Babypants

Thanks for the suggestion. I have been combing my memories trying to call up what the region around the Twin Cities looked like in 1979, and I'm leaning towards a sprawling bed and breakfast in the rural area to the northeast, towards the St. Croix valley. But you're right; we are going to need lots of space!

THIS IS HOCKEY! “Greetings, sports fans, and welcome to Friday's edition of The Parsons Project! This lunch hour, we're coming to you live from the Student Union-- and yes, that's air horns that you hear in the background, proving once again that the soundproofing materials supposedly isolating our broadcast booth from the outside world leave a lot to be desired!” “Probably made in Japan,” Dave Carlson softly observed. Killer was a big Steve McQueen fan, and proudly drove the same '68 Ford Mustang GT 390 Fastback that Frank Bullitt had raced through the streets of San Francisco. He had even dipped into his wallet to pay for a new paint job-- the same dark Highland Green shade that graced his hero's ride. “It's Daddy,” Stephanie yelped as she pointed through the plexiglass that separated the booth from the cafeteria. “And look! There's Aunt Batgirl!” “Yeah,” Reggie grinned as he took in the goings-on. “Getting a hero's welcome. Well, he deserves it; the guy has hoed a tough road.” “That's Reggie Dunlop, the head coach of the women's hockey team. He's taking time out of his busy schedule to join us today, along with Assistant Coach Dave 'Killer' Carlson, and two of their star players, the Hanson twins, Jackie and Stephanie. Jackie, is it true that you two are better known to all as Jackknife and Slasher?” “That's how it reads on the mugshots, Alan, so it must be true.” “Mugshots? Ah, that's right! The Hansons, the most notorious goons in all of hockey … they're your brothers, right?” “Sad but true, Alan; sad but true.” “Coach, how did Jackie and Steph acquire their nicknames?” “Well, Alan, up in Moose Jaw, where they play hockey pretty much three hundred and sixty-five days a year, the game gets pretty rough. To make the grade, you've gotta be mean. Steph anchors our defense, especially when the opposition is on a power play and the ref tends to turn a blind eye to what's going on around the crease. She's got tripping and slashing down to a science, and Jackie can cross check and board with the best of them. They're our secret weapons against the pussies that the Ivy League schools are importing from Quebec. We want to bring the national championship to where it rightfully belongs, and that's Minnesota, the hockey capital of the universe!” “And you're on a five game winning streak, seven and one for the season so far. Is it true that you practice against the men's team, which by any measure is one of the best in the country?” “A couple of times a week. Dave and I were brought in not only to coach the women's team but also to toughen up the men. Several of the guys are going to be on the Olympic squad, which will be in over its head against the Soviets. I mean, they're fast on their skates, but none of the Russkies would last a month in the Federal League. Speed doesn't help much if you're bleeding all over the boards or lying flat on your back on the ice. That's where Jackknife and Slasher come in.” “And don't overlook the Swedes, Coach. They're really dirty. Half of them could skate for Syracuse!” “That's Assistant Coach Dave 'Killer' Carlson, folks. Dave, tell the folks: how did you get your nickname?” “I like to fight, Alan. I mean, drop the gloves … use my stick … I just like to fight.” “So, the four of you are here to show the men's team how to fight, and I guess how to trip up the opposition without being called for a penalty. Is that about the size of it?” “And to bring a national championship of our own back to Minnesota ...” “Hey, Steph, look!” Jackie was pointing up at a banner hanging from the cafeteria ceiling. “Is this cool, or what?” “Wow! We've got our own table in this dump? Wow!!!” “The girls are referring to a giant banner reading 'RESERVED FOR DIAPER THIEVES', Parsons announced. “And from here I can see several of the ringleaders of the notorious gang of diaper bandits that recently terrorized the Twin Cities … all of them members of the equally notorious Zeta Alpha Pi sorority ...” “Coach, look! Cindy's doing the Cindy Shuffle!” Standing up to get a better view, Reggie's grin got larger and larger. Cindy Carlson was on her feet, shaking her well diapered ass like a professional stripper prowling the catwalk. The air horn was still blaring, and shouts of “Secret Agent Man” made their way into the booth. “That's right, folks! Cindy Carlson, who proudly informed the world that she was driving the getaway car, is still dressed in blue scrubs, and right now she's showing off her version of the Twist, or maybe it's the Mashed Potato. And Professor Ian, 'the Secret Agent Man' Grady, is seated next to her, sporting a sweatshirt in the school colors that reads 'FRATERNITY ROW … OUR DAD … 1979'. The cafeteria is rocking!” Watching Cindy, seeing frat boys all but fainting at her feet, Reggie snapped his fingers as inspiration hit. He had the means, and he was sure that the girls would go for it. But would Bernice Miller approve? Only one way to find out, he decided, and that's to ask her. Besides, I want to take that lady out on a date. Gotta be a lounge somewhere in this burg that pours stiff drinks ... “The guys are hosting one of the Ohio schools tonight, Alan, which means a bunch of ringers from Ontario. Eight o'clock, and there are still plenty of good seats available. Now, on the QT, I haven't clinched the deal yet, but the girls and I have got something cooking … something that the fans definitely won't want to miss. If we can pull it off, I promise you that this will be a hockey game that you'll be telling your grandkids about when you're old and gray!” . . . . Sitting comfortably in his plush office chair, the radio presently tuned to The Parsons Project, Andrew Carlson surveyed the chaos that a mere twenty-four hours had brought to his domain. Baby bottles and teddy bears, bibs and pacifiers, packages of adult diapers no doubt hastily purchased from hospital supply stores scattered around the Cities-- his workforce had gone all out. Some of his senior staff had known Cindy since she was a little girl, and affection for his first born daughter ran deep. She was everyone's ray of sunshine, and it had been that way virtually from the moment of her birth. If his wife had a blind spot, Andrew reflected, it lay in Emily's inability to grasp just how much Cindy was her mother's daughter. Wisely, Emily had chosen early in their marriage to chart her own course rather than compete with her ambitious and well connected husband. She gave both her time and her money to charitable causes, her efforts on behalf of the Hmong refugees settling in Minnesota and Wisconsin being only the latest. Cindy's good deeds, in contrast, were restricted to Fraternity Row, but her generosity of spirit foretold her future. Wherever her destiny might take her, his highspirited first born daughter would continue to help others. And now she has both a surrogate Dad and a den mother. And her Mom is adopting her Dad, who at some point will discover that Marilyn Marsden has put him on my radar screen. Will it strike him as mere coincidence that Cindy and Janis are Sisters, and that Em and Marilyn are acquainted-- that they spoke on the phone only this morning? Such is life in the Twin Cities … Swiveling in his chair, Andrew could only marvel at the bizarre chain of events. When Marilyn had sounded him out, he had responded enthusiastically. An underpaid university professor who spoke scores of languages could be scooped up at a fraction of his true worth, and set loose to ply his trade in the stormy seas of international commerce. In effect, Marilyn was pouring blood into a shark tank. And then, Professor Grady has stepped off the bus, bringing the girls home, making it clear that they were his charges, setting limits, visibly adopting them all. Even on TV, there was no missing the soldier in him, the command presence that oozed out of his pores. The climax, of course, was Jannie-- meek, soft spoken Janis Marsden flattening the obnoxious reporter who dared to poke a microphone in her new Dad's face. I wonder how Jim Marsden processed that scene. Four stripers who work the international routes don't get to see all that much of their children … As soon as he had reached the office, Andrew had picked up the phone and dialed a private number in Washington, D.C. known to very few-- the number of a United States Senator to whose campaigns Andrew and his associates had made substantial contributions. It had taken two hours for the Senator to get back to him, Emily's call about the adoption coming somewhere in the middle. Andrew was still digesting what he had learned. Grady had fought with distinction in Viet Nam, and he had the medals to show for it, but what really stood out was his postwar record. Even as a graduate student, Grady had traveled the world, doing the kinds of favors for his friends in the intelligence services that only a man who combined a high security clearance with an extraordinary gift for languages could pull off. Inside the beltway, it was common knowledge that Grady was tight with Donald Freeman, the CIA's Deputy Director for Covert Operations, and equally tight with Irina Orlov and her father Dmitri, which put him on a first name basis with the head of the KGB. Presidents and Premiers might speak on the hot line, but down at the operational level, Grady kept the lines of communication open for both sides. He even had a foot in the door in North Korea, and was rumored to be the only American with whom the regime was willing to talk. So it all boils down to this: if I hire him, will I just be providing cover for an intelligence officer who will always put the corporation on the back burner … someone who will always do his job only if and when he has the time for it? Andrew picked up the phone on the first ring. “I”m listening as we speak,” Andrew confirmed. Emily's first question was the obvious one. “And, no, I have no idea what the Cindy Shuffle is all about, nor do I know what devious scheme she and Coach Dunlop are hatching. I suppose we'll find out tonight … one of the privileges of being season ticket holders is that we don't have to wait for the ten o'clock news to find out what's going on. Now, what about Andy? Heard anything from the school?” Andrew chuckled, wondering if his younger daughter would ever outgrow her penchant for the theatrical. “Come on, Em.” he managed to cut in when Emily paused for breath, “barricading herself in a toilet stall is a step up from threatening to down a bottle of Drano in a janitor's closet. We are making progress here ...” “Oh, I don't think we need to get Andy a babysitter tonight. I know! Why don't we drag her to the game with us? She's got to be burning with curiosity about the Cindy Shuffle, so it should be an easy sell ...” “No, another ticket won't be a problem. I'll make a few calls, see who can't make it. There are always no-shows ...” “Good idea. She can't go on wearing blue scrubs forever, and she sure doesn't have anything in her wardrobe that will cover that diaper. A trip to the Galleria is definitely in order ...” “No … no, I don't think that we should call her. Bernice will let us know if things are getting out of hand, so for now, let's be content with surprising her at the game. From what I've heard about Coach Dunlop, we could be in for quite a treat!” . . . . “Coach!” Finding Reggie Dunlop on her doorstep took Bernice completely by surprise, and left her fumbling for words. “I'm surprised to see you in the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn't you be at practice or something?” “Nah. The girls are working on skate arounds; Killer can handle it. Did you catch me on the radio at lunchtime?” “No time. It's the end of the month, which means bills, bills, and more bills. Do you have to keep the books for your program?” “Nah. The department employs a bunch of bean counters. They do all that stuff.” “Well, I'm glad to see you. Fancy a coffee?” “Love one!” “Then you're in luck. I've got a pot brewing. Cream or sugar?” “Sugar … three lumps. Stuff keeps me up all night if I drink it black.” Still mystified, Bernice ushered Reggie into her office before rushing off to the kitchen. When she returned, she settled in behind her desk, hoping that she had her emotions reasonably under control. Coach was drop dead handsome and she was interested, but it had been a long time since she last played the game. “So, you and the girls got anything going tonight?” Reggie was peeking at her over the edge of his coffee cup, which told Bernice that he was up to no good. “Not really. The girls should all be storming in here in a few minutes; they have an orientation meeting over at the hospital, which should take a couple of hours. We're doing dinner at six thirty.” “Perfect! Perfect timing!” Reg was grinning from ear to ear. “The guys are taking to the ice at eight, and it just so happens that I've got fifty tickets in my pocket … fifty free tickets … seats downstairs at center ice, right behind the visiting team's bench. We always hold them for boosters traveling with the visiting outfit, but the weather's been so bad that there haven't been any takers … or maybe the hayseeds from Ohio can't find Minnesota … hell, I don't know. What I do know is that we need to put warm bodies in those seats, and the girls would be great!” “Reggie, this is remarkably generous of you.” “Nah, it's just my way of thanking all of you for letting me hang around yesterday and gobble up your pizza. Besides, you'd be doing us a favor. It'd be embarrassing to have some of the best seats in the house go empty, especially when we're bringing in some prospects that we hope to recruit for the program. We don't want the place to feel like a funeral parlor!” Bernice looked up, and nodded knowingly. “Your timing is impeccable, Coach; it sounds like we have company.” She could hear some of the girls chattering away in the dining room, no doubt comparing notes on how their first day in diapers had gone. Reggie finished his coffee, started to rise, but then sat down a second time. