"This isn't a Whopper!" Blade exclaimed at the clerk's counter where the shapely little gal batted her eyes at him.

"Uh, Boss, we're not at Burger King..." Ponyboy whispered.

"You want fries with that, Pops?" she said with a seductive pop of her Trident sugarless gum.

Blade's attention was distracted by Bounty curling around Chiffon's short-shorted frame outside the door. Now there was a dame; she had legs that stretched from her hips to her ankles, you betcha.

"God, she's sexy," he whispered to himself.

Ponyboy told the pert little breasts that "Yes, Blade wants fries with that, and shake me up a Chocolate malt..."

"We're not at Wendy's," Blade said frostily, still thinking the leash sliding up and down Chiffon's shapely thighs was where he wished his hands were at the moment.

(BRB, I've gotta tickle my pencil some more)

"Let's book," said Ponyboy, glancing at his spiderman watch. "First post is 11:30."

It was a warmish winter Saturday in Florida, and they were headed to the track, all three of them - Blade, the high-roller, Chiffon, his lucky amulet, and Ponyboy, the, uh, Pony Boy.Yes, not only did Pony wear his hair pulled back and have a horsy face, (long jaw, flat nose, dully uncomprehending and small close-set eyes), but Pony also worked at the track. He was a rider of the lead ponies who accompanied the skittish Thoroughbreds to post.

Blake parked the King Cab in the overflow lot, glanced around, frowning.

"Do you notice anything unusual?"

Pony's brow knit in concentration. He came up empty.

Chiffon's quick blue eyes scanned all over it. "The lot's almost half full of SUV's and RecV's with canadian plates," she said. "Maple leaf decals everywhere."

"Damn straight," said Blade.

"Most odd," she said. What does it all mean?"

"All of Canada is taking its vacation at the same time?" guessed Pony doubtfully.

Chiffon pointed to the infield. "Look!" there was an enclave of jungle cammo tents. "It looks like an encampment. And there!" Above it all the red maple leaf flapped from a tall stanchion.

"What kind of madness is this?" asked Blade.

"Kiss me, you fool," demanded Chiffon, digging her scarlet nails into his back. She let her fingers slide down to grab and sqeeze those succulent buns of his."Before it's too late," she breathed into his ear.

“Son of a whore,” snarled Chiff as one of her blood-red talons snapped in half against the scratchy, stiff denim that housed Blade’s glutes. “This was the damndest dumbest idea I ever let you talk me into, these ho-faux nail extensions.” She picked angrily at the garish polish and pulled at the silk-wrapped claws. “Blade, as much as I crave your sorry ass I will not, with Zeus as my witness, will not pimp myself up like some twenty-five dollar bit just to fulfill your petty, teenboy fantasies.” Blade winced at her saber-tongue; he always did. He knew from lengthy experience that Chiff could swear the chrome off a bumper. He much preferred that tongue’s other skills. It was a multilingual, multitasking tongue, you might say.

Chiff was a no-nonsense kind of beauty… good bones, a taut, well-muscled chassis, small but serious breasts. Her nipples as a pair had a mind of their own and with the slightest provocation—a chilly wind, a push of adrenaline—would stand to attention and enter a room two beats before she did. She liked her nails impeccably manicured but short and clean and always asked for the same pale, unobtrusive shade at her ten-buck salon… “Rosy Future” it was called. This made her smirk on a good day and sneer on the others and Thuy, her sweet and solemn manicurist would crease her porcelain brow in perplexity at this strange and amazing creature whom she called “Siffron.”

Later,

“Phoot,” came the inevitable puff from between Chiff’s bouncy buttocks. Blade loved that she always, always passed gas when they wrangled between the sheets and her gears redlined and her sweet little engine convulsed in delicious torment. It was kind of like a checkered flag, that small noise, and made him feel like a king. Her delicate eruption always carried a whiff of curry, the ghost of her abiding passion for cheap Paki food, the spicier the better.

