her for a long time. Come to think of it, they had both worked together at a station in Little Rock before coming to Oklahoma City. Did that mean... No, they weren't a couple. Dan was happily married with a couple of kids. They did get together for lunch sometimes, but it was always in a public place. And Dan was a pretty straight arrow and a likeable guy. I considered him a friend and so did Brenda. I wondered what it was about Brenda and me that made us oil and water. Well, that wasn't worth worrying about. I had come up with a plan of action as I got ready for bed. The very next day, I'd be in Wally Moore's office. I would tell our esteemed news director that I wanted a field assignment and wanted it right now. I wouldn't take no for an answer. I had to get my ticket punched and punched quickly. Ashton Wells was meant for bigger things! Wally Moore was a pretty good boss. Now in his forties, he had worked his way up in the world of television news wearing every imaginable hat in the department from office boy to producer to news director. KFOR was the third station in the Southwest where he had been news director, and he had managed to make all three of those stations number one in their markets. But it wasn't being a successful news director that made him proudest. He told everyone in the department that his proudest moments were as a field reporter - earning him the nickname of Wally the Weporter behind his back. Of course the fact that he was now a little pudgy and mostly bald had given him an unfortunate resemblance to Elmer Fudd, making the corruption of "reporter" in Fudd-speak even more appropriate. "What brings you in so early today?" he asked me. I wanted to make sure I had a chance to speak with him before he took off for the weekend, so I had shown up in his office right after he got back from lunch - several hours before my shift began. "I've got a favor to ask," I told him bluntly, sitting across from his desk. He looked at me suspiciously. "What favor?" "Let me handle a field story." He shrugged. "Why not? It's nearly the end of the month. I'll assign you a couple of features for next month." I shook my head. "Wally, I don't want features. Let somebody else handle the filler stuff. I want hard new - something I can sink my teeth into." "Something you can use to impress the networks?" Wally added with a wry smile. "Uh..." Wally laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Come on, Ash, everybody in the station knows you want the big time. And a few of us even know you're having trouble getting it." When he saw my eyes widen, he explained, "Your agent has already been on the phone to me. And no, he didn't tell me that -at least not in so many words. But it's pretty obvious when he starts to turn up the heat on your contract renewal that he thinks he's not going to be able to move you up this year." "All right," I sighed. That meant WGN had probably turned sour, too. "Yeah, the network gave me a thumbs down." "Because you lacked field experience." I nodded reluctantly. "I'll make you a deal," Wally said, going into his wheeler-dealer mode. "You extend your contract for two years with a...five percent boost in pay and I'll get you some field work." "I'll have to talk to Henry," I warned him. Henry hated it when his talent tried to negotiate on its own. "And I'll agree to one year with a seven percent boost." "Six percent and eighteen months." "If Henry agrees," I allowed. "Now give me a story." He looked a little shocked. "You want one right now?" "Of course I want it right now." Henry pulled a thin file that had been resting on a corner of his desk and scanned the contents. "Not much I can give you..." "Come on, Wally! Don't shit me." "I'm not shitting you," he replied, somewhat offended. "Look, it's Friday and it's October. The legislature isn't in session, elections are boring this year, and the only story anybody is really interested in is OU's chances to be National Champion in football this year and it's even a little early in the season for much on that story." "Surely you have something I can work on," I pleaded. "I'll even work on it this weekend." "Well..." he drawled thoughtfully, "I do have this one. I don't have anybody who can follow up on it right now." I snatched the paper out of his hand and read it greedily. It was just a series of disjointed notes he had handwritten probably while on the phone. "Twelve year old girl, OU Med Center, runaway... Wally, what the hell is this crap?" "The police called me with this info yesterday," he explained. "It seems they found a girl about twelve years old stowed away in a truck yesterday. She was babbling something about a plot against her and claiming she was running away from some sort of place that doesn't exist. They took her over to the mental ward at Deaconess but they only handle adults. They moved her to Children's at the OU Med Center late yesterday until they could figure out who she is." "You call this a story?" I huffed. "Hell, Wally, she's a runaway - probably on drugs. She's probably really eighteen and running from her pimp. This happens every day. Even the newspapers don't have space to print it." "So?" Wally replied. "Maybe there's a story there if you can find it. Anyhow, it's a slow news day, pal. It's all I've got. Take it or leave it." I took it. I wasn't even sure they'd let me in to see her. After all, she was just a little girl with her head not screwed on straight - probably from drugs. Twelve was a little young, but it wasn't unheard of. But Wally had assured me that I'd be able to get in to see her. Apparently, the hospital was actually anxious to let her talk to the media as part of her therapy. The little girl had been demanding media access and had refused to tell the doctors who she was or where she came from until she had talked to someone like me. At least she was getting first class care, I told myself as I pulled into the parking garage at the OU Med Center. And why not? As the medical branch of the