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Uh … there's like one more thing. I know you've got a lot on your plate, but if you can find the time … I'd like to thank you personally … dinner someplace swank, candlelight and wine, good steaks … a place where we can get to know each other. Only I don't know anything about this town, so you'd have to choose.” “I'd like that, Reggie; thank you. Let's start with Jax Cafe. It's a supper club up nordeast. Very swank. Do you like to dance?” “I thought you'd never ask,” Reggie grinned. “As long as it's not disco!” “I don't think you're ready for Moby's.” Bernice smiled, “although you might find the goons who hang out there to your liking. Some of them probably played hockey when they were in high school!” . . . . “And that concludes the formal presentation.” Standing at the lectern, Gayle Soderberg closed her notebook, and gazed out at her audience. She was delighted to see that all forty of her charges had attended orientation, and she could tell from the looks on their collective faces that she had got them to pay attention. A classroom with sophisticated audio-visual equipment, which she had put to good use in her presentation, had made her unspoken point clear: when it came to technology, the hospital could match any department on their campus. “Before we start the tour, are there any questions? Kimberly.” Kimberly lowered her hand, and thought about how best to phrase a question that in the abstract would strike any sensible person as juvenile in the extreme. “All of us will be driving over here. Where are we supposed to park?” “The second floor of the ramp. There are two entrances, and two exits, both clearly marked for staff only. I will issue every driver a parking permit and access pass. The entire second floor is reserved for staff, but you can use the higher floors if required. Cindy” “When do we get our uniforms, and where do we change into them?” “Now you know why you are sitting in assigned seats,” Gayle laughed. “When you return from the tour, you will find a package beneath you seat. It contains your dress, which hospital policy mandates that you have on when you enter and leave the facility. However, this being winter on the tundra, the administration will turn a blind eye to girls who make arrangements with their ward supervisors to change when arriving for work. In a word, ladies, you should regard the charge nurses as the rulers of their dominion, but even they must bow to the true rulers of our universe, who are the two oh, so quiet gentlemen seated behind me. Ladies, permit me to introduce Jerry Cromwell, who runs the purchasing department, and Manny Cepeda, who manages our physical operation. We can't have all forty of you parading up and down the corridors in a group, so Jerry and Manny have generously volunteered to help out here.” Tippi raised her hand, and Gayle nodded at her. “When are we going to find out our assignments, and … uh … about who is going to be changing our diapers?” Manny and Jerry both chuckled. They had made a bet on whether or not anyone would be bold enough to ask the one question that really mattered to any of these girls. Gayle shook her head, reminded once again that placing a bet against Manny Cepeda was a fool's errand. “Each of you is about to learn her assignment,” Gayle replied. “As for your diapers, it will be up to your supervisors to decide whether to change you personally, or pass you along to one of their subordinates. The only thing I can promise you is that men will not be involved … well, unless you strike up a relationship with one of our eligible young physicians, and mutually agree that this is something both of you wish to do.” “So, you don't object to us becoming involved with members of the staff?” Melanie had her eye on Amos, and she wanted the green light to proceed. “We never stand in the way of true love,” Gayle smirked. “My assistant is ga-ga over Janis,” Jerry pointed out with a huge grin. “There's something about young maidens helplessly trapped in one of our bulky diapers that appeals to the male ego. Don't be surprised if you attract a lot of attention around here.” “It was the same way on campus today,” Tippi remarked. “We expected to be ostracized, but it was just the other way around. We all had boys crawling all over us. Tomorrow night, most of my Sisters will be at the Delta kegger, and any girl from the other houses who isn't wearing a diaper doesn't have a chance. Diapers are in!!” “I'm glad to hear it,” Gayle smiled. “Now, what's this about blue scrubs? Why on earth do you all want to walk out of here wearing blue scrubs?” “It's for the hockey game tonight,” Kimberly explained. "Coach Dunlop … he's the coach of our women's team … he gave us fifty tickets, right behind the visiting bench. Their boosters couldn't make it, so he wants us to fill in. The blue scrubs will identify us to their team. We're supposed to cheer for them ...” “We've even got some numbers worked out with the band,” Cindy amplified. “I'm going to do the Cindy Shuffle. Did you hear about it? Alan Parsons of the Parsons Project came up with the name on his noon broadcast.” “Never listen to the radio,” Gayle confessed. “That was you?” Jerry exchanged glances with Manny; they had both caught the broadcast. “You heard?” Cindy couldn't believe how quickly her fame had spread. She jumped to her feet, and jiggled her well diapered ass. “What do you think?” Jerry's tongue was dragging, and only his fear of Estrellita kept Manny's in check. “I see,” Gayle laughed as she looked at her two male colleagues. “Cindy, this is why I have assigned you to Public Relations. You will be walking patients through the process, from check-in to the handover to the surgical team. Linda, you and Melanie set off a feeding frenzy-- every department in the hospital wants both of you. I'm ticketing you for physical therapy … the sixth floor. Tippi, you are already on board with Sarah in post-op; Abigail, you're headed for ...” One by one, Gayle laid out the assignments for all forty of the sorority girls. They were manna from Heaven, and she sincerely hoped that service to others would resonate with at least a few of their number. Candy stripers were a pool from which hospitals all over the country had been recruiting RN's for years. . . . . “Hello, sports fans, it's Alan Parsons, welcoming you to tonight's broadcast from the Isadore Blumenfeld arena, where our very own hockey heroes, Minnesota born one and all, are playing host to the Sandusky State Icebreakers. Yes, the school may be located in Ohio, but make no mistake about it … with half the roster drawn from Canada's Ontario province, it feels more like the guys are going head to head with a top tier Canadian Junior team. Dave, do the boys have their work cut out for them tonight?” “They certainly do, Alan, but our guys are up to the challenge.” “That's Dave 'Killer' Carlson, folks. Dave's the Assistant Coach for the women's hockey team, but last year he was the star defenseman for the Federal League champion Charlestown Chiefs. Dave, welcome to the booth; it's an honor to have you join our broadcast team. Everyone in our audience is sure to appreciate your analysis of what's happening down on the ice. Dave, is there one player the fans should keep an eye on throughout the contest?” “Absolutely, Alan.” “And who would that be?” “Number sixty-nine, Alan … Senior Defenseman Derek 'Thug' Naughton. Thug is a goon, in the best hockey tradition.” “And for the benefit of fans who don't know the finer points of hockey, Dave, what exactly is a goon?” "The team's enforcer. If somebody on the other team gets out of line, a goon will step up and teach him to mind his manners. Thug currently leads the league in penalty minutes, which in hockey is a good thing. He'll do well in the NHL” “I see. How about goal scorers? Do we have anyone that makes the NHL scouts salivate?” “There's talent across all three lines, but the most dangerous guys on the squad are Forwards Lucas Erickson and Alexander Nilsson. Lucas centers the first line, and Alexander plays right wing. Lucas leads the League in assists, and Alex in scoring.” “And we have a full house tonight … the first one this year. It looks like a lot of fans were paying attention when Women's Hockey Coach Reggie Dunlop was on the air this afternoon, promising the folks something special this evening. Right now, the air inside the arena is electric with anticipation!” “Well, the air in here is terribly dry, Alan, so of course sparks are going to fly.” “And looking down below, the seats directly behind the Sandusky bench are fully occupied by a phalanx of blue scrubbed sorority girls. And … and … yes! It's the diaper thieves from the Zeta Alpha Pi sorority house! Oh, my … fans, you can't miss their diapers! They're so bulky, it looks like the girls have got big, fat pillows inside their paper thin pants! Dave, tell me true: is this Coach Dunlop's doing-- and what is he up to?” “Reggie's a deep thinker, Alan, and a follower of the Swami Baha. Coach uses the Master's meditation exercises in the locker room before every game to help the girls focus. He arranged tickets for the entire sorority, which is home to two members of our team, for the same purpose: focus on the present, let nothing distract you, reveal your true self to all who surround you.” “Interesting, Dave … very, very interesting. Does this mean that we are going to be entertained with another rendition of the Cindy Shuffle?” “Coach assures me that tonight the girls will be revealing their inner selves as they begin the journey that leads all to the Middle Path. When their spirits are at peace, a messy diaper will be of little consequence.” “Fascinating, Dave, truly fascinating. Is this why the women's team has been so successful?” “In part, but let us not overlook the contributions of Jackknife and Slasher … the Hanson sisters. We have not one goon but two on our squad, and they are both at one with the dark side of the Force ...” . . . . “Honestly, Andy, for the life of me I cannot understand how you can listen to this drivel! Is this what your generation regards as music? Disco? Really?” Emily Carlson was having second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing their sixteen year old to a college hockey game. It had seemed like a good idea earlier in the day, but that was before her daughter had tuned her transistor radio to an all disco, all the time AM station at the top of the dial. “The Bee Gees are not drivel, Mom,” Andrea protested, “and Barry Gibb is six different kinds of dreamy!” “He sounds like a eunuch who managed to escape from a Turkish harem,” Emily harrumphed. “And he's getting on my nerves! Either turn the radio off, or tune in to the pre-game show. Maybe Alan Parsons can tell us what your sister and her friends have in store for us tonight.” “Dad, help! Mom's being unreasonable. There's more to music than Elvis Presley!” “Sorry, Andy, but I'm with your mother on this one. We need to keep on top of things … your sister is perfectly capable of doing something so crazy that she ends up back in jail, and if that happens, I want our attorney to get there soonest to bail her out.” “They should lock her up and throw away the key,” Andrea huffed. “But, hey! Since she's wearing a diaper and it's locked on, in a way she's already in jail! Too bad it's not a lifetime sentence!” “Speaking of our little devil,” Emily said as she nodded at a blue clad gathering on the other side of the rink, “methinks our first born is waving at us.” “I'll be damned,” Andrew sighed. “Em, it looks like the whole sorority is over there, and they're all wearing hospital scrubs ...” Andrea climbed to her feet, got her sister's attention … and turned thumbs down. “And the Icebreakers have just come out for their warm up,” Alan Parsons solemnly intoned. “And here come our home town heroes, led onto the ice by team captain Lucas Erickson! Let's give the boys a big, hometown welcome!” The fans climbed to their feet, but the cheers soon turned to laughter as the band began to play Oh, Canada. “It's probably Dunlop's doing,” Andrew whispered into Em's ear. “Word is that he likes to psych the opposition out.” . . . . “Twelve minutes into the period and we're still scoreless,” Alan Parsons observed as they came back from what felt like their fiftieth commercial break. “What do you think, Dave? Neither team seems willing to take any chances out there, which is to the Icebreakers' advantage. Looks like they'd be happy to get out of here with a tie.” “A point is a point, Alan. It's always good to get a win, but a point is a point.” “Truer words have never been spoken, Dave; we need someone to light a fire under our guys. Speaking of which …” “Holy Cow! Fans, you would not believe it! Cindy Carlson, diaper thief extraordinaire and driver of the getaway car, is on her feet! She's got a microphone in her hand, and the band has let loose. Listen!!!” Well you can tell by the way I use my walk I'm a man's woman, no time to talk ... “Holy Cow! Cindy's shakin' her booty, jive dancing … the whole sorority is on its feet … and … and … so are the Icebreakers! The whole Icebreaker bench is up, backs to the ice, staring at the girls, who are seated right behind them! We're ready for a faceoff, but the referee is just standing out there at center ice, staring up into the stands, drooling. And the crowd is on its feet, cheering the girls on!!!” And we're stayin' alive, stayin' alive Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, staying alive ... “Oh, my God … Oh, my God!! Cindy's taking off her blouse … she's … she's disrobing. She's stripping!!! And the band is egging her on!! Listen!!!” “Heard this one before, Alan, when we were playing Syracuse for the championship and Ned Braden took to the ice to do a strip tease. It's Andre Previn's The Stripper ...” “I know what it is, you dumb Canuck!” “You think he knows that this is going out live,” Emily asked as she looked at her husband. “I'm thinking maybe we should move to Tierra del Fuego,” Andrew sighed. “THAT'S MY SISTER,” Andrea screamed as she stood up on her seat and confronted the fans. “SHE GETS ALL THE ATTENTION! MY WHOLE LIFE! SHE GETS ALL THE ATTENTION!!” “She … she … just kicked off her shoes! And now she's taking off her pants … and … and … some of the other girls are copying her! The Amazon?” “Kimberly, Alan; her name is Kimberly. She wants to be a schoolteacher. And I'm from Virginia, up on the Iron Range. Played for UMD; that's Duluth, Alan, in case you don't know it.” “The referee has dropped the puck … or maybe it just slithered out of his hand! Lucas Erickson has got possession, and he's charging down the ice, Alexander Nilsson matching him stride for stride on the right wing! They're going in two on zero … Erickson jukes left … passes to Nilsson, who shoots ...” “AND HE SCORES!! NILSSON SCORES!!” “Wait a second, fans … wait a second! The Icebreaker coach is fit to be tied. He's thrown his hat on the ice, his clipboard … he's screaming that there was no goal, no goal, but the referee is ignoring him! He's just standing there, staring up into the stands!” What you doin' on your bed on your back? Ah You should be dancing, yeah Dancing, yeah ... “Oh, my God! The girls are down to bikini tops and their diapers, and Cindy is doing it … CINDY IS DOING THE CINDY SHUFFLE!!! The crowd is going crazy, and some of the Icebreakers are trying to climb over the glass, like Viking warriors of old in search of the spoils of war!!” Everybody need somebody to love Someone to love, someone to kiss, oh yeah Someone to miss now, someone to squeeze Someone to please them “Holy Batman, Robin!! Cindy Carlson is waving her ass at the whole Icebreaker bench! It's the grown up, X-rated version of the Cindy Shuffle!!! Never mind the crowd … the Icebreakers are going crazy!!! And I need you, you, you I need you, you, you I need you, you, you I need you you you “Wait, wait, what's this? Derek the Thug Naughton is pounding his stick on the railing in front of the Icebreaker bench. He looks seriously upset ...” “Kimberly is his girlfriend, Alan. He's very possessive. He needs to open his spirit to the Swami Baha because, at the moment, he is far from the Middle Path.” “Screw the Middle Path because he's certainly latched onto Icebreaker defenseman Bobby Friedman! Thug's dropped his gloves, and he's literally dragging the Icebreaker over the railing and out onto the ice!” “Could they charge Cindy with incitement to riot?” Andrew was simply voicing his thoughts out loud, remembering the care with which his daughter had transported her treasured poster of Gilda Gray from her bedroom at home to her new digs in the sorority house. “Indecent exposure?” Emily was thinking about the uproar Cindy has inspired in the Spring of her sophomore year, but she was keeping a wary eye on the security guards, who were slowly making their way down the stairs. She wondered if they were taking their time because they were enjoying the show. “The fans are throwing things onto the ice! Cups full of beer … hot dogs slathered with mustard … used condoms … and … and … three of the Icebreakers have made it into the stands. But, what's this … what's this? Fans, I don't believe it! Spats Belmondo has just arrived on the scene with two of his bodyguards and with his long time attorney, Jerome 'gets 'em off on a technicality' Goldstein. The girls are locked into his diapers, and it looks like he's here with his muscle to insure that no harm comes to his investment!” “SHE GETS ALL THE ATTENTION,” Andrea screamed into the uncaring night. “Thug and Friedman, are going at it, and both benches have cleared! There are fights breaking out all over the ice, and the referee and linesmen are just standing there, doing nothing! Friedman's a mess, blood pouring out of his mouth … Thug's pounding the crap out of him ...” Alan Parsons was on his feet, a war correspondent reporting live from a modern day battlefield. “The gloves are off … fists are flying … there's blood on the ice ...” “THIS IS HOCKEY!!” And I need you, you, you I need you, you, you I need you, you, you I need you you you “THIS IS HOCKEY!!”