They were sticky and messy and happy, cooling off in what little breeze came through the thrown-wide windows of the luxe edition double-wide. It had been a complicated afternoon, what with the strange confluence of Canadians at Tampa Bay Downs and Chiff’s sudden “I have a feeling,” signal at which Blade and her and Ponyboy bowed out at full speed—everybody who knew Chiff knew what one of her “feelings” could mean—with huge-hearted Bounty pulling up the rear. About seventy seconds after their amped-up Ford F350 pushed and tugged and then wailed out of the cramped parking lot a small but scary “boomph” walloped the surrounding area. A bomb more like a New Year’s noisemaker than a WMD. No one hurt, no property damage. Not even a small thoroughbred hissy fit at the starting gate.

But these were Canadians. What would you expect?

AkA - this is a total triumph. I was laughing my a$$ off. Lust, humor, suspense, co-existent with gas passing. I can't believe it. And it extended the story, which I was grinding to a close.

Was it Tampa Bay Downs or was it Calder, though? I think Tampa Bay might have quarterhorse sprints with mixed breeds, and cheap ones at that. So much the better, right? Shoot, Poneyboy's no heir to high society. Mikey will let us know. He lives there.

I can't wait until the others add on to this. This is so funny.

"What do you mean, 'What would I expect?'" snarled Blade as he pushed Chiffon's panting, sweaty form down onto the stained green felt of the salvaged pool table.

"I'll show you!" Blade leapt to his feet over her prone, naked torso, sweat droplets glinting on her rosy skin like the tears of crystal chandelier. He planted his smooth, cleanly shaven feet straddling her rounded hips as he pummled his superbly-developed pectorals and began a Tarzan yell, his signature preamble to coital penetration in the form of a downward body slam.

Suddenly Chiffon scrambled to her feet, turning Blade's yell into a scream because she'd used his tumescent manroot to hoist herself up.

"Look"! She pointed out the doublewide's dirty window. "Canadians!"

Blade, bent over, snapped around. Men and women, dressed in fuzzy hats, sensible winter clothing and waterproof footwear, calmly tramped across the patchy field next to the doublewide.

Some of them held hockey sticks, others six-packs of Molson beer or posters of Celine Dion. One group carried a sofa with a sign carefully lettered: "This is a chesterfield, not a sofa." A row of snowmobiles carried Canadian flag banners.

An elite crew of black overall-clad men confiscated footballs and basketballs, replacing them with curling stones. Powerful-looking yet demure women forced open car doors and carefully placed Rush and Anne Murray CDs on the seats.

Blade leapt down, winced, and scrambled into his fatigues while Chiffon briefly practiced her kata on the table.

"Call Ponyboy, quick!"

"Oh, no need sir, I'm right here, in my roomlet as always, sir!" Ponyboy stepped out of the broom closet slash bedroom slash lair he nested in when Blade was home. He hastily put down soemthing that looked like a video camera. "Just editing my school project, sir."

Blade's eyes narrowed. "School project, eh? Well I think--

"Wait! That's it!" Chiffon back-flipped off the pool table and onto the sofa, which squeaked and suddenly the room was filled with the aroma of Bounty's past dog farts.

"That's how we'll beat these lousy Canucks!"

"Showing them my video project?"

"No, Ponyboy. That's a weapon of last resort."

"Dog farts?"

"Not even close, Blade. I'm going to beat them by their own game!"

"Hockey?"

"Shut up, you two! Ponyboy, bring me your special costume!"

"Uhh, the cheerleader--"

"No! Your *special* costume!"

"Oh, you mean Martha Stew--"

"No, you idiot! Your special special costume!"

Ponyboy's eyes widened like a wide thing opening wider. "You mean--"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"My special SPECIAL costume? Golly, what a swell idea! Sure thing, Chiffon!"

A moment later he ran back into the room, holding a travel-stained Hello Kitty clear plastic overnight bag. "Here!"

Outside the trailer, the door opened and a female figure strode onto the slightly tilting deck. She raised her hands.

"My fellow Canadians, hear me!"

The tramping horde stopped and stared at her. Murmurs begans circling. "Is that...?" "Oh, hey, look, it's..." and "My God, eh?"

The hot Florida wind, blew the figures tresses around, revealing the sylph-like face and trim, sequined sheath gown clad figure of... Celine Dion!

Yes!

...tumescent manroot! Awesome!

I can feel Times Square already!

Don't know if Times Square can hold this, maybe Sundance?

Good to see you here KenWritez