University of Oklahoma, it was one of the best equipped, best staffed hospitals in the state - in the region for that matter. In spite of the mundane nature of the story, I felt pretty pleased with myself. Barging in to interview one of the center's patients must have made some of those hotshot doctors crap in their pants. The animosity between the media and the medical community is practically legendary. "Ashton Wells to see..." I looked at the card Wally had given me. Stupid me. She hadn't given her name, had she? "...the little girl they brought in here from Deaconess," I managed to recover. "Our little Jane Doe," the receptionist for the psychiatric ward noted. She didn't seem happy to see me. I imagined her bosses would be even less happy. "I'll take you to Doctor Allen." I followed her through a buzzing door which was normally off limits to most visitors. It opened into a long hallway with offices and conference rooms on either side. I had halfway expected to be taken into the patient wing, but apparently they had decided that would be too disruptive. Dr. Allen met me in one of the conference rooms, introducing himself with a firm handshake. He was young with a healthy tan and a shock of blond hair that could have used a trim. He looked decidedly unlike a doctor in his chinos, tennis shoes, and light green golf shirt. When he correctly interpreted my reaction, he chuckled, "We try not to look like doctors here. It sometimes scares the kids." "I understand," I replied. Reporters often have the same problem. If we dress too formally in business attire, we find that some people don't like to talk to a suit. In fact, I was dressed much like the doctor. After we were seated, Dr. Allen began, "I want you to know we don't normally do anything like this, but our Jane Doe is a most...unusual patient." My ears perked up at that. When a doctor in a psychiatric ward calls a patient "unusual" it's music to a reporter's ears. "How so?" Dr. Allen looked a little uncomfortable. "She claims to be a man," he admitted at last. I leaned back, disappointed but barely holding back a laugh. "You can't be serious. She's - what - a twelve year old girl?" He nodded. "About that age, yes. She won't even tell us her real age. She claims she's twenty-six years old." "And she was magically changed into a young girl?" I asked derisively. "Exactly. She claims she was changed into a girl in some town called Ovid. She says it was done magically to keep her from talking about some big defense project there operated by... I think it was called Vulstead or something like that." "Vulman?" I suggested. I enjoyed his surprised look. I supposed shrinks like him didn't have any reason to hear of Vulman Industries. "You've heard of the company?" the doctor asked. "Yeah. They make car parts and have a few defense contracts. I think they're headquartered over in Tulsa. Doc, you make this story of hers sound like a cross between sorcery and science fiction." "Throw in mythology as well," he told me. "She claims she got changed into a girl by an old Roman god." This was getting to be too much. I rose to my feet. "Well, Doctor, I'm sorry we both had to waste our time on this one. I'd better be getting back to the station." Dr. Allen rose, too. "No, please don't go, Mr. Wells." He was silent for a moment, and I knew that what he had to say next hurt his professional pride. "Look, I realize this is an imposition. I hope your people told you that there wasn't really a story here..." No, damn it, I thought. Wally hadn't told me that at all. But I should have figured it out all by myself before wasting an evening. "...but we need your help. This girl is delusional and we need her to tell us the truth so we can find her parents or guardian and get their permission to treat her. If you'd just spend a few minutes with her, you'd really help us, not to mention helping a very disturbed little girl." Well when he put it like that... I wasn't a heartless bastard. I suppose I could chalk it up to performing my civic duty. Of course, when I got back to the station, I'd tell Wally that whatever raise my agent was negotiating would have to be doubled before I'd consider it after the cheap stunt he'd pulled on me. "All right, Dr. Allen," I agreed. "Let's see your patient." Jane Doe - or whatever her name was - looked like a typical young girl approaching her teens. She was slumped in a conference chair designed for a much larger adult. She wore a white t-shirt that displayed small but promising buds that would be prominent breasts in a few years. Her jeans had seen better days, but sneaking out of town in the back of a truck was probably hard on a pair of girl's jeans that had obviously been designed more for style than durability. Her long hair looked as if it had been recently brushed - probably by the staff, and she wore no makeup that I could see. In spite of that, she had a sweet, feminine face surrounded by hair that was so light brown in color it might have been mistaken for dark blonde. She looked up at me with sad, tired eyes. "Who are you?" Many people recognized me on sight. I supposed a young girl who probably had to go to bed before the ten o'clock news might not recognize me as readily. "I'm Ashton Wells," I told her, offering a hand. "I'm with KFOR-TV." Her face brightened a little at that but she didn't take the offered hand. "Are you really with a TV station? You aren't just lying to get me to tell you who I am, are you?" I sighed and pulled my media card out of my wallet. She grabbed it and studied intently. "It's real," I assured her. She nodded, handing the card back to me. "I know. It's a little worn. If it were fake, it would be new." Something told me this little girl had been watching too many spy movies. "So what is it you wanted to tell me?" "Did you bring a recorder?" she asked. I nodded and pulled a palm-sized unit out of my side pocket. "Right here." "Good," she returned the nod in a disturbingly adult fashion. "Turn it on because you're going to