Thanks for taking the time to read, and to comment. Much appreciated.

Thank you very much. Poetry is a medium that expresses the enigmatic in ways that prose cannot hope to capture. Glad that you enjoyed it.

It was, as it turned out, the first thing to be installed, Upon signing the Contract, giving Mistress my all. Transparent, innocent, so deceptively small, Yet in Mistress circles all the rage— This teeny, tiny plastic cage. Padlock equipped, it fits so tight, Gives me battle in the middle of the night. My cock stirs, answers swift fading dreams, Bulging, straining, ever straining, straining at the seams. But it shattereth not, this unholy device, That keeps me chaste, forever kept in my place. I lie quiet, still, ah, but Mistress awakes, Idly runs fingers down my spine, Softly laughing in my ear, taunting, ever taunting, “It’s not yours, slave! No more! Now ’tis mine!” Every day my once prized freedom slips farther away, Submission truly the costliest game of all to play. I serve her, yes, I strive to please, Hoping beyond hope for just an hour’s release. The moment comes when, helplessly tied to the bed, Mistress washes and cleans, my cock growing hard and red, Gently strokes, but no matter how much I beg, Always refuses, softly teasing, Driving me crazy, out of my head. I yearn for release, or do I not, Why, it’s often hard to tell. I begged for this to be my lot, To live condemned, forever denied, Shackled, without desire to escape, The frustrated depths of Dante’s Hell. Forever pleasured with denied release, I begged Mistress once more, Yes, once more lengthen my stay, To be merciless and cruel, the forever tease, Begged her, bid here, oh Mistress please, Do not, I beg, do not do not yet end— Do not yet end this chastity play!