want to hear this again..." I rushed back into the station nearly breathless. I had parked in one of the handicapped spots just to save a little time. Not that it mattered; there were half a dozen handicapped spots and only two station employees who used them. I only hoped Brenda was already there. She had been in her car closer to the office than I was when I called her. Even though she was already headed back to the station, she sounded pissed that I wanted to see her right away. In my own defense, I couldn't help it. I was so excited that I didn't care who I pissed off. I was sitting on something big - really big - and I wanted to move on it quickly. When those stuffed shirts at the network heard what I had, they'd be begging me to go to work for them. I dived into the nearest conference room and set up my recorder. Brenda was nowhere in sight, but our department secretary called her and found she was no more than five minutes behind me. Nervously I waited for her to show up. It was ironic, I suppose, that the one person who disliked me the most at the station was also the one person I needed to help me break this story. "What the hell was so damned important that you had to make me rush back here?" she stormed as she slammed the conference room door behind her. "I drove back here so fast I almost got killed. And what's with taking up a handicapped parking place?" "It was necessary," I muttered, checking the recorder. "Necessary? You don't look crippled to me, Wells. But if you don't tell me what this is all about pretty quick, I may see what I can do to cripple you." I ignored her bad mood and looked her in the eye. "Did you hear about the little girl they've got over at the OU Med Center?" "What? Oh, you mean the one who stowed away in that truck?" Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me Wally actually got you to follow up on that." "You knew about it?" "My God, Ash," she laughed. "I didn't think you were that anxious to be a reporter. Nobody wanted that story. Hell, it's probably just some little juvenile runaway who's probably already back home with her parents by now. Wally sent you out there to get you off his back!" To her surprise, I smiled. "Well, the joke's on Wally this time. See what you think after you listen to this." I didn't wait for her to reply. I just started the recorder... REPORTER (ME): So what is it you wanted to tell me...I don't even know your name. GIRL: My name is Doug Phillips, but everybody calls me Buster. Don't ask; I know how that sounds, but you've got to listen, man. You've got to hear my story. Okay? Okay. So here goes. Up until a few days ago, I was a man. Yeah, that's right - a man. I could have split you in half with one hand. At six four and weighing in at two-fifty, I was one mean motor scooter. I was part of a club - a motorcycle club. We called ourselves the Screaming Eagles. Cute, huh? We were all from right here in Oklahoma City. Most of us had pretty decent day jobs - you know, construction and the like. It was a good life - work hard during the week and ride hard on the weekends. There were twelve of us who rode together. None of us were married. A couple had old ladies who rode with them, but usually we just found girls wherever we were. Now don't get the wrong idea. We didn't cause any trouble. We'd just ride somewhere new every weekend, find a good biker bar, and drink beer, play pool, and look for women. That was pretty much the story - until last Sunday. Only ten of us were riding last Sunday, but that was a pretty good turnout. We started early in the morning just after sunrise and were riding east. With fall coming on, it was probably going to be our last long ride and we wanted to make the most of the day. We had no particular place to go; we just rode, swinging off onto some back roads as soon as we started to reach the hill country. Jake Walker was pretty much our leader. He was about my size - or rather, the size I used to be. If it wasn't for my brown hair and his blonde hair, we would have looked like we were brothers. Cal Brown was riding up with Jake and me. He was the same color as his name - a son of a black father and white mother. We called him Half-Breed when we wanted to make him mad. We tried not to make him mad very often, though. He was even bigger than either Jake or I. I swear you could see the frame of his Harley bend a little when he got on it. The others rode behind us, not taking the chances the three of us did. They were all good riders; I'll give them that, but we three were the best. "Where're the rest of the guys?" Cal asked suddenly. I looked back in my mirror. We had just crested a hill maybe a quarter of a mile beyond the pack, but looking back, we seemed to be alone on the road. "Maybe the wusses turned off," Jake suggested. "No place to turn off," I yelled at him over the roar of our engines. By now, the three of us had cut back on the throttles and were cruising side by side. "Shit!" Jake yelled, ready to pull off by the side of the road and wait for them. We followed him to the shoulder and let our engines idle. "So where the fuck are they?" Cal asked after we had waited for nearly five minutes. Jake and I just shrugged. I pulled my eyes away from the road behind us and looked ahead. There was a valley just beyond us, and spreading out over a good part of it was a town I hadn't noticed before. "Why don't we go on into town and get a beer while we wait for them?" Jake pulled back the sleeve of his black leather jacket and looked at his watch. "Good idea," he said. "It's ten now, so the bars should be open." "Unless this town's dry," Cal muttered, making reference to the hodgepodge of local liquor laws in Oklahoma that had caused us to go dry before. Jake revved his engine. "Last one to the first bar buys!" Spraying gravel, he spun back onto the highway with Cal and I right behind him. Cal got the dubious honor of buying the first round. It was no big deal, though. All three of us were working on government construction