QUO VADIS? “Want some company?” Startled, Carlie looked up to see Rita hovering over her, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. Not at all sure that she was doing the right thing, Carlie reluctantly gestured for her to take a seat. “I spotted you when I was going through the line,” Rita explained as she sat down opposite the distracted policewoman. “Take my word for it: neither the coffee nor the clam chowder are going to get better with age.” Carlie blushed, belatedly realizing that while she had been idly stirring her coffee, her soup had begun to solidify. She had no idea how long she had been sitting at the table. “Want to talk about it?” “Talk about what?” It was a lame response, and Carlie knew it. “This morning? At the house? You mentioned that you have a mask that drops into place when you're on the witness stand. Carlie, I testify on the last Tuesday of every month in matters that sometimes get contentious. I have my own mask, and while I'm sitting out there waiting my turn, I get a bird's eye view of my fellow professionals and their masks. I've seen it all before. Your mask slipped into place when Marge was making her case, and when Reiko took over, you shriveled up. I swear, you looked like someone had knocked you to the ground, and you were protecting yourself as the blows started landing. So, I'll ask again: do you want to talk about it?” “I need to, because it feels like I'm losing my mind. But if it gets out that I'm seeing a shrink ...” “It won't. Right now, we're just two friends chatting over coffee. But say the word, and I'll take you on as a patient. I'll even put it in writing … got the form sitting in one of my filing cabinets upstairs. You know the drill: anything you tell me is confidential.” “You'd go that far?” “Farther. When it comes to Ian, you have no idea how far I'm prepared to go.” Carlie nodded. She had to talk to someone, and she couldn't think of anyone better qualified than Rita. She definitely didn't want to discuss Anna with a police psychiatrist. “Doctor Stevenson, would you be willing to take me on as a patient?” “Yes. We can process the paperwork later, but as of this moment anything that you say to me will be held in the strictest of confidence.” Carlie nodded again, before taking in a huge breath and letting it out slowly. “It's Anna,” she said in a voice that had dropped to a whisper. “She was in the room; it felt like she was sitting right next to me. She was listening, but she didn't choose a side. I kept waiting for her to respond in some way, but she just sat there. Nothing ...” For a very long moment, Rita also said nothing. Her mind was racing, unwittingly retracing the path that Carlie had followed as the coffee crashed in gentle waves against the sides of her cup. There was nothing in the textbooks or the scientific journals that even hinted at the possibility of a DID personality transferring hosts. “How old would you say she is?” Rita felt like she was trapped in a maze, and she was desperately seeking a way out. “Nine or ten, just as you seem to have suspected. Reiko's right, isn't she? You got there ahead of the rest of us … figured out that Anna is Ian's daughter.” “It's the only logical answer … the only one that locks all the pieces into place.” “Or it was,” Rita sighed as she took a sip of her coffee. “Now, it looks like we're back to square one.” “Could Anna be me? How did Ian describe Princess Poopy Pants? His alter ego? Maybe it's Multiple Personality Disorder, but I'm coming up on forty. Why now, when I'm in a good place? Why not earlier, when I was coming to terms with being lesbian, seeing the disappointment in my parents' eyes? None of this makes any sense.” “Which proves that you're as sane as the rest of us,” Rita smiled. “Thanks, but when you consider that I walked out of the conference room convinced that the lunatics were running the asylum ...” “In our business, spitballing ideas is the key to a productive session. But, hey, if you want crazy, I'll give you crazy. Ready?” Carlie gestured for Rita to continue. “Just to the right of the exit … see the bulletin board?” Carlie turned in her chair, and spotted it. “There are two pictures of Ian on the board. I want you to get up, walk over there, and take a look … a good, long look. Then, come back and tell me if Anna joined you. And Carlie? You should know that emotionally these photos have hit some of the veterans working here very hard, Amos being one of them. If they get to you, don't be ashamed of your feelings. We'll explore them together.” Nodding, Carlie took another deep breath before getting up to walk across the cafeteria. As Rita watched, Carlie's body stiffened, and she reached out to touch one of the photos, caressing it. Time seemed to stop, and then Carlie's head sagged, and her shoulders began to shake. Rita bided her time, giving Carlie space. Eventually, she turned away from the board and slowly retraced her steps to the table. She sat down with a heavy, defeated sigh. “I was a Criminal Justice major,” she said without preamble; “always wanted to protect and serve. Probably had something to do with riding herd on two younger brothers who were constantly getting into trouble. Anyway, when I graduated, I decided to join the army … figured it was a good way to put my degree to work, get some real world experience. My first two years were stateside, and the duty was pretty ho-hum. But in sixty-six I was sent to Hong Kong. I was there for fourteen months, in a period when over two hundred thousand military personnel were taking R&Rs in the Colony each year. All these young kids, getting two or three days to blow off steam in the bars and brothels. Drunken brawls were a daily occurrence, and then there were the Star Ferry Riots ...” Carlie fingered her coffee cup, remembering the riots … gangs of Chinese youth and American GIs and sailors mixing it up in the streets, the British garrison being called out with bayonets fixed … “I rode a desk, but at night you couldn't get away from the screams … the crying … the nightmares. I think I aged fourteen years in those fourteen months. The photos? In Hong Kong I saw thousands of guys like Ian; it's taken me years to stop seeing them in my sleep … years.” Rita sat quietly, wanting Carlie to continue. She was listening attentively, but she was also thinking about Phil and Don, Ian, Manny and Amos. How many of the people who worked around her, she wondered, were haunted by these memories. Only days before, she had observed a nurse looking at Ian's photograph, then rushing off to the nearest restroom, her hand clasped over her mouth to hold back the vomit. How many of her own colleagues needed counseling? “Sorry, I guess you're not here for true confessions.” “What? Carlie, listen to me! Not only do I want to hear every detail, I need to! Down here, up in my office-- wherever makes you feel at ease. All that puke you saw on my smock happened when Ian described the aftermath of the massacre in his village. No one in my department is prepared for this. You can help us … teach us. Please, pass on what you've learned, so that we can help others. We can't do this alone!” “And you won't have to. Rita, last night I told Ian that our department is ready and willing to pitch in, and I meant it. My two brothers? Joshua had a student deferment, but Caleb joined the Marines. He was at Khe Sanh when he was short time, and he's always described the last six weeks there as a long march through Hell. He was a nineteen year old kid who'd seen too many John Wayne movies. In the beginning, he wanted to be a hero; in the end, he just wanted to make it home in one piece.” “I'd like to talk with him.” “I'll make the pitch, but don't hold your breath. He's keeping a lot of stuff bottled up inside.” “The wall,” Rita sighed. “Look, I want you to work with all of us, but especially with Marge. Right now, she's one on one with a vet in our secure ward who was all but comatose until Ian came along and found a way to open him up. Helping vets is her cause, and I'm planning to let her run with it. You in?” “I'm in.” “If you're free, come by tomorrow around ten. You won't be able to attend the whole of Lessing's Folly, but when you are in the room, I guarantee that you will be the star of the show!” “I bet,” Carlie smiled. “Or will Anna get the top billing?” “Want to tell me what happened?” “It's strange. I was looking at the photos, thinking about Caleb, and she kind of blinked into being right beside me. I could feel her standing there … a presence? An aura? Rita, it's very hard to describe what I sense when she's nearby. I thought maybe she would speak to me, ask me something about the photos. But she didn't. I think she looked at them, but I'm not really sure. Nothing seemed to register. Sorry.” “Don't be. Carlie, we're … by the way, what's that short for?” “Carlotta. My mother was quite taken with the heroine in Arnold Bennett's Sacred and Profane Love.” “Don't know it.” “Don't tell my mother if you meet her, but you haven't missed much.” “Promise.” Rita solemnly crossed her heart. “Now, about Anna: we're all pitching pennies in the dark. We're unlikely to get anywhere unless she speaks to you, so I'm sorry, but it looks like you and Ian are going to have to get drunk again. Think you can handle it?” “If Julia still has cash in hand, I'm up for it.” “Good. Now all I have to do is persuade Sarah that this is medical research … a critical part of Ian's therapy.” “Got a suggestion for you.” Carlie's expression was deadpan. Rita look at her expectantly. “Let's give Julia a break. When you run all this by your boss, finish up by proposing to use department funding to pay for the booze. You might even try and persuade him to conduct the experiment inside your facility. All in the name of science, of course.” Rita simply couldn't help herself: she burst out laughing. Carlie probably thought that she was being outrageous, but Rita knew that her colleagues would jump all over any half baked idea that would reinforce her department's already scandalous reputation. Right then and there, Rita decided that Carlie should be welcomed into their household. Run the training course at Quantico, then come home to take charge of external security around their new home while Priscilla managed the inside. And, she thought, Sarah would love the idea, as she loved every idea that strengthened their family. And if Sarah really is bi ... . . . . “It's been quite a day,” Babs quietly observed as she accompanied Ian to his afternoon class. He was still carrying his cane, but for the moment at least, was making progress without it. “I mean, here I am … a police officer who's out of uniform when I'm supposed to be on duty, and wearing a diaper that I can't remove because it's locked on and I don't have the key. I have a new Mommy who's a college girl several years my junior; she's making me use my diaper, and has already given me a spanking and banished me to the corner to contemplate my sins. The spanking hurt like hell, and to top it all off, I find out that my partner thinks I'm a bitch, and that I'm getting exactly what I deserve.” “Actually,” Ian corrected, “Carlie thinks that you are getting what you need. There's a difference.” “True,” Babs conceded after giving it some thought. “My last relationship was with an older woman, and she treated me like a child. But being returned to infancy is like following Alice down the rabbit hole. This diaper is really uncomfortable. Honestly, I don't know how you get through the day wearing that monster you've got on.” “You get used to it,” Ian shrugged, “and there are advantages. I have all of these smart, beautiful women changing me every couple of hours, and it's an intimate moment for both of us. It can be highly erotic, and it definitely builds trust.” “So, you think I should go with the flow? Become Mommy's little baby girl?” “What I think isn't important, but if you want my two cents worth, the first thing I'd say is that you shouldn't let the difference in age bother you. I have met quite a number of couples where the younger person-- the wife-- was more mature than the somewhat older husband, and Joyce strikes me as possessing a great deal of common sense. But you should also keep in mind that she is going to be wearing and using diapers for at least the next six to seven months. She has no choice in the matter. Would your relationship work if you are wearing your big girl panties while she's pissing and pooping her diaper?” “No … no, I guess not. I hadn't thought of that, but you're right … it wouldn't work at all. But my job ...” “That one's for Carlie or your Union rep. But shouldn't you talk it over with Joyce as well? Sarah is my Mommy, Babs, and I wouldn't dream of unilaterally making a decision about something