jobs where prevailing union wages were paid, so each of us had a healthy wad of bills stashed in our coats. The place we found looked like a biker's dream. It didn't have one of those little cutesy names like "Dew Drop Inn" or shit like that. The place was called "Randy Andy's," and it looked like just what the doctor ordered. "Those guys are gonna be missing some serious drinking," Jake mused. "This place looks like a great place to spend the whole day." He wasn't wrong. Some country-rock number was playing on the jukebox, pool balls were clicking from somewhere inside, and there was the smell of burgers on the grill. It might be Sunday morning, but there were already a few folks who looked like regulars sitting on the stools and in a couple of booths. Still there was something funny about the place. There was something about the way it smelled that didn't smell like most bars I knew. I sniffed the air while Jake chuckled, "You smell it, too, huh?" "Yeah, so do I," Cal remarked. "There's no smoke smell," I noted. You know how most bars smell of stale smoke and even look a little hazy from the cigarettes? Well Randy Andy's smelled nothing like that. All you could smell was the food. "Maybe there's no smoking in here," Cal suggested. That wouldn't bother him or me at all since neither of us smoked. "There is now," Jake smiled, pulling out a Marlboro and sticking it in his mouth. Cal and I just shrugged. There wasn't anybody in this bar big enough to stop Jake from smoking if that's what he wanted to do. Jake pulled out a book of matches and casually bent one out without tearing it. Closing the book, he struck the match against the cover. The match flared for a second and sputtered out. "What the..." He ripped the spent match and threw it on the ground. He was obviously pissed that his favorite little match trick had failed. This time, he tore a live match from the book and tried to light it. It sputtered like the first one. "They must be wet," I told him. He shot me a mean glance and absently stuck the unlit cigarette back in his jacket. The three of us sauntered over to a table near the pool table. We sized up the two guys who were playing pool. They were both wimps, so I knew that once we had slammed down a couple of beers, we'd be chasing the wimps off and using the table until we found something better to do. "What's a guy have to do to get service around here?" Jake yelled as we were still scraping chairs across the floor. He always did that, no matter how fast the service was. It looked as if there were only two people working that morning - a lanky guy with a sharp nose and thinning hair tended bar. The only waitress was a fine little blonde who looked as if the last thing in the world she wanted to do was wait on our table. She wore a short skirt and a pair of sneakers. I couldn't help but think she'd look a whole lot better in heels. "Three Buds here!" Jake ordered before she was half way to the table. She scurried back to the bar where the thin guy was already uncapping them. I just figured she must be new - or maybe a part-timer they were breaking in on a Sunday morning. After all, most people in small towns went to church on Sundays, so the crowd was probably always light. She plopped the beers down in front of us without a word, obviously anxious to get away as soon as she could. But she was a cute little thing and I just couldn't resist. I threw an arm around her and pulled her closer. "What's your name, babe?" "Sh...Shelly," she managed. The way she said it made me wonder if it was her real name. "You live here in town?" I asked conversationally while my friends leered at her boobs. "I...I do now," she mumbled. I figured she must have just moved to town. "You wanna have a cold one with us?" I asked, while Cal added softly, "...or three hot ones?" Jake about fell out of his chair laughing. "She's working all day today," the bartender called out in warning. "She doesn't have time to sit with the customers." I let her go. Not that the bartender scared me; I just knew the routine. We'd make nice as long as nobody really crossed us. We might look like bad dudes, but if we didn't show up for work the next day, we'd be fired, so cooling our heels in some tank water town jail didn't seem like a good idea. Once we'd each downed four or five beers, it was time to play some pool. We ran off the local wimps and set up for a game of cutthroat. Sure, we got a little loud and a little obnoxious, but nothing to justify what happened next. Of course looking back on it, even if we'd been sitting at the table quietly sipping our beers like little old ladies at afternoon tea, the same thing would have happened. Only the excuse would have been different. The small crowd in the bar got real quiet when the cop walked in. I didn't know why at the time, but I was about to learn. The cop was tall and slender, not bothering to remove his dark glasses in the dim light of the bar. The nametag he wore identified him as "Mercer." "Hello, boys," he said calmly, as if he were addressing choirboys instead of big bikers. "Officer," Jake nodded, sipping his beer. We tried to be reasonably polite to cops. As I said, we didn't want any trouble. "I'm going to have to ask you boys to come down to the station with me," this Officer Mercer told us. Jake frowned. "What for? We haven't done anything." "Well, that's not quite true," the cop said lazily. "Those mufflers on your bikes have been boosted." "So?" I asked that. "So that makes them illegal here in Ovid," he informed us. Technically he was right; the pipes weren't exactly legal. Some bikers did it to increase performance, but the real reason was to make a real bad-ass noise when revving the bikes. It sort of announced our presence, you know? But even though he was right, we hadn't tinkered with the pipes enough to really break the law - just bend it a little. We'd been stopped by cops before, but they always let us go. Something told me this Mercer guy wasn't going to be like the