that could jeopardize my job. The problem, whatever it is, will always land on her desk. She might ask me to share my thoughts, but she is under no obligation to do so. Either way, she will make the decision, and there is no appealing it: her word is final. Ours is a D/s relationship of the Mommy/baby variety.” “And you're good with this? A man with your military background?” Babs was amazed by what she was hearing. “Very much so. Oh, I don't want her to decide what I eat for lunch in the Faculty Club, but if we are dining out, she may well order for me without bothering to ask what I feel like having. I took orders in the military, Babs, so if it helps, think of Sarah not as my Dominant or Mommy, but as an officer higher up in the chain of command.” “So, Sarah is the general, and you are a junior officer. Where does this leave Priscilla?” “Somewhere in the middle. Priscilla, Rita, Vickie … Carlie if she joins up … they will all defer to Sarah, and I shall happily strive to obey each and every one of them. If I'm naughty or disobedient, I go over somebody's knee. I was spanked twice last week, and once so far this week. One of the topics up for discussion tomorrow night will be the scheduling of my weekly maintenance spanking.” “Mine, too. Can you believe it? Mommy has made it clear that she is going to spank me every week as a matter of principle. I just hope that she uses her hand instead of Mister Holeywood. I was bawling my head off long before the tenth and final blow.” “And you're good with this?” Ian looked at his companion with a twinkle in his eye. “Touche,” Babs smiled. “And yes, I am, because Carlie's right: I need this. I'm praying that Mommy … that Joyce can help me get my head screwed on straight. Ian, it took last night to drive home the fact that right now I'm in a bad place. I said terrible things to you, and I meant every word of it. And then you turned out to be this gentle, kind, compassionate guy who put the lie to all of my self-serving broadsides against the male of the species. I owe both you and Carlie an apology. Mommy wanted to do it in the cafeteria, but that would have been the wrong audience. You shall both have it at Rita's party tomorrow night. It won't be a crowded cop bar, but it will serve.” “And then both of us will be spending the night in our cribs. Locking mittens and pacifiers for sure, and we may also end up in full restraints. It should be interesting because Vickie is also supposed to be crib bound. Wonder which one of us is going to share.” “If Mommy gets her way, you and I will end up sleeping together. We might even find ourselves chained together. She wants me to pay full measure for the nasty way I treated you.” “Can you handle it? Being in bed with a man?” “Since we are both wearing chastity belts, it won't be a problem.” “And if she insists that you change my messy diaper, instead of simply watching … you know, the way you did in my office a few minutes ago when she changed me?” “I won't be happy about it, but I'll do it. When I was introduced to Mister Holeywood, I got religion, Ian. Take my word for it; I am now a true believer!” . . . . “Got room for two more?” Arm in arm, Vickie and Priscilla had gradually made their way through the hospital, telling everyone who would listen about the adoption. The word spread like wildfire from one floor to the next. Everyone who knew about Vickie's miserable childhood was delighted by the news. “Carlie, I spotted you earlier when I was heading across the street to conspire with my new sister and our mom. You looked like you were doing a postmortem, so I decided to sneak out without bracing you. Everything okay?” The professional in Vickie was alarmed by Rita's presence. It was easy to guess what they were discussing, and she feared that she and Pris were intruding on a very delicate conversation. “Oh, Rita was just schooling me on how lunatics can draw big paychecks while running their own asylum.” Carlie was genuinely happy to see her new friends, for that was how she regarded both Pris and Vic. “And yes. Upstairs? I thought that all of you were certifiable. But Rita assures me that this is how you guys roll.” “You going to do Quantico and move in with us?” Priscilla's take on what was bugging Carlie Voight was a little different from Vickie's, and she wasn't big on beating around the bush. “Ian mentioned it in passing. Should I take him seriously?” “Very,” Priscilla nodded. “All he has to do is make one phone call, and you're on your way. I'm thinking the two of us would split the security detail, with you taking the perimeter.” Rita coughed so hard that she brought up her latest sip of coffee. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I was wondering how to bring this up a bit earlier. It did not occur to me to try the direct approach.” “Wait a second,” Carlie protested as she leaned back in her chair. “Are the three of you seriously asking me to move in with you?” “Yep,” Vickie chimed in. “What about Sarah?” “Piece of cake, especially if you're good with changing diapers … mine, Ian's, my sister's ...” “Huh. Pris, are you …” “Yep. Vic, Mom and me … we're putting up a united front to convince Dad that latchkey incontinence is not the end of the world. Mom's had it with cleaning up behind him every time they come home from their weekly outing to The Pig Sty. Enough is enough.” “I swear, you people are nuts! But at the moment, my sanity is questionable at best, so I need to talk to Sarah ...” Rita choked a second time. “She's up on Three,” Vickie noted, looking around the cafeteria to make sure that Sarah had not come down to eat alone. “Why don't you go talk to her?” “But don't take too long,” Priscilla warned. “We need to get over to campus, and the sooner the better. Babs is covering for me … Ian's security detail. But I want to hand her off to you before two, when his office hours get going. You're supposed to sign her in or sign her out … whatever … then take her back to the sorority house and hand her off to Joyce. Mommy misses her baby.” “You paired Babs off with Ian?” Carlie was astonished. “Are you ...” “Crazy?” Priscilla shrugged. “Maybe so … but then I don't know what her problem is. What I do know is that Ian is the answer. If Joyce is the stick, and that much is obvious, then Ian is the carrot. Working together, they might just be able to give our colleague her life back.” Carlie got to her feet. “Third floor?” “Out that exit, and about forty five yards down-- elevator on your right.” Rita was pointing. “Sarah runs the whole post surgical ward, so anyone can direct you to her office.” “Pris, you going to wait?” “Be right here,” she smiled. “Follow me to campus, and I'll take you to Ian's office. I'll show you how to change a war hero's poopy diapers!” “One last thing,” Vickie cut in. “Rita, Carlie … this is important. Which one of the seven dwarfs do you think changed Snow White's diapers? I voted for Happy, and Pris said that I was weird. She voted for Grumpy, and Mom took Doc.” “Bashful,” Carlie answered without hesitation. “Definitely has to be Bashful.” “Nope,” Rita objected. “I'm with Vic; it's gotta be Happy. He got to play with her equipment ...” “Dear God! You two really have gone off the deep end! Carlie, you sure you want to join this madhouse?” “I'm sure, Pris … very sure. Don't know about you, but I'll fit right in! Now, what are we going to do about Babs?” . . . . Standing in the dimly lit shadows at the rear of the classroom, Babs felt more miserable, and more ashamed, with each passing minute. The largely male cohort of students had jumped to their feet when Ian entered, his sweatshirt earning him a standing ovation punctuated with the names of fraternities that a handful of the students shouted out. Then, as the class proceeded, what she witnessed was not so much a lecture as a conversation, in which a somewhat older and more seasoned traveler offered cultural tips to a younger cohort soon to venture abroad for the first time. The atmosphere was relaxed and warm, and no one snickered when he turned to face the blackboard, the bulge of his diaper fully on display. As the minutes passed, it became more and more obvious that he was not Diaper Butt in their eyes; if anything, his handicaps intensified the respect in which his students held him. Slowly but inexorably, therefore, Babs was forced to acknowledge that the horrors of her own family background had set her up to commit one of the worst of all sins-- prejudging a man, and condemning him without a hearing. She could only pray that the humiliation she would endure at Rita's party would somehow atone for her misbehavior. When the bell rang, some students immediately headed for the exits, but other flocked to the lectern to thank Ian for taking Zeta Alpha Pi under his wing, and then to congratulate him on his appointment to the Panhellenic Council. It was fully ten minutes before the last students took their leave, and Babs and Ian could make the return trip to his office. They made small talk as they slowly proceeded through the underground corridors, but Bab's mind was elsewhere. Would Priscilla be waiting for them? Would Carlie? Would his secretary answer the call, or would the task of checking Ian's diaper fall to her? And if he needed to be changed, what then? Babs had long feared that the crucible moment would take the form of an accident victim-- someone needing CPR to hold on to life itself. She had steeled herself to do what had to be done, told herself that anonymity would be her shield. But she and Ian were now well acquainted, and changing his diaper was an entirely different order of the universe. Could she clean poop out of the folds of his skin, and take a wet wipe to his penis and balls? Or would she freeze up ... become as useless as she felt as they walked through the underground warren? Startled, she looked down to see that Ian was holding her hand, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the real estate that lay between knuckles and wrist. She looked into his eyes, and rocked back on her heels, not expecting to see pity mixed with understanding. “I grew up in East Los Angeles,” he murmured. “What some might call a working class neighborhood, though it was as poor and violent … as ridden with despair … as any slum. I was shot in the fourth grade, at a Saturday matinee. In the sixth, I was knifed … out on a playground where there were no adults to supervise. And in the fifth grade ...” Oh, no!! Oh, God no!!! Babs knew what was coming, but her feet were frozen to the ground. She couldn't move, couldn't run away. “I was raped. And I couldn't tell my parents because it was the son of the man my mother worked for. She would have confronted him … lost her job … so I kept it secret. Fleeing to the main library downtown was a way to avoid him, and that's where my life's odyssey truly began. But to this day … in the hospitals, the worst moments were when the doctors were poking and prodding me. Without the pain killers and the sedatives ...” Ian nodded, knowing that without the meds he would have freaked out more than once. “But I'm fine with women, no problems whatsoever. A sorority is a perfect fit for me.” Eyes closed, Babs stared at the ceiling and howled, the cry of a deeply wounded animal that had lost all hope. She collapsed into Ian's arms, chest heaving, the sobs racking her as twenty years of bottled up pain and rage shattered in an unguarded moment. Ian wrapped his arms around her and gently patted her back, seeking not so much to calm her as to give her shelter. At The Pig Sty, almost from the start he had glimpsed the ghosts that were haunting Babs Patterson. After all, he knew them well. And now they were unleashed. Would it be better, he mused, for Babs to work with Vickie, whose upbringing was equally scarred, or would someone like Marge be the better fit … someone with less skin in the game? Students, young men and young women alike, had come flocking. And now they stood, gathered round, no one knowing what to do, no one knowing even what question to ask. But their silence was respectful, for each and every one of them had his or her own measure of pain locked away in a vault deep inside the human heart. “Quo vadis,” Ian whispered into her ear, remembering what the Apostle Peter, fleeing Rome, had asked the risen Jesus when their paths crossed on the Appian Way. Peter had turned about, and returned to Rome to summon arrest and crucifixion. It was time, long past time, for Babs Patterson to turn about, and do battle with the demons that ravaged her spirit. Ian would be there to help, as perhaps Babs would be there to help him. “Quo vadis,” he whispered again, only this time to give direction to his own thoughts. It was time. For Anna's sake if not for his own, it was time.