other cops. Little did I know then just how unlike other cops he really was. "Come on, boys." We could have argued, but sometimes in small towns, that's just what the cops wanted you to do. That way, they'd have a good reason to haul you in for a couple of days and lay a big fine on you. Reluctantly we all rose to our feet. He had all three of us ride in the back seat behind the typical mesh divider. It wasn't easy getting three guys our size in that one car seat, and even the cop had sense enough not to get on us about not fastening our seat belts. There was so much meat in that seat that we couldn't have buckled the belts if our lives depended on it. "Hey! What about our bikes?" Jake wanted to know. From my position in the back seat, I could see Officer Mercer in the rearview mirror. I could swear he actually managed a small smile. "They'll be taken care of for you, boys." The cop shop was in City Hall. No big surprise there. I had been riding in the middle of the seat, so I was relieved the ride had been a short one. I had been sitting up so high I hadn't even been able to see out the windows. The only reason I mentioned that is to point out that I hadn't seen very many people on the streets. After all, it was now early Sunday afternoon, and Randy Andy's had been practically deserted. Whatever the locals were doing didn't involve walking around town, so it wasn't until I alit from the car that I saw my first shade. Don't rush me, damn it! I'm getting to what a shade is. Of course I didn't know then that that was what the transparent people were called. That's right; they were transparent - or nearly so. It turns out they're kind of stand-ins for real people. They look and act human, though. The one I saw first was just a janitor. He was taking a sack of trash over to a nearby dumpster when I saw him. At first I thought it was just an optical illusion - caused by the sun or something. But then as I looked at the guy a little closer, I could see the building right through him if I concentrated real hard. "What the hell..." my voice trailed off. Cal and Jake looked at me as if I was light in the head. I stared back at them but said nothing. They had seen the janitor, too, but apparently saw nothing unusual. "Come on, boys," Officer Mercer ordered. I promptly put the odd appearance of the janitor in the back of my mind. We all had more important things to worry about. "Hey, what's the big idea?" Jake demanded as we were led immediately to three cells in the back of the cop shop. "Just a precaution, boys, until The Judge gets here." We were all a little riled, but we stepped into the cells and let him close the door behind us with a resolute clang. "So when do we see this judge?" Jake wanted to know. "First thing tomorrow," Officer Mercer told us, closing the cell door behind us before we could protest. "Shit!" Cal muttered. "We're gonna get fired for sure." "Maybe not," I told him from the next cell. As proof, I reached in my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. "I'll call the super and let him know what happened." "Hey, how come they didn't take that from you?" Jake asked. "Come to think of it, why didn't they take any of our stuff? They just threw us in here. For all they know, we could have guns or something." "I got a knife," Cal volunteered, reaching in his pocket. He looked puzzled for a moment. "Or I did have a knife. It must have fallen out of my pocket." I watched the screen of my phone, expecting it to find a cell pretty quickly, but nothing happened. "Damned town must not have cellular service," I muttered, throwing the useless phone onto the cot that passed for a bed in the cell. "I thought everybody had cell coverage," Cal remarked. "My uncle lives in a little burg over in Missouri that can't be a third the size of this one and he's got cell coverage." "Shame we didn't get jailed there," Jake snorted. So the long and short of it was that we had nothing we could do but wait. It was a pretty boring evening. About the only bright spot in our evening was when a cute black policewoman came in with our dinners. The food was good, but the view of the cop - I think her name was Wanda - was even better. Cal tried to make time with her, but she just smiled and left us to our meal. The next day, all three of us were given the opportunity to shower and shave before getting dressed for our court appearance. We were pretty calm about the whole thing, I guess. We had all gotten a good night's sleep since there wasn't anything better to do. We expected to get hauled before the judge, get fined, and hit the road, hopefully making it back to Oklahoma City by noon where we would explain what had happened to our super and hopefully be allowed to keep our jobs. If I had known what was really going to happen, I would have made a break for it no matter what happened. Anything would have been better than what happened. They appointed a court lawyer to plead our case. Like the cop the night before, she was damned attractive. She introduced herself as Susan Jager. "You think we'll get off without a fine?" Jake asked hopefully. "I don't think The Judge will fine you," she said confidently. But of course looking back on it, she knew we weren't going to get a fine. She must have known exactly what was going to happen to us. Even in Ovid, lawyers just aren't worth a piss. We never did get the judge's name. Officer Mercer, acting as bailiff, just called him "The Judge", as if that was his name. Of course it wouldn't have nattered what he had called himself from the bench. I found out later who he was, though. So we all stood up and listened to the charges - disturbing the peace, unlawful modifications to our bikes, being public nuisances and so on. I'm surprised he didn't get us for spitting on the sidewalk, too. I'm sure I did that at least once. "How do the defendants plead?" The Judge asked our attorney. "Your Honor, my clients were not aware that the modifications made to their motorcycles constituted - " "Not being aware of the rules isn't a valid excuse," The Judge reminded her. "I take it then that counsel will concur that illegal modifications were in evidence?" Our attorney flushed. I figured she must be pretty new at the legal stuff since she was so young. "Yes, Your Honor." The Judge looked at us. "In that case, the court finds you guilty of illegal modifications to motor vehicles. Sentence will be carried out at once." As his gavel banged down, I realized that the whole procedure had been nothing but a scam. I had been in court a couple of time on minor violations, but I had never seen a judge do what this one had done. Technically, we never entered a plea and he never pronounced sentence on us. It didn't matter, though. What he did to us wouldn't even be possible in any other courtroom in the world. He muttered something in some foreign language - I don't know which one - and I began to feel my body changing. It's really almost impossible to describe the sensation. It wasn't painful, but the best way I can think of to describe it is something between an itch and that funny sensation you get when your foot falls asleep. Oh yes, and I lost total control of my limbs. It felt as if I were being propped up as my body got smaller and smaller. I could at least turn my head and see what was happening to Cal and Jake. They were growing smaller as well and everything about them was slowly changing, like those morphing pictures you see on TV. Their jeans were changing color from dark blue to a lighter green. Their leather jackets had disappeared entirely and the t-shirts under them were becoming crisp white shirts with a band of green matching the skirt traveling from their right shoulders to the left side of their waists. Jake was becoming darker - his skin becoming brownish and his hair long and black as coal. As for Cal, his skin had lightened until in was a rosy pink. Long blonde hair curled down over his shoulders. I didn't have to look to realize that my own hair had become longer as well, tickling as it ran down my neck and covered my ears. Since I had always kept my hair fairly short, I was surprised to find I could actually feel the increased weight from it. Cautiously I managed to take hold of a few strands of it and hold it in front of my eyes. It was still brown, but a little lighter than before and much softer than I had imagined. Something was happening between my legs. I looked down and saw I was wearing a skirt - a skirt damn it - the exact same color as the ones Jake and Cal now wore. I gasped as I reached under the skirt and found nothing but smooth skin covered in silky panties. Now I might have just been a plain old construction worker, but I knew what was happening to me - I was becoming a girl. All three of us were becoming girls, and young girls from the looks of things. The green bands had resolved themselves into sashes with colorful little patches on them. My god, we were Girl Scouts, I realized, probably no more than thirteen or so. "Thank you, Your Honor," the little girl who had been Jake said suddenly in a high, sweet voice. I looked in astonishment as she stood there with a form in her hand which she was diligently filling in. "Yours is the biggest order yet!" She grinned, her Native-American features evident. "Yes, thank you, sir," the girl who had been Cal said with a real Shirley Temple smile. "Now remember, girls," The Judge admonished us, "that order needs to be split three ways so each of you gets credit for part of it." "Oh we will," the Jake girl promised him. "Jennie and Chelsea are my best friends." She looked at the two of us and I knew at once I was now either Jennie or Chelsea. I was a girl...a girl! Part of me wanted to stop right there in front of The Judge and demand to be returned to my real appearance, but the Cal girl was leading me out by the hand, giggling as she did so. I was too stunned to do anything except follow her. I know there had to be a look of confusion on my face, but why were Cal and Jake handling everything so smoothly? It was as if they had been born girls. I felt so stupid as I walked out of the courtroom with them. There we were, identically dressed - or nearly so. The Cal girl and I were wearing knee-length green socks while the Jake girl wore green tights, but there was no mistaking any of us for what we appeared to be - three young girls busily selling Girl Scout cookies. "How did you girls do?" The other girls (other girls...shit!) stopped giggling and we all turned to see an attractive woman whose features closely resembled the ones Jake now displayed. "Great, Mom! The Judge bought sixty boxes from us. Even after we split the sale up, I'll bet we're way ahead of the rest of the girls." The woman smiled, brushing a strand of long, black hair out of her face. "That's great, Joanne." So that was Jake's name now. "What are you guys going to do now?" "Go over to our house and goof around," Jake - no, it was Joanne now - said. I must have shuddered. I had visions of what that meant. I had had a little sister and I knew that for girls the age I was now, "goofing off" meant sitting in one girl's room trying on clothes, sharing makeup tips, and discussing boys. For my two formerly male friends, those activities didn't seem to be much of a reach, but for me it would be hours spent in a feminine hell. "Are you all right, Chelsea?" the woman asked me. So that was my name now. I was Chelsea. I was toast. "I...I'm fine," I replied, hearing for the first time my girlish voice. I read somewhere that a person's voice sounds deeper inside than when heard by others. If that was the case, the sound others heard from me had to be even higher pitched and more feminine than it did to me, and that just didn't seem possible. The three of us walked out of the courthouse and I followed the other two to where our bikes were parked. When I say bikes, I don't mean the powerful hogs we had ridden into Ovid. These were small girl's three- speed bikes - one pink, one yellow, and one a