Foolish slave, pay close attention! Forthright, the Mistress makes it plain, First sign a contract, withal limit the endless pain. Leave nothing out, nothing undone, ’Ere first descending midst cobweb and gloom. Chained, with face pressed tight against the wall, It’s far too late, yes there’s no way out-- No, not with Mistress coiling the whip soon to fall. In truth it no longer matters whether you scream and shout-- Was it not you who demanded that she give it her all? Next there comes a thunderous crack! ’Tis the whip, teasing first the ground, Dry earth unyielding behind your back, Awaiting the tears, muffling the fantasy’s inhuman sound. Your thighs are next, unless it’s only your ass in play, Without a contract, you’re about to rue this day. No blood’s allowed, no permanent mark, you say? The words tightly bind, set limits to your pain, These the terms even thine Mistress must obey. Your safe word, pays it does to remember it well. Ah, but there’s a gag to stifle your screams, How, then, can you one precious safe word yell? Do you have an alternate plan, A ball, perchance, to let drop from hand? Or must you stomp with foot upon the ground, With heel and toe somehow make the sound? Mistress sees and hears quite all, With care and love, will not let you fall. But it’s for you always to guide her way, With this contract once again to save the day.

Reads very much like a program called Beast Games. It would help to know how much research went into selecting the participants. What you have so far written strongly suggests that there is at least one apex predator in the mix. He will concentrate on neutralizing threat vectors, leaving the easy pickings for last. At the outset, he will be keen to learn what rules, if any, are in place that would influence his planning. An apex predator would also find the money being bandied about highly suspicious. It's hard to launder cash, so he would be keen to learn how the reward could be sanitized and securely delivered. In short, the rule of thumb in a training exercise like this is to sit back, gather intelligence, and give as little of yourself away to others as possible. As a certain Chinese gentleman once remarked, one should never go into battle until victory has already been one, and that results from careful planning and systematic exploitation of the enemy's weaknesses.

Thank you so much. Both of these will go in the final edit. Of course I know where she is, but what's tricky is coming up with questions that, as you say,narrow down the possibilities without fully solving the mystery.

I wander aimless through the jungle, or so at least it seems. It’s not at all what you're given to believe-- There’s mud everywhere, with its own fetid stink. Stray the path, let go the tree, in you’ll surely sink, Forever to dwell in this canopied Hell, Vine chained in its seductive swirl. Deep in the jungle, I sense eyes upon me, Though at noon there’s precious little light. I wonder, could it be Rima after all this time? Or is it only my imagination again run wild? The yearnings of youth, forever fevered, always bright? I’m a child of Caracas, and perhaps I’ve lost my way, Yet ’neath this far topped, verdant canopy ’tis hard to say, What I most fear, for what I most pray. It’s not a serpent, of that I’m sure, For I smell her scent, the erotic allure. Transfixed, I stop, stop and stare, With boldness gaze down the path behind, To be captured, my Queen, if only you’ll dare. For I have long been of a most determined mind, In this jungle to be taken, my most honored Queen, Captured, indeed, if only you’ll dare.

Such a simple thing it is, to rise each morn, The wintry skies, to brave their storm. The clouds surge past, bedecked in golden hues, While ’neath all strong beats the heart, Once and forever missing you. ’Tis the season—swiftly the sun marches ’cross the sky, Remorseless the seconds, each winging by. Shadows gather, not all beyond. Some fret here at this belated hour, The stillness, the heart, all wilted flowers. Refuge awaits in a gilded chair, Books gathered ’round, their wisdom fair. Yet knowing, ever knowing, some distance away, A rival lies pinned in the Siren’s lair, With him the Goddess sports in sportive play. Sternly the Mistress preaches, her wisdom clear, The words unwanted, yet held so dear. Lessons learned, but not for today, Inviting the birch instead to have its sway. The teaching clings fast to our pulsating fear, Never forgotten—’tis bound in corseted stays. And yet! And yet! Once and forever lost, In the swirling mist of this wintry day.

As I pointed out in a piece that I posted some time ago (I think it was called 'A Day Out on the Diaper Highway'), the easy workaround for this problem is to carry a pair of fold up scissors with you. Collect dark plastic bags of the grocery store type when you go shopping, and always have some with you when you are out and about. This keeps your diaper hidden from view when you deposit it in the trash, and if you tie it off, it should also curb the odor of your urine.

I'm glad that you caught this. If Reiko is correct and Anna is 9, what questions should Carlie ask? I welcome reader input here. Muchas gracias. This is good. If you think of anything else, this is one where I welcome reader suggestions.

In days to come, beyond this bower of endless night, Spring beckons, those longer months of airy delight. There is in her the promise of things still to come, The Goddess and the mortal, Far apart, yet forever entwined as one. Still, ’tis now a January day, That calls to mind the roses of a season past. Petals fallen, their bloom long turned to dust, They testify in truth that nothing, no, nothing lasts. So why does pain endure, like the bloody weals running ’cross my back? The whip that cracks, closely measured, never slack. Pitiless she is, and forever cruel, Exquisite this Mistress, my beloved, my leathern jewel. In suspense unending these games we play, Full measure the pleasure ultimately dispensed my way. Now, ’tis my blood that taints her lips, My reward this single, fleeting, crimson kiss. But ’tis late, the minutes so quickly slipping by, One fleeting hour, one last lingering and painful— One last goodbye.

She wanders the land aloof, untouched, Her icy heart still grieving behind the walls, The towers of Ilium that she made rise tall. Offering pain, forbidding love, Blindly yet forbidding all. Ah, but one flower in the snow remains, The seductive promise of a springtime day. Her name is Goddess, the Huntress all men fear. Two-legged, The stag could not run with heart shot through, Pinned in place, the quivered arrow now made Once and forever chaste.

Where in Texas? We were in Richardson and the Hill Country just before Christmas, and saw plenty of rain, but nothing close to snow.

A rush hour snowstorm transformed interstate 694 in Minneapolis into a parking lot. Unfortunately, the Mississippi River rarely freezes solid enough for us to drive across it, so we just had to grin and bear it.

ANNOUNCEMENT: an eleventh tranche, consisting of chapters 35-37, is now up and running on the STORIES page of the site. Once again, comments have been removed to enable readers to enjoy the story without interruption.

Thanks for commenting. This is an incredible story that is playing in the background of the argument between Marge and Reiko. Agnes was a student of Charles Parham, who went on to open Bible colleges in Houston with Lucy Farrow. Farrow and one of their students, William J. Seymour, then opened a ministry in Los Angeles popularly known as the Azusa Street Revival. By 1906 Seymour's The Apostolic Faith had more than 50,000 subscribers worldwide, and the Pentecostal Movement was underway. Far and away the fastest growing religious sect of the 20th century, at the time of our story the movement at large was home to some half a billion worshipers, including our fictional characters of Reiko and Marilyn Matsumura. The character of Carlie Voight is my tribute to Agnes Ozman.

First time I've ever encountered this kind of error in thousands of stories. Shows that you need to proof read AI product. I read this first piece out of curiosity. Can AI craft a story? This one doesn't fit the mold because the characters have no back story, hence no development. As it reads, it strikes me as the end of a story that has no beginning. It would be interesting to see what the computer could do if you gave it a different set of directions. You might try asking the program to create a back story for Meredith that would explain why she chose to partner with Leon. Is she a lot older? Has she had a string of failed relationships? AI possesses neither imagination nor intuition, so a programmer has to make good its deficiencies.

Quickie historical quiz: Agnes Ozman is one of the most important female figures in American history, and yet very, very few people today have ever heard or read anything about her. What movement traces its origins back to her stay in Topeka, Kansas in 1900-1901?