light blue. I took the yellow one when the other girls got on their bikes. Well, at least I hadn't drawn the pink one, I thought. The afternoon was just as bad as I thought it would be - trying on clothes and experimenting with makeup. I had to go along with them or I would have been thought odd. I had a fear at the time that I was supposed to think just like they did only something had gone wrong. I even found out that if I let myself sort of drift mentally, I could fall into a subconscious pattern that had me acting like the girl I had become. That really worried me, for I didn't want to lose my real self in some girlish delusion. I found out later that some of The Judge's victims lose their old memories and some didn't and everyone had access to that ability to drift on automatic. But at the time, I was afraid that I'd be found out for retaining my old thoughts and be sent back to The Judge to have my memories wiped. I found out over the next few hours that I was actually twelve years old. My full name was now Chelsea Anne Bridgewater and I was in the seventh grade. My parents both worked - my new father sold cars at a local GM dealership and my new mother was a secretary for the Ovid School Board. I was an only child, so at least I didn't have to worry about siblings. Thank God it was still the weekend, because if it was any other time of the week, I'd be in school and have to act like a twelve year old girl most of the time. As it was, it turned out I was a latchkey kid and had a fair amount of time to myself during the school week. Without that time, I think I might have fallen into the role of Chelsea a lot faster... You see...God! I'm embarrassed to talk about this but I guess I have to. It's like this - whenever I had to act like the twelve year old girl I appeared to be, like at school, it started to become more and more natural. I found I was starting to think like a young girl. It was especially bad when Joanne and Jennie were around, which was too damned often. I think The Judge set things up so that the three of us were almost inseparable. I had to fight with every ounce of mental strength I could muster to keep from falling into the girl role almost as completely as Jake and Cal had. What made it even more embarrassing was that at least they had an excuse. Their memories of their male lives had evaporated, leaving them just the girls they seemed to be. But me? I had my real memories, but try being treated like a pre-teen girl for a few days and see what happens to you. I suspect that there was something residual in The Judge's magic, too - something that would make me slowly start adapting to my new role whether I wanted to or not. At least I hope that was the case. I'd hate to think I was becoming more girlish on my own. That was why I made up my mind that I had to get away from Ovid - before I became Chelsea Anne Bridgewater in mind and spirit as well as in body. Ideally I would have liked to have been changed back into a man before getting away, but I couldn't see any way to make that happen. The Judge sure wouldn't have any reason to change me, and I didn't know of any other god who could do it. Didn't I tell you that? Well, I guess I didn't want to say anything or you'd really think I was crazy, but that's who changed me - a real honest-to-goodness Greek god. Or maybe he's Roman. I never could remember the difference. You see The Judge is Jupiter. Funny, I couldn't say that when I was in Ovid. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to say it here either. Whatever magic The Judge has keeps residents in Ovid from talking about it. Anyhow, I knew I wouldn't be able to change back before leaving Ovid. I had to just figure out a way out of town. Then once I had convinced someone out of that weird place that I was telling the truth, I figured I could go with them back to Ovid, along with a company or two of Marines, and force The Judge to change me back. Yeah, I know what you're thinking - how was I as a twelve year old girl going to convince the authorities. Well, put yourself in my shoes for a moment and consider: what other choice did I have? Any other option would have ended up with accepting my life as a girl like some of the others did. Oh yes, there were others who were like me. I didn't know it at first, but eventually I met some other kids. Most of them were like Joanne or Jennie - or they were shades. But there were a few like me who remembered who they were. That didn't do me much good, though. It turns out that only two people can talk about what's really going on in Ovid. When a third person joins the conversation, all you can do is act like who you've been changed into - or say nothing at all. The reason I mention that is that it was very hard for me to find someone to talk to. Young girls seem to travel in packs, so I had to either act like a twelve year old girl and talk about boys and clothes and all of that crap or shut myself in my room and do nothing. Once the school year started, it was even worse. So I tried to adapt; I really did. Some of the other kids who remembered their old lives did get a chance to talk to me every now and then and told me it was really the only thing I could do. I believed them, too, until I got an idea... Cindy Tolbert, one the girls in my class, and I were at Duggan's one day. Duggan's is a supermarket - one of those IGA stores. Anyhow, when we left Duggan's, I noticed there was a produce truck unloading behind the store. There was an Oklahoma City address on the side of it, and I wondered how delivery trucks could be coming into Ovid unless people like truck drivers knew about the town. Then I noticed something funny. The driver had sort of a glazed expression, as if he didn't really know where he was. Oh, he was acting normally enough, but it was as if he wasn't really aware of exactly where he was. I wondered if supply trucks came into town with the drivers sort of hypnotized and left town with them not remembering where they had been. It