REVELATIONS 2 “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Marge was on her feet, glaring at Reiko, and it was anyone's guess whether she was about to explode, or melt down. “YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS!!” “Why not,” Reiko calmly retorted. Although it was only ten o'clock in the morning, Marge was acting like a senior citizen who had taken out membership in the dreaded Sundowners club. Cool, calm and collected was the order of the day. “Where to start? Well, let me see,” Marge mused. “You're going way beyond sixth sense … talking about some kind of transference for which there is not a single precedent to be found anywhere!” “Speaking in tongues?” “Oh, please,” Marge sneered. “Well, there goes Acts 2,” Becky muttered. “Agnes Ozman,” Reiko hit back, her voice still calm and hopefully soothing. “You should read Goodman and Samarin,” Marge growled. She was rapidly losing patience with her younger colleague. “Then let's consider the fact that Ian has no awareness of Princess Poopy Pants, so how did this transference occur? His daughter was preverbal when last he was home … do you want to argue that she initiated this when she was an infant incapable of conceptualization? Puh … lese!” “The limbic system.” Wide eyed, Candy was struggling to come up with an hypothesis that would situate Reiko's argument in physical reality. “It stores preverbal memory, which can be accessed by the child at an early developmental stage ...” “Under the direction of a therapist,” Marge was quick to respond. “Are you suggesting that whoever kidnapped Linh was kind enough to send her to a therapist to mitigate the trauma?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “They call her Anna.” Reiko could see where Candy was going. “They gave her a name, and then they began to raise her … educate her … all for their own selfish purposes. Something that they did triggered a memory of her father, and now she can sense his pain-- a classic sixth sense episode, nothing unusual about it.” “Oh, really? Reiko, even if I grant all of this … and that's a big 'if' ...” Marge began walking around, thinking on her feet, ticking off points on her fingers. “Linh, wherever she is, may well think that she can sense her father, but her anxiety level must be off the charts. So, there's that ...” Deep in thought, Marge was barely aware of the circle gathered around her. “And we could make the case that Princess Poopy Pants, the sad little girl who shares a physical body with Ian, would transfer these negative emotions to Linh, only she can't reach her so she fills the gap by creating Anna out of thin air ...” “Okay, I can live with that,” Marge nodded firmly. “Princess Poopy Pants is Anna, or rather, Anna is a figment of Princess Poopy Pants' imagination. But where does Carlie come into this? There's no blood tie ...” Marge abruptly stopped pacing, and turned to confront Rita. “You're right. We have to give Princess Poopy Pants an extended period of consciousness … one long enough to see where her developmental cycle ends. Maybe it will turn out that she's Ian's age, which would be a classic case of DID. Or maybe she's still a little girl … two or three years old ...” “And if she turns out to be nine, going on ten?” Rita thought that Marge was doing a brilliant job of scattering the pieces of the puzzle across the table, but she did not want this one to get mislaid. “Then Ian and Carlie are going to have to get very, very drunk-- at which point Vic steps in, and summons the Princess. Carlie takes over … interviews her. We record the whole, damned Q and A, and everybody caught up in this circus sits down to study it-- all in the hope that someone will be able to make sense of what we're hearing.” “So, that's the plan? Pitch Ian overboard for however long it takes to age this Princess of yours? And if she's ten, you pour so much tequila into us that our brains start leaking out of our skulls, yet I'm somehow supposed to remain coherent enough not only to communicate with Anna but conduct a formal interview? This is what you propose to tell your boss tomorrow morning?” Carlie was systematically making eye contact with everyone in the room, hoping that there was at least one person who would object to this insanity. “Yep,” Reiko smiled. “That's the way we roll. A pretty dull Saturday morning … what we call Lessing's Folly.” . . . . “Not what I expected,” Ian commented as he looked around the cafeteria. Driving across campus to the Student Union, Ian and Priscilla had tried to imagine how a cross section of the student body would react when Secret Agent Man got off the escalator and took his place in line to order lunch. Ian had his heart set on a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and he was prepared to demand Ranch dressing even if it triggered a riot. Greasy food, he reckoned, was the only weapon at his disposal to ward off the never ending onslaught of breast milk that Sarah had laid out for his future. If he was going to go down, damn it, he was going to go down fighting. The worst case scenario? Students politically left of center would band together to pelt him with deviled eggs and mushy Brussels sprouts. The best case? They would be ignored by students none the wiser, despite the fact that he was sporting a gaudy sweatshirt proclaiming his promotion from the pedestrian ranks of first year faculty to the exalted status of Fraternity Row Dad (1979). It didn't turn out that way. Sitting on a plush throne obviously “borrowed” from the Faculty Lounge three floors up, at a table surrounded by velvet ropes with a sign overhead ominously proclaiming that it was reserved for diaper thieves, Ian sort of felt like he had dropped into a seedy spaceport bar for a sit-down with Han Solo. But Han didn't have a half dozen gorgeous young sorority girls competing to run off and collect his burger and fries. Han didn't look around, and everywhere see smiling male and female faces looking back at him. Like Led Zeppelin, the band that he idolized, Ian simply felt dazed and confused. “I know it's hard.” Priscilla was gently patting him on the arm, trying to console him. “Being a celebrity on a college campus … being idolized by nubile young maidens lining up to throw themselves at your feet, praying to Aphrodite that they might be chosen to grace your bed ...” “Oh, please.” Ian rolled his eyes, at once deeply honored and deeply embarrassed by the reception that had awaited them. Being escorted to ZAP's table by a handsome young Adonis, an air horn doubling for the trumpets of old-- Ian had to admit that Karen Walsh was going all out to make sure that he didn't welsh on his promise to become the Faculty Advisor to the Panhellenic Council. “So, meetings on the second and fourth Wednesdays of the month during term, mandatory attendance at all keggers and toga parties, and Mel will fill me in on the rest. Is that about it?” With a straight face, Ian was summarizing Karen's somewhat tedious description of a Faculty Advisor's responsibilities. He much preferred his version to hers. Adonis, whose real name was Stan Carmichael, coughed so hard that the Tab he was guzzling ended up all over his bright red sweater. He was the Lamda house delegate to the Council, and he had the hots for Cindy. He couldn't wait to get his hands on her heavily diapered, super sexy butt … and if there was a way to get his hands inside her makeshift chastity belt, he was going to find it. Saturday night couldn't come fast enough. “Dad, you're outrageous,” Melanie tsked. “But,” she added, “that's why you're our Dad! If you're not a few tacos short of a combination plate, you don't belong in ZAP!” “Too right!” Cindy was squirming in her chair, trying to get her diaper to stop pinching the inside of her thighs. Giving up, she jumped to her feet and began jiggling her super sexy butt. Stan Carmichael almost had a heart attack on the spot. Saturday night definitely couldn't come fast enough. “Joyce, we need to borrow Babs for a while.” Not wanting to stir the pot, Priscilla was careful not to address her associate or even glance her way. “I'm meeting Vickie and my Mom for lunch, to begin sorting out the adoption. Ian wants to walk back to get some fresh air, and he has to have a police escort everywhere he goes on campus, especially now that certain groups are out for his scalp. Could you and Babs do the honors? I should be back sometime after one to collect her and hand her over to Carlie.” “What about his diaper?” “Can you and Babs handle it? He needs a diaper check before going down to his twelve thirty class, and if he's poopy someone needs to change him. Everything you'd need is on top of the filing cabinet in his office.” “Not a problem. I changed my baby's dirty diaper this morning; one more won't kill me.” “Good.” Pris reached into her pocket and pulled out the key to Ian's diaper cover. “If you have to leave before I get back,” she said as she handed it over, “you can leave it with Amy. She's one of the secretaries in the main office just around the corner from Ian's. She knows what's what.” . . . . At lunchtime on the last Friday of the month, the delicatessen was a madhouse. Savvy charge nurses like Sarah Haikonnen phoned in orders for their entire department just before the sandwich kings opened for business. Candy stripers, sometimes in twos and sometimes in threes, donned their winter coats and braved the elements. Staggering under the weight of pastrami and reuben sandwiches, chips, potato salad, pickles, brownies and mint bars, they made their way back across the boulevard, through the hospital's winding corridors, up the elevators, to their Nurse's Station. Ravenous RN's, many of them not yet halfway through a twelve hour shift, were known to descend in packs, armed with coffee or iced tea, hoping to steal a minute or two from their demanding schedules to wolf down whatever they could grab. A candy striper risked being trampled if she wasn't quick on her feet, but in Sarah's department they ate well, and they ate for free. Standing at the end of the counter and well out of the traffic flow, Julia Canon was anxiously watching the door. Rita had phoned to let her know that Vickie was on her way, so it was only a matter of time, but to Julia it seemed as if the seconds had turned into hours. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest. And then, once more, the door opened, and Vic was there. Spotting Julia, her face lit with joy, and she began edging through the crowd. Unbuttoning her coat, the sunlight streaming through the windows setting her blonde hair on fire, Vickie finally crossed the room. But she was not quite sure what to say to her new Mom. “This will get easier,” Julia whispered as she wrapped her arms around her new daughter and hugged her tight. “But right now, there are just two words that I desperately want to hear … just two.” Julia closed her eyes, waiting. “Hi, Mom.” “Them's the ones,” Julia laughed as she hugged Vic a second time. “Hi, Sweetie … and welcome home. I've got lunch waiting … Rita told me what you like. We'll eat in the office, so we can laugh and cry and chat without embarrassing ourselves. Pris is already here.” Mouthing a thank you to the manager working the cash register, Julia opened the door and ushered Vic inside. Priscilla had been pacing impatiently, but she rushed forward to throw herself into Vickie's open arms. Deliriously happy, the two young women hugged and danced until Julia wrapped her arms around them both. “My two girls,” she somehow managed to get out. “Such a simple thing to say, but God! How good it feels!” “A cop and a shrink get together with a private eye,” Priscilla laughed. “What happens next?” “The private eye leaves a message for the judge, asking him to call her at home tonight. Details must be discussed, the mystery solved: where, and when, shall the adoption occur?” “Two adoptions … two for the price of one!” Priscilla couldn't contain her happiness. “Two? Methinks the mystery deepens!” “Didn't Rita tell you?” “That my little girl likes her reuben toasted, with chips on the side?” “No, Mom! Ian! Bernice is going to adopt Ian!!” “WHAT?” “It's true! Missus Miller is going to adopt Ian! Tell Judge Reynolds that we want a joint ceremony ...” “At the hospital,” Vickie threw out; “or maybe somewhere on campus. We want to celebrate our good fortune with our friends-- and we have lots of friends!” “Done!” Julia began steering the girls to the desk, where the food was already laid out. “Let us eat, and while we dine, let us talk of matters momentous … of diapers, and the old goat too proud to wear them, though the need is great, the private eye's patience at an end!” . . . . “I'm sorry this took so long,” Ian apologized as he opened the door to his office. “I have good days and bad days. This was one of the not so good days.” “You should sit down and rest for a couple of minutes,” Babs advised. “Please, Dad. We can spare a few minutes before changing your diaper and heading down to class.” Joyce was deeply worried, and it showed. Walking away from the Student Union, everything had seemed fine as they approached the overpass that knit the two halves of the campus together. But Ian had slowed walking up the incline, and slowed quite dramatically on the downslope. In obvious pain, he had begun to lean more and more heavily on his cane, but he had never said a word, never cried out. For the first time, the reality of war, and the damage that it might inflict on the young men sent off to fight their country's battles, was staring Joyce Wiggins in the face. Watching Ian struggle, having no idea what if anything she could do to help, her mind kept returning to his last battlefield and the terrible wounds that he had suffered in his determination to leave no one behind. It was the warrior, she grasped with a sudden flash of insight, crippled in a warren of rice paddies half a world away, who was now dragging his body through the urban slush. Her Dad had simply traded in one battlefield for another. One battlefield for another … Inside Babs Patterson's mind, fear and shame were locked in mortal combat. Joyce was looking at her, a hint of desperation in her eyes, the question obvious: What are we going to do? The policewoman in Babs Patterson knew that Professor Grady was in trouble, and she was reviewing their options. Without a walkie talkie in hand, none of them were good. They would have to keep him upright, and hope that a passing stranger could be persuaded to rush ahead and call for help. Fire and Rescue was less than five minutes away, but in the dead of winter, out in the open hypothermia could claim a victim in less than ten. He's not your father … She had called him Diaper Butt in front of the whole bar, and said one terrible thing after another to his face. And he hadn't reacted. He's not your father … Her conscious kept sending the same message, and she had ignored it, doubling down on the insults. He's not your father … His gentleness terrified her. He's not your father … If she opened the gates, allowed one good man inside her defenses, a stampede would follow, and she would be trampled underfoot. He's not your father … She had sank to the floor, humiliated not so much by her defeat as by her stupidity. And he had helped her to her feet and steadied her with one hand while comforting a distraught college girl with the other. And in that moment of total emotional clarity, her world view had collapsed, shards of illusion left scattered across the barroom floor. Her life was little more than a broken mirror. She would not let him fall … that was unthinkable. Once, though badly wounded he had carried a dying soldier across the battlefield. If it came to it, she resolved to carry him on her back, across this frozen wasteland. He's not your father ... . . . . “Again,” Priscilla frowned. “Again,” Julia confirmed. “On the front porch, in front of two of the sorority girls. I had to put newspapers down in the entryway, and undress him there. Honestly, it smelled like we had an untrained puppy in the house. Enough is enough.” “At home, Dad's running to the bathroom every hour or two,” Priscilla explained. “God only knows how he's managing when he's on duty.” “And he gets up to go pee two or three times a night, every night,” Julia fumed. “It's been ages since I got a good night's sleep.” “Has he seen a doctor?” “One of your colleagues across the street … Sharon Villers. Herb has an enlarged prostate. She says that it's commonplace among middle aged men in sedentary occupations. She wants him to get some exercise, and cut back on the drinking. Is he taking her advice?” “Noooo,” Priscilla and Julia said more or less simultaneously. “Sharon's good at her job, and she's conservative when it comes to treatment. He … Dad … Dad shouldn't ignore her. The problem won't go away on its own; it will only get worse. He won't like any of the more aggressive approaches.” “Victoria, I have an idea, but I need to pick your brain. Why are you in diapers?” “Mom, I'm … I've been sexually active since I was fourteen, and I haven't been very picky. This didn't start with the diapers; it started with the locking cover-- my chastity belt. It wasn't practical to run down to Sarah's office every time I needed to use the toilet, so the diapers were the obvious next step. Then we discovered that I respond to being babied, and Sarah discovered that she likes babying me. She loves me, but she also disciplines me. I need both. She's a good Mommy.” “And you use them for both eliminations?” “Yes. I no longer use the toilet.” “Is this causing any problems at work?” “Not really … or maybe I should say, not yet. Sarah and Rita both change me, and the diaper that I'm wearing right now doesn't seem to be drawing any attention. It gets the job done, but it's also discreet.” “Pris, what about you? The diaper you were wearing last night was enormous; did you have trouble getting to sleep with all that bulk between your legs?” “No, Mom.” Priscilla had a sheepish look on her face. “Between the alcohol and being happier than I've ever been in my life, I was on Cloud Nine. Can you believe it? I slept like a baby!” “Which reminds me,” Vickie added. “We're packing up Ian's apartment this afternoon, and we want to take down Pris' bed and move his in. It's a king, and the mattress is good. Will it fit?” “Tight fit.” Julia was mentally walking through Priscilla's bedroom. “But we can make it work. Do my girls want to sleep together when they're home?” “Absolutely!” Pris and Vic were both nodding vigorously. “Only if you are both well and truly diapered,” Julia warned. She was staring hard at Priscilla. “I'm good with that,” Pris quickly conceded. “And then there's the question whether I should wear diapers all the time, just like my sister.” She was staring equally hard at her mother. “You'd be willing to do that?” Julia was dumbfounded. She loved the idea, and not just because she wanted an excuse to spoil both of her daughters in ways that she could never do if they insisted on being treated as mature adults. “If it makes it easier for Vic to be comfortable with us? In a heartbeat! And no, Mom; I'm not being all noble and self-sacrificing. This ends when I go to Quantico, or one of us gets pregnant.” “Good … although I confess that I would very much like to baby you both. And Vickie? I'm eager to start changing your diapers and feeding you your ba bas! Priscilla? Yours, too!” “Then you'll need this.” Vickie fished into her pocket, and pulled out the key to her diaper cover. “For you, Mom,” she blushed as she proudly handed it over. “But you should talk to Mommy Sarah; she will help you put my layette together.” “Tomorrow night? At Rita's?” “Can you come?” Priscilla was ecstatic. “Absolutely … wouldn't miss it for anything!” “But what about Dad? What about … you know … Saturday night at The Pig Sty?” “I've made other plans-- and they involve my two beautiful daughters and their oh, so lovely diapers!” “Mom?” Priscilla smelled a conspiracy in the making, and she was so excited that she was about ready to jump out of her own skin. “I'm going to help myself to one of your maxi pads, Dear. And tonight, I'm going to put my foot down and insist that your father wear it inside his pj's. No more trudging off to the bathroom at two in the morning. He agrees, or he can go sleep on the couch!” “Maxi pads?” Vickie was aghast. “Mom … Mom, it's like asking him to sleep with a loaf of French bread in his underwear. He'll be up all night!” “That's the idea. Then, tomorrow night, when I drop him off at the sorority? He doesn't know it yet, but he's going to be staying the night in Bernice's guest room. He will have two choices: brave another maxi pad, or wear the nice, comfortable diaper and vinyl pants that Bernice has waiting for him. Pris, that's where your diapers come in-- and mine. No more caffeine fueled stakeouts with me desperately holding my bladder until I can get to the nearest Mickey D's! From now on, when I'm freezing my butt off in some high school parking lot, I'm going to be wearing one of Vickie's diapers and a reliable pair of baby pants. And when I have to go? I'm gonna go!” “Mom!” Pris and Vic were both clapping their hands, both seeing what their Mom had in mind. “So you want me to wear diapers not so much to make things easier for Vic, but to help Dad come to terms with his bladder issue?” “That's the general idea,” Julia confirmed, proud as always that her quick thinking daughter had got there before her. “He won't be near as embarrassed if we're all in the same boat.” “And there's no liquor in the house; Bernice has a strict policy, and she doesn't bend it for anyone.” Vickie marveled at the thought that Julia had put into this scheme. “How about that! Sergeant Canon doesn't know it, but he is going to have his first liquor free Saturday night in ages, and he will be sleeping over in The Diaper House!” . . . . Sitting by herself in the hospital cafeteria, Carlie was idly spooning her coffee, a bowl of clam chowder set out in front of her. It was barely touched and cooling rapidly, her thoughts far, far away. Marge's hypothesis made sense to her, and no one in the room had actually rejected it outright. Given that Princess Poopy Pants was as real as Ian, what was to prevent her from summoning Anna out of the depths of her own imagination, and shifting some of her feelings of guilt onto her creation? It makes sense … a lot of sense … There's just one problem … Marge is wrong. Carlie didn't know this to be the case, but she could feel it, and the feeling was incredibly strong. But, she wondered, did it necessarily follow that Reiko had got it right. Were Anna and Princess Poopy Pants not only one and the same, but Ian's daughter? Carlie couldn't answer the question for a very simple reason: Anna had listened attentively to what Marge and Reiko were saying, but she hadn't reacted to either. And that was the moment when Carlie began to doubt her own sanity. She had lied to Ian and Bernice-- to everyone at the kitchen table. Yes, it was true that she had not been able to connect with Anna when Ian awoke at her side, but she had neglected to mention that it was because the little girl was still fast asleep. Not so in the conference room: there she had been wide awake, an invisible presence at Carlie's side. Finding herself trapped for all intents and purposes in her very own, personalized episode of The Twilight Zone, Carlie had followed the raging debate through not one but two pairs of eyes. And Anna had kept her poker face from start to finish. She had given nothing away. Carlie could still sense the child, sitting somewhere behind her, in the shadows in some distant corner of the vast chamber. She was still, and quietly watching as the coffee swirled round and round in the cup, mirroring the chaos in Carlie's mind. And if she were suddenly to turn, Carlie knew that the child would not be there. She had lacked the courage to blurt out the truth in the conference room. She was, after all, inside a securely locked psychiatric ward-- and she very much feared that the truth would not set her free. And so, like Anna, she had kept her silence, donning the mask that she habitually wore when testifying in the courtroom. She had given nothing away. Who was Anna? Ian was more than a mile distant, and her rational mind refused to concede that the child could be in two places at once. Had she somehow transferred her presence from her father … to what? What was Carlie to Anna? What? But there was a third possibility, one that Marge and Reiko had both missed. Did the little girl inhabit her mind? Was she a figment of Carlie's own imagination? Or could it be that, as Ian had so recently discovered, there was a second personality hiding inside Carlie's mind, a presence that something in the air last night at the bar had finally brought out into the open? There were so many possibilities. The coffee had cooled, but the spoon had taken on a life of its own, and tiny waves broke against the edges of the cup, first on one face and then the other. And in the recesses of Carlie Voight's mind, a nine year old child who held the fate of so many lives in her delicate hands curled up into a ball and began to cry, the roaring waves muffling the sound of her tears.

Mikey needs encouragement. Let's see how things progress on Saturday night at the kegger. Trust me. We haven't seen the last of Spats Belmondo.

These trips are always about one's own interests. I have been to Halifax many times. Peggy's Cove is right next door, and remarkably scenic. The Cabot Trail and Louisbourg are but a couple of hours away in Cape Breton. With a car, both can be done in a very long day, although I do not recommend it. In the end, travel always boils down to time, money, and personal interest. Unless you hate them, the thing to eat in Halifax is scallops. Lots and lots of scallops.

Ottawa is boring. If you have not been there, I strongly recommend dumping it in favor of Quebec City. The station in both Montreal and Toronto is connected to excellent public transport. You should be able to reload on diapers in both without any problems.