wouldn't be too tough for a guy like The Judge to pull that off, I thought. "What are you staring at?" Cindy asked me. Vaguely I recalled that Cindy was talking about some 'hunky' guy in our class. Like me, Cindy had been male once upon a time, but unlike me, she was all girl now in mind as well as body, even though she remembered her old life. With her blonde hair, blue eyes, and rapidly developing figure, I had no doubt that in a few years, she'd be real cheerleader material - probably managing to get screwed by the high school quarterback while loving every minute of it. Still, she had been a big help to me advising me how to fit in better. "Hell-o-o!" she chided me. "Sorry," I responded at last. "I was just thinking. How is it that nobody outside of Ovid knows the town is here but delivery trucks still get here?" She shrugged. "I don't know. I guess the g...g... I mean I guess the people who run Ovid figured out a way to make people forget they were here. Have you been to any football games yet?" I shook my head. "Well," she continued, "it's really weird. Other high school teams come into town to play us, and when they come, they bring the band, fans, cheerleaders, and the whole enchilada. They always act a little distant, though. I hear when they leave, they forget all about this town." So I had been right! Outsiders could enter and leave Ovid if the gods had no interest in them. Only they would forget Ovid even existed once they left. That meant there might be a way to get out of Ovid. Of course there was the possibility that the gods had some sort of tripwire that would alert them to when one of their transformed residents was trying to leave. Cindy had told me stories about people who were caught trying to leave. The consequences weren't always slight. But I suspected there would be a way around their traps if I looked hard enough. I knew whatever I did to get out of Ovid, I'd have to do it fast. Cindy had warned me that there was more to the magic than just the physical transformation. Before long, she said, I'd start to think like a girl. I realized it was already starting to happen. Things that used to interest me - football, bikes, pool, and drinking beer, for example -seemed unimportant. On the other hand, romantic movies, boy bands, and looking nice were starting to intrigue me - just a little that is. I'd find myself thinking of things like that in unguarded moments. Hell, I even caught myself looking with approval at a couple of guys in my classes. Somehow, it didn't seem so perverted to think about a little innocent social activity with guys. It's hard to describe what was starting to happen to me. It was so subtle that I sometime just sort of drifted into absolute girlhood. Getting ready for school would somehow lead to unconsciously applying lipstick and a little blush. Talking with cute boys would start me giggling senselessly. A discussion with other girls about some hot new male actor would find me imagining what it would be like to be in his arms. Then suddenly, I'd just snap out of it - like waking after a bad dream. The problem was those girlish thoughts were becoming stronger with each passing day. Cindy warned me that by the time my periods started (as hers already had), I'd be a one-hundred percent heterosexual girl ready to chase boys and enjoy it when they chased me. But on the other hand, it wasn't going to be that easy to get away. I had come to the conclusion that the best way to get out of Ovid would be in one of the big delivery trucks that dropped off food at the supermarket every day. I knew from past experience that the best ones would be the ones that brought produce in. They were refrigerated, but not so cold that I would freeze to death. But they would be cool enough to counteract the warm Oklahoma sun. The difficulty of getting out of the house and finding the right truck caused me to delay my departure. I think it was when Brian Evans asked me to the next after-game dance that I finally resolved I had to do something and do it quickly. Brian was a good-looking guy; there was no denying that. Half the girls in my class would have given a tit - small as they were - to have him ask them out. I suppose I should have felt honored, but what I felt was terrified. A boy had actually asked me out! Shit! Actually I told him I'd go out with him. Of course I had no intention of doing so, but he wouldn't know that. He was real but didn't seem to remember any previous life. That meant he'd have no reason to suspect I was lying to him. I only agreed to go in case The Judge had spies in the school. I wanted everyone to think I had given in to my female body. Hah! I'd never do that. In fact, I wanted to get the hell out of Ovid as quickly as I could, and definitely before I had to go out on a date. It actually turned out to be easier than I though it would be. I sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night. I had left my bike hidden by the side of the house, so I wouldn't have to walk all the way to Duggan's. I thought as I pedaled how much better it would have been to have a real bike under me - a bike with the name Harley-Davidson on the side. I couldn't believe my luck. There was a produce truck unloading as I rode up to the store. I hid my bike in some bushes and sneaked over to the side of the truck. I heard muted conversation coming from the back room of the supermarket. It seemed the driver had unloaded everything for Duggan's and was having a cup of coffee with the night manager before heading back to Oklahoma City. There was nothing in the back of the truck but a few empty flats. I sneaked in behind them, hoping the driver wouldn't remember to turn down the air conditioning as he left. The rest you know. I had been right. No one stopped us on the way out of town, and by yesterday morning, I was here in Oklahoma City. You should have seen the faces of the driver and the warehouseman when they opened the truck and found me standing there